Can a text lead? 

Article by Andrew Green. Edited by Sarah Purssell. 

What aspects of society have the ability to influence behaviour in a “top-down” rather than “bottom-up” fashion? One factor implicit in many histories is the role of text-based belief systems. We talk, for example, of pre-war “Protestant” Britain, the “Muslim” Middle East, and “Confucian” pre-Revolution China, with the (sub-apocrypha) Bible, Koran, and the Analects of Confucius respectively as revered texts. This makes the underlying assumption that these societies were shaped by the texts associated with them. But how much influence on people’s choices did these texts actually have? What types of behaviour have they inspired, and can this behaviour be said to be “faithful” to the portions of text upon which it was based? 

Although these societies may differ wildly in other respects, one thing which they share is that their core text is institutionalised. If one wishes to diverge from it without incurring the wrath of the wider community, they must reinterpret that text. This reinterpretation occurs in directions that might be considered both positive and negative by modern liberal society. So, for example, we find that whilst the Koran contains no condemnation of slavery, Muhammad himself was an active participant in the slave trade so many modern Muslims seek to demonstrate that it has a stance on equality which condemns that institution. Others argue that the Koran’s commandments regarding treatment of slaves necessitate more humane action than would have been seen in pre-Islam Arabic culture. In Christianity, the Curse of Ham story from the book of Genesis, which prescribes the enslavement fairly specifically of enemies of Israel, was reinterpreted so that Ham’s lineage was not just cursed with helotry but “blackness”. This justified the Muslim and Christian trade in African slaves. Thirdly, a Latin-American society riven by inequality gave rise in the 1970s to ‘liberation theology’. This deliberately emphasized elements of social responsibility and left-wing politics within the

Christian tradition in response to perceived injustices in society. With all three of these examples, there appears to be no impetus to invent original traditions. The newness is that of a novel interpretation. Seemingly, in this type of situation, the text is king; behaviour must be justified on its terms. 

But these three examples also ought to raise the question of how much influence over the decision-making process the texts actually have. After all, if interpretations of the Koran can veer from a justification of slavery to a condemnation of it, this implies that the original intention of the text, whatever that is, doesn’t have much bearing on what its readers believe it to say. The situation is more complex still when considering books such as the Bible which, unlike the Muhammad-authored Koran, was written by many different people. In this situation, discussing ‘the book’s intention’ as unified becomes laughably impossible. How to reconcile Deuteronomy 13:1-11, which prescribes the death penalty for apostasy, with Jesus’ exhortation in Matthew 5:43-48 ‘love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you’? The influence of the text is compromised because it is divided. 

Certain stories highlight this division particularly acutely. As recounted by several of his fellow conquistadores, on November the 6th, 1532, Spaniard Francisco Pizarro, having marched into Cajamarca at the heart of the huge Incan Empire with just 168 Spanish soldiers, met with Atahuallpa, the ‘godlike absolute monarch’ of the Incas, and sent his friar, Vicente de Valverde, ‘with a cross in one hand and the Bible in another’ to ask ‘that Atahuallpa subject himself to the law of our Lord Jesus Christ’: 

‘I am a Priest of God… What I teach is what God says to us in this book…” Atahuallpa… opened [the Bible] himself, and, without any astonishment at the letters and paper he threw it away from him five or six paces…’ 

Returning to Pizarro, the Friar exhorted the Spaniards to attack ‘these enemy dogs’, saying, ‘That tyrant has thrown my book of holy law to the ground!’ The conquistadores then took Atahuallpa hostage, and massacred an estimated six to seven thousand Incans. The story is not unusual in the Western conquest of the New World. What stands out about it, however, is the way in which the Bible is used. For the Spaniards it is a talisman; further, it is arguable that they expect the book to provoke some type of conversion experience in Atahuallpa. But Atahuallpa’s reaction is understandable, given that he has never seen writing, less a book, before in his life. When he throws the Friar’s Bible to the ground, the Spaniards react as if he had slapped their negotiating party in the face. 

However, whilst the Spaniards clearly devoted themselves to their sacred text with plenty of vigour, “talisman” is a limiting role. For one thing, Pizarro himself was illiterate. But more importantly, the Spaniards act in a particularly violent way for people acting in the name of Jesus Christ, who in the gospels does not even defend himself as he is led to be executed. Their behaviour rejects Jesus’ message in favour of some the more bloody parts of the Old Testament, yet they still find it appropriate to invoke his name during the massacre. The text here is powerless; its readers are free both to choose those sections they wish to follow and to declare themselves adherents of those sections they reject. It is a puppet-ruler with very little influence of its own. 

We can see, then, that the influence of texts over their supposed ‘subjects’ is something that can fluctuate wildly. This fact ought to call into question our assumptions about their ability to define societies. Texts can influence humanity or they can be used by human beings to further particular ends. Further, the mechanics of this relationship is extraordinarily complex, making generalisation all but impossible. However, its importance for the telling of coherent history cannot be underestimated.

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