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Famously, the Dutch
Republic was a tolerant haven in an intolerant confessional Europe. The limits and peculiarities of this toleration are equally well-known.
In the first place, there were stark regional differences. Most
representations of Dutch tolerance rest upon the example of Holland. The
religious order of other provinces, like Zeeland or Groningen, was much
closer to the model of the German Landeskirchen,
while the closest parallel for the religious regime of the Generality lands
is probably eighteenth-century Ireland. In these areas in the south,
conquered by the armies of the Republic in the later stages of the
Eighty-Year War, a mainly rural Catholic population was governed by a small
elite of Reformed office-holders on behalf of the States-General. Even
within Holland, there were marked differences between the religious
policies of the various cities. Amsterdam and Rotterdam, for instance, being
more tolerant than Leiden. In the second place, Dutch tolerance was not
founded upon an ideology. Tolerant policies were a mixture of sentiment,
tradition, and expediency. There were, of course, ideological debates about
toleration within the Dutch Republic, but it is rather diificult to relate
them to the actual practices of toleration. It is particularly hard, at
least, I find it so, to get a clear picture of what kind of
social-religious order the defenders of tolerance actually had in mind.
The predominant model for the
interpretation of the struggle about toleration in the existing literature
pits religious zealots over against hard-headed practical men, less
interested in religious values than in worldly efficiency and secular
values. Usually, these two types are exemplified by the predikanten, the ministers of the reformed public church, and the regents of the cities of
Holland. At first sight, this interpretation is a striking contradiction of
one of the more impressive contemporary defences of toleration, SpinozaÕs Tractatus
Theologico-Politicus. Spinoza does not contrast
persecutors driven by religious zeal with secular defenders of toleration.
Instead, he interprets any use of religion for political purposes, for
instance using it to mobilize the common people and whipping them up
against their social superiors, as a form of irreligion. When the regents
suppress such clerical activities, they are not only promoting good
government and preserving social peace, theyÕre actually defending true and
pure religion. Of course, the contradiction between SpinozaÕs depiction and
the dominant interpretation can easily be explained away. We readily
perceive the ideological nature of the Tractatus, a pamflet meant to stiffen the resolve of the regents. It has
been argued, most famously by Leo Strauss, that his use and definition of
true religion need not be taken very seriously, as they are offered tongue
in cheeck. It seems to me that such an interpretation of the Tractatus is wrong. Spinoza is
serious about the religious duty of the magistrate. This, indeed, seems to
be the proper context of the early-modern debate about toleration. The
religious duty of political authority is taken seriously by almost
everybody. This is what makes
the treatment of religious difference in early modern times different from
modern toleration, as practiced by the nation-state.
***
IÕd like to go about treating this problem
in a fairly round-about way. I propose to look at the most striking example
of toleration in the Dutch Republic Ñ the acceptance of the settlement of
Jews . More particularly, I want to ask whether the treatment of the Jews
was a special case, or whether they were considered and treated just
as other dissenters. Contemporaries,
of course, experienced the toleration extended to the Jews as one of the
most striking aspects of the religious order of the Dutch Republic. A visit
to the Amsterdam synagogues is a staple element in all descriptions of
visits to the Netherlands. The Jews themselves were deeply impressed by the
treatment accorded them. Once upon a time, somewhere in the first half of
the 17th century, David Curiel, a prominent member of the Amsterdam
Sephardi community, was attacked by a German robber. Although seriously
wounded, Curiel managed to overcome his attacker with the help of his
Christian neighbours. The robber was tried, sentenced, and executed.
Afterwards, the States of Holland sent Curiel a letter expressing their
regret at the incident and inviting him to witness the medical lesson on
the corpse of the robber in the anatomical theatre of their university at
Leiden. This legend has been handed down in at least five different
manuscripts, preserved in Jewish libraries. It was probably read at the
feast of Purim, which, of course, commemorates an earlier attack on the
Jews and the spectacular destruction of their enemy. So was the treatment accorded the Jews in any way special?
1. LetÕs first look at the realm of
ideology. Were Jews considered to be a special case, different from other
Christian heretics or schismatics? Traditionally, they had been. Augustine
had justified the presence of the Jews in the Christian Empire by enlarging
upon PaulÕs speculations about their special status in GodÕs dispensation.
They were unlike Christian heretics or schismatics. Their continuing
presence was ordained by God. Part of the process during which the Jews
were expelled from most of Europe in the High Middle Ages was a
re-interpretation of this Augustinian argument. The friars distinguished
between the ancient Jews of the time before the split between church and
synagogue, and the modern Jews. The former, so the argument went, actually agreed with the Christians
and traces of their views are to be found in rabbinical literature. The
13th-century Spanish Dominican Raymundus Martini developed this scheme in
the foreword of his Pugio fidei adversus Mauros et Judaeos, a huge and extremely learned work which ransacks the Talmud,
Midrashim and Targumim to prove his claim. According to this view, modern
Jews are actually some kind of heretics, who have perverted the traditions
of their ancestors.
This interpretative scheme, with its joined
research programme, formed the basis of the intellectual reflection on the
Jewish presence in the Netherlands, both in humanist works and theological
treatises. This was not a situation characteristic for the Netherlands
alone. All Christian scholars in 17th-century Europe Ñ Lutherans, Reformed,
Catholics and dissenters Ñ used this high medieval model for their
intellectual understanding of Judaism. When Buxtorf the Younger, the most
prominent Hebrew scholar of the middle of the 17th century, wrote to
Cocceius, to congratulate him with his appointment as professor for Jewish
Controversies at Leiden, he advised him to acquire, Òto use alongside
Raymundus: Porchetus, the Fortalitium Fidei, Stella
Messiae, Hieronymus de Sancta Fide, the book that
is called Zelus Christi, published at Venice,
Paulus de St MariaÓ. These are all Catholic works in the tradition of the Pugio
Fidei.
The assimilation of Judaism to some kind of
heresy went even further than this. Judaism was considered to be, like
Christianity, a creed-orientated religion. The earliest reaction to the
presence of the Jews and their religion in the Dutch Republic was written
in the vernacular. In 1608 Abraham Costerus published his Historie der
Joden, intending to obstruct a request for a
synagogue. His work has a simple structure. The first part, making up about
half of the book, deals with the faith of the Jews. Starting with
MaimonidesÕ thirteen principles of Judaism, it relates the Jewish
conceptions concerning God, salvation, and the Messiah. The second and
third parts of the book describe the Jewish religious ceremonies, and their
customs and rituals when eating, going to bed, marrying, and so on.
CosterusÕs work cannot be considered a great scholarly achievement. It is
part excerpt, part translation of Antonius MargaritaÕs Der gantz JŸdisch
glaub (Augsburg, 1530) and Johan Buxtorf the
ElderÕs Synagoga Judaica, das ist teutsche Judenschul (Basle, 1603). Costerus derived the structure of his argument from
this last work. BuxtorfÕs Synagoga, too, opens
with a chapter explicating the Jewish articles of faith on the basis of
Maimonides. The following chapters Ñ about six-seventh of the book Ñ
describe Jewish ceremonies and rituals. I suppose that this structure,
which derives religious ceremonies, customs, and rituals from articles of
faith, ultimately goes back to the first Protestant confession, the Confessio
Augustana, which uses the same twofold argument.
We find the same description of Judaism as
a kind of mirror-image of Christianity in all works written by Dutch
Christians about Jews, whether they are theologians or humanist scholars,
orthodox Calvinists, Arminians, or spiritualists. They all consider Judaism
to be a creed-orientated religion, attempting to found its principles and
practices on revelation. The ethical and legal rules, rituals and ceremonies, the core of
normative Judaism, are judged to be secondary. Part of this is probably a
reflection of the heavy stress Sephardic Jews themselves laid upon
creed-formulation, overall a
rare occurence in Jewish thought, and the strong educational programme of the Amsterdam Jewish
community, by which they assimilated newly arrived New Christians from the
Iberian peninsula. Most important, though, was the general theological view of
religion which was prevalent.
So, Judaism was considered to be like a
Christian heresy. Not all theologians went so far as Antonius Hulsius, who
considered Judaism actually to
be the archetype and origin of all heresies and supersitions. ÒNothing
strange to the Christian truth has been introduced in the Church, which
does not smell of this corrupted Judaism.Ó. But even when such a nasty attitude was lacking, the main defect
of Judaism was considered to be that it was intellectually wrong, like the
doctrines of the Catholics, Arminians, Socinians and so on. How, then, was
Judaism to be treated? Well, in general, like other heresies. Constantijn
LÕEmpereur, one of the most important Dutch Hebraists of the 17th century,
considered that he
Òshould set the
truth of Christianity in writing against the errors of the Jews, as the
light against the shadow; and with the intention and purpose Ôthat it may
happen that God will grant them a change of heart and show them the truth,
and thus they may come to their senses and escape from the devilÕs snareÕ
[2 Tim 2:25-6 PvR], or, if their obstinacy should prevent that in this age,
that the Christians should at least be able to show the fame of the saviour
more clearly to them, and better defend their dogmas, and thus establish
the faith more and more firmlyÓ
The quote from the second Epistle to Timothy,
which forms the core of this statement, refers to the heterodox in general,
not to the Jews. LÕEmpereur
considered a conversion of the Jews very unlikely, and saw his most
important duty in vindication and refutation. This, it seems to me, is the
general intellectual attitude towards Judaism in the Dutch Republic.
Refutation of error, vindication of the truth, suppression of supposed
blasphemies and attacks on Christianity Ñ these are all much more important
than attempts at conversion. Theologically, LÕEmpereur was not quite
representative. Most mainstream Dutch calvinists would have referred to
Romans 11, a text which had been used since BezaÕs exegesis to justify the
expectation of the conversion of all the Jews. Still, this was a
theological difference without any practical consequences. Theologians who
were certain that a general conversion of the Jews was likely, did not act
upon this belief. Characteristically, at the Synod of Dordrecht in
1618-1619, a proposal by the Zeeland delegates to search for means to
further the conversion of the Jews was changed into a request to the States
to stop the Jewish libels of
Christ. The same injunction was repeated during the Grote Vergadering of
1651, the only other occasion during the 17th century when there was a
general and official discussion of the nature of the Dutch Republic. In its
emphasis on suppression and refutation, instead of conversion, the attitude
towards Judaism was not different from that towards other dissenters.
Actual attempts at conversion of individual religious dissenters were
extremely rare, as were missionary endeavours in general. In this aspect
too, there is no difference between the attitude towards Judaism and that
towards Christian dissent.
The appointment of two special professors
for Jewish controversies at Leiden University, LÕEmpereur in 1633 and
Cocceius in 1651, can not be taken as an indication of a special attitude
towards the Jews. The appointment of LÕEmpereur was in no way connected
with the publication of Menasseh ben IsraelÕs Conciliator, as has been supposed, but was meant as a consolation price. He
had been passed over for a professorship in the faculty of theology. In a similar way, the appointment of Cocceius was part of the
negotiations between him and the Board of the University about his
appointment as a professor of Theology. Coccieus, who drove a hard bargain,
insisted upon receiving a higher salary than his colleagues. The Board,
which did not want to offend them, had to search for a justification for such
a supplement. It actually took them some weeks to come up with the professorship
for writing against the Jews. Of course, in both cases such an appointment
made only sense against a background in which it was considered a positive
good to refute religious dissent. But this did not make the Jews special.
During many years of the 17th century, the professors of theology at Leiden
University devoted all their teaching to refuting various heresies.
Polemical theology reigned supreme. Refutations of Judaism were only a
small part of total polemical production.
In the course of the 17th century, and even
more in the 18th, polemics against the Jews wained. The intellectual
refutation of the Jews in print became less popular, as did the study of
rabbinical literature. It was
replaced by popular prejudice. The stereotype of the smous becomes wide-spread in the 18th century. This development, too,
finds a parallel in similar developments in the attitude towards Christian
dissenters. High polemics against Catholicism, too, became ever more rare,
and were replaced by popular prejudice. Popular stereotyping of the Mennonites Ñ het menniste zusje Ñ seems to have become more pronounced in the 18th century as
well, although this is, I admit, based on impressionistic evidence. The
reasons for this shift from elitist polemics to popular prejudice are to be
found in the changes in the actual treatment of religious minorities.
2. Practice
Were Jews treated differently from other
religious dissenters? To put it in a nutshell: initially they were, but over time they were not. This,
however, was not the result of a change in the way the Jews were treated.
On the contrary, the policies towards other dissenting groups became ever
more similar to the way the Jews had been treated all along. The decisive
shift seems to have taken place in the second half of the 17th century.
It is clear that during the first half of
17th century the Jews were treated differently. All Christian religious
groups, after the Revolt, were reconstuting themselves, building up
organisations, defining their identity, gaining support and adherents. The
sudden political demise of traditional Catholicism had resulted in a
religious situation which was both in flux and unprecedented. It would be
wrong to interpret it as a free religious market, fought over by different
religious suppliers, who were trying to maximalize their market share in
the form of the number of adherents. Political support was essential for
all groups, and most of them were more interested in building up structures
and organisations than in gaining members. The reformed got by far most
political support, and had the clearest ideas about the kind of
organisation they wanted to build. The truth of the protestantiseringsthese lies in undeniable outcome of the years till 1625, which proves
that the reformed were right in their assumption that, once the correct
structures were in place, and political support was assured, the hearts and
minds of the population would follow. XXX. However, the same mechanisms worked for other religious
organisations as well. They, too, found powerbases and links to existing
political and social structures to be essential. Consequently, what is commonly depicted as the struggle
about toleration during the first two generations after the Revolt actually
involved two different fields of conflict. On the one hand, there were
fierce disagreements about the organisation and identity of the public
church; on the other, about the attitudes to be taken towards attempts at religious
organisation apart from the public church and the efforts of dissenting
religious organisations to insert themselves within the society of the
Dutch Republic. Although this difference is well established in the current
research, it still needs to be
stressed how necessary it is to distinguish sharply between these two
contexts, and to carefully locate the various contributions to the debate
about toleration within either of them. The outcome of the political crisis
during the Truce and the Synod of Dordrecht effectively resolved the first
conflict, although from time to time radical (and highly unrealistic)
propositions were aired that a public church without a fixed confessional
identity and to which everybody could belong would be a good idea. The
resolution of the struggle about the attitude to be taken towards the
attempts at organization of other religious groups took much longer and
showed marked local varieties.
It was only in the last quarter of the 17th century that a
recognisable, consistent, and henceforward dominant model was in place.
In the first half of the 17th century, the
Jews, as a group, did not fit the two contexts in which the struggle about
toleration played itself out. In the first place, they never were a
contender in the conflict about the identity of the public church, in the
way in which the Arminians, Lutherans, and even the Catholics were. In the
second place, they were, from the beginning, a well-defined group, made up from immigrants, which
never tried to insert itself within the social body of the Republic. Their
organisation and community stood apart. In this context, it is highly
significant that, in the first half of the 17th century, only in the case
of the Jews, we find an attempt to formulate a formal constitution for a
religious group other than the public church. One of the drafts for such a
decision, Hugo GrotiusÕ Remonstrantie nopende de ordre dije in de landen van Hollandt ende
Westvrieslandt dijent gestelt op de joden, has
actually been preserved. Ultimately, no formal arrangement was issued, but the various
local decisions taken, whether in the form of the reglementation of an
existing Jewish community or as as list of conditions to allow the
settlement of Jews, all bear the same character. The presence of the Jews,
and their religious practices, were accepted, but the boundaries of their
community were sharply drawn and strictly guarded. Intermarriage and conversion of Dutch subjects
were not allowed, the Jews could not become members of the guilds, and they
had no claim on the common poor relief, instead being obliged to take care
of their own poor. Because the Jews stood apart from Dutch society, they
did not play any role in the debates and struggles about the place of
various religious organisations within this society. For a similar reason,
solutions similar to the way the Jewish presence had been regulated were
not applicable to the Lutherans, Mennonites, Arminians or Catholics. In
their case, the question was not the incorporation or exclusion of well-defined
groups, but the acceptance or suppression of attempts at religious
organisation apart from the public church. It was not a question of the rights of religious
minorities, but of political and social order. The reason that the question
was posed in these terms was twofold. In the first place, it had to do with
the widely-shared Augustinian conception that individual belief did not
spring up by itself, but was the product of social discipline and public
order. IÕll come back to this in my conclusion. In the second place, even
in the first half of the 17th century, the Dutch population had not yet
been divided between different confessions. The public, reformed church did
not acknowledge all subjects of the Dutch Republic as its members, as all
other state churches in Europe did. It had a core of dedicated members,
surrounded by a much wider, ill-defined group of sympathizers and people
who used some of its services. The situation of the other religious groups
was more or less the same. Consequently, the boundaries between the
different religious groups were hazy. This was not a religiously segmented
society. The best image is probably one of an ongoing process in a solution
with several crystallization points.
In the second half of the 17th century this
process had worked itself out. All religious minority groups occupied a
position like the Jews, that is to say, they had become communities with
fixed boundaries. All other inhabitants of the Republic were considered to
be reformed. The main mechanism driving this development was the
organisation of poor relief. Like the Jews, the dissenters were forced to take care of their
own poor, while all others had either to be members of the public church to
receive poor relief (as in Amsterdam), or, if a public poor relief apart
from the diaconie still existed, as in
Friesland and Groningen, were considered to be reformed. In this context,
the Dissenters and Catholics could actually be treated like the Jews had
been since the first decades of the century. Their presence was assured,
the internal authority of their lay leadership was supported by the
political authority, they developed their own cultural life, and they were
Ñ a hypothesis which needs detailed testing Ñ more and more excluded from
public life, not only from the local political elites, as they had been all
along, but also from their extensive patronage networks. The religious and social order of the Republic, in the 18th
century, was made up from
several, hierarchically ordered, religious groups. Religious dissent was
incorporated by giving it a lower position. The best indication of their
acceptance is their involvement in the most important public religious
ritual of the Republic, the bededag. Starting
in the last quarter of the 17th century, local religious dissenters were
formally invited by the public authorities to hold their own religious
services on these days to pray for the Republic. The logical implication of this civil religion Ñ that all
religious groups in the Republic shared certain basic convictions Ñ was not
formulated postively, but expressed negatively in the form of fierce
repression of anti-trinitarianism and radical dissent.
***
The only difference between the Jews and
the other dissenting groups in these years seems to have been that the Jews
accepted the position allocated them within this order even more than the
other groups. The Amsterdam Jews were extremely proud of the invitations to
the public days of prayers they received, at least, preserved them more
carefully than all others. They also resisted the end of the old religious
order bitterly, in marked contrast to the Arminians, Mennonites and
Catholics, who welcomed the changes after 1795.
What does this say about Dutch tolerance
or, better, the nature of the
religious order of the Dutch Republic? Much, it seems to me. At the least,
it helps to pose the questions about toleration in the right way. The
outcome of the religious development in the Dutch Republic was the
establishment of a stable order, which was hierarchical, and based on
exclusions and strong boundaries. What does this say about the religious
settlement of the Republic? The conclusion seems inescapable: the Dutch
Republic, too, became a confessional state, based on religious difference
and devoted to upholding a religious order by political means. It was a
peculiar confessional state, to be sure, but it still fits within a
recognizable early-modern European continuum, and is not an exception.
All over early-modern Europe, religion had
a social place which, in important ways, is comparable to the social place
of high art today. It is generally accepted that a modern state has a duty
to further art, that is to say, has to fund musea and artists, and
subsidize forms of art, like opera or poetry, which canÕt fend for
themselves on the open market. It is also a generally shared sentiment that
people benefit from enjoying art. Attempts abound to get people to
subscribe to this judgement and to interest them in visiting musea, the
theatre, poetry readings, and so on. Yet the existence of art and musea is
not dependent upon the number of people really taking an interest in art,
and any defence of the common peopleÕs right and ability to define art will
meet fierce resistance. The people who care most passionately about high
art, usually share the conviction that it is not for everybody. Art is a
marvellous thing, but on a rainy day we donÕt want to find the whole of
Amsterdam in the Rijksmuseum instead of on the beaches of Zandvoort. In any
case, the level of artistic achievement and the state of art is not judged
on the basis of its public. Such judgements are not based on demand, but on
supply. Are the musea any good, are they located on prominent places, do
the posses good collections? Are the arts well-funded, are excellent works
of art produced and created?
The social location of religion in early
modern Europe presents important parallels to this modern-day position of
art. Churches were funded by public authorithy, religion had its most
important place in the public sphere, and religious organisations were not
judged according to the interest of the common people in religion they
managed to create. On the contrary, everybody was deeply suspicious of
popular tastes in religion and popular forms of religious life. Everybody
shared the sentiment that religion was a good thing for the people. Various
pietist groups actually attempted to convince the people of its supreme
worth, but they, just like modern devotees of high art, were even more than
others limited by strong feelings of social superiority. True religion is
such a marvellous thing, that a common artisan or servant lives a too
conscripted life to attain it.
The main point on which the comparison
breaks down is, of course, the religious intolerance of the early modern
state. Modernist architects are not forced to recant their errors in public
ceremonies. Conceptual works of art are not burned on the squares in front
of musea, although arguably both measures would further the objective
presence of beauty. Still, the theoretical justification of intolerance, as
developed by Augustine and endlessly recycled by lesser lights, less
interesting but more numerous than the defenders of toleration, fits this
interpretative scheme very well. Intoleration was mainly justified with the
argument that the religious consciousness does not instinctively focus on the truth.
Because people tend to deviate from what is good for them, their errors
must be suppressed and they must be led in the right direction. The
christian self can only be created by discipline and force, as there is no
other human way to create it.
Public order is a necessary precondition for the emergence of a
worthwhile inner life. The most succinct early modern statement of this
view I know, is LutherÕs answer to the question where the true church is to
be found: Òwherever the word is preached correctly and the sacraments are
administered in the right wayÓ. Luther is talking about the invisible
church of true believers, who can only be identified by God. The correct
preaching and the right administering of the sacraments are not
characteristics of a religious organisation, but a responsibility of public
authority. If you want to create Christian selves, this is the way to go
about it.
The laments and criticisms about the state
of religion in the Dutch Republic in the first three quarters of 17th
century have to be interpreted against this background. They are not,
directly, about the disappointing record of the Dutch state in actually
creating Christian selves, but about its religious order, which leaves much
to be desired. They are not about a lack of piety, but about a lack of
discipline. Visible infringements on the public order are deplored, not
secret sins. Jeremiads are about clothes, carriages, fashion, and so on.
ItÕs not so much the existence of religious dissenters which is decried, as
their encroachments upon public space. The Synod of DordrechtÕs change of a
motion to seek ways to further the conversion of the Jews into a request to
the States-General to put a stop to Jewish libels is a perfect illustration
of this attitude.
This social location of religion in a
public order was a general characteristic of early-modern states.
Everywhere in Europe the best way of creating Christian selves was predominantly
sought in the strenghthening of the public presence of religion. Missionary
endeavours or propagandastic efforts in a modern sense of the word were
always an adjunct and optional.
The Dutch practice of incorporating religious minorities, by
locating them in a hierarchically lower, well-described niche still upheld
such an order. This happened elsewhere as well. LetÕs not forget that the
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes in France was in no way inevitable.
The confessional state in the Netherlands
ended in 1795, yet the emergence of the nation state did not spell the end
of political involvement with religion. What happened was a shift in the
social location of religion. Religion was no longer socially produced in a
way similar to present-day art, but more like primary education. It was no
longer located in a public order, but in the inner selves of the members of
the moral community of the nation-state. It was still not voluntary, a
matter of preference, or determined by demand. As religion should no longer
be a means of creating difference between social groups, the separation
between church and state spelt a massive change in the social nature of
religion. Once again, the fate of Jews was only an extreme illustration of
a more general pattern. They were emancipated, to be sure, but they were
also turned into Dutchmen and Dutchwomen. Their language and culture was
suppressed, their organisation dismantled.
There is no single growth of ÔtoleranceÕ or
Ôreligious freedomÕ: there are several ways of managing religious
diversity.
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