History of Myth

A Short History of Myth, Karen Armstrong
(excerpts)

SOME Key Quotations

Animals watch each other die, but as far as we know, they give the matter no further consideration. But the Neanderthal graves show that when these early people became conscious of their mortality, they created some sort of counter-narrative that enabled them to come to terms with it. (1)

Mythology was as essential to their survival as the hunting weapons and skills that they evolved in order to kill their prey and achieve a degree of control over their environment. (12)

By facing up to the prospect of imminent death, and learning that it too is only a rite of passage to a new form of existence, he is ready to risk his life for his people by becoming a hunter or warrior. (34)

From the very beginning, therefore, homo sapiens understood instinctively that myth and logos had separate jobs to do.  He used logos to develop new weaponry, and myth, with its accompanying rituals, to reconcile himself to the tragic facts of  life that threatened to overwhelm him, and prevent him from acting effectively. (32)

Scientific logos and myth were becoming incompatible. Hitherto science had been conducted within a comprehensive mythology that explained its significance. The French mathematician Blaise Pascale (1623-62), a deeply religious man, was filled with horror when he contemplated the ‘eternal silence’ of the infinite universe opened up by modern science.

When I see the blind and wretched state of men, when I survey the whole universe in its deadness, and man left to himself with no light, as though lost in this corner of the universe without knowing who put him there, what he has to do, or what will become of him when he dies, incapable of knowing anything, I am moved to terror, like a man transported in his sleep to some terrifying island, who wakes up quite lost, with no means of escape. Then I marvel that so wretched a state does not drive people to despair.

This type of alienation has also been part of the modern experience. (127-8)

 

As our circumstances change, we need to tell our stories differently in order to bring out their timeless truth. (11)

“How” and “Why” are different dimensions / realities

Since the eighteenth century, we have developed a scientific view of history; we are concerned above all with what actually happened. But in the pre-modern world, when people wrote about the past they were more concerned with what an event had meant.  (7)

Logos is quite different from mythical thinking. Unlike myth, logos must correspond accurately to objective facts…Myth and logos both have their limitations, however. In the pre-modern world, most people realized that myth and reason were complementary; each had its separate sphere, each its particular area of competence, and human beings needed both these modes of thought.  (31)

Using reason to discuss the sacred was about as pointless as trying to eat soup with a fork. (116)

The story of the Golden Age, a very early and almost universal myth, was never intended to be historical. It springs from a strong experience of the sacred that is natural to human beings, and expresses their tantalizing sense of a reality that is almost tangible and only just out of reach. Most of the religions and mythologies of archaic societies are imbued with longing for the lost paradise. The myth was not simply an exercise in nostalgia, however. Its primary purpose was to show people how they could return to this archetypal world, not only in moments of visionary rapture but in the regular duties of their daily lives…Anything, however lowly, could embody the sacred. (15)

A myth does not impart factual information, but is primarily a guide to behavior. Its truth will only be revealed if it is put into practice – ritually or ethically. If it is perused as though it were a purely intellectual hypothesis, it becomes remote and incredible. (22)

A myth cannot be correctly understood without a transformative ritual…By ritual practice and ethical response, the story has ceased to be an event in the distant past, and has become a living reality. (107)

We are facing something unprecedented. Other societies saw death as a transition to other modes of being. They did not nurture simplistic and vulgar ideas of an afterlife, but devised rites and myths that helped people to face the unspeakable.  (134)

But purely linear, logical and historical modes of thought have debarred many of us from therapies and devices that have enabled men and women to draw on the full resources of their humanity in order to live with the unacceptable. (1xx)

But once you start reading Genesis as scientifically valid, you have bad science and bad religion. (131)

This is crucial, because unless there is some kind of spiritual revolution that is able to keep abreast of our technological genius, we will not save our planet. (137)
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“What is a Myth?”  A Short History of Myth, Karen Armstrong

Human beings have always been mythmakers. Archeologists have unearthed Neanderthal graves containing weapons, tools and the bones of a sacrificed animal, all of which suggest some kind of belief in a future world that was similar to their own. The Neanderthals may have told each other stories about the life that their dead companion now enjoyed. They were certainly reflecting about death in a way that their fellow-creatures did not. Animals watch each other die but, as far as we know, they give the matter no further consideration. But the Neanderthal graves show that when these early people became conscious of their mortality, they created some sort of counter-narrative that enabled them to come to terms with it. The Neanderthals who buried their companions with such care seem to have imagined that the visible, material world was not the only reality. From a very early date, therefore, it appears that human beings were distinguished by their ability to have ideas that went beyond their everyday experience.
We are meaning-seeking creatures. Dogs, as far as we know, do not agonize about the canine condition, worry about the plight of dogs in other parts of the world, or try to see their lives from a different perspective. But human beings fall easily into despair, and from the very beginning we invented stories that enabled us to place our lives in a larger setting, that revealed an underlying pattern, and gave us a sense that, against all the depressing and chaotic evidence to the contrary, life had meaning and value.
Another peculiar characteristic of the human mind is its ability to have ideas and experiences that we cannot explain rationally. We have imagination, a faculty that enables us to think of something that is not immediately present, and that, when we first conceive it, has no objective existence. The imagination is the faculty that produces religion and mythology. Today mythical thinking has fallen into disrepute; we often dismiss it as irrational and self-indulgent. But the imagination is also the faculty that has enabled scientists to bring new knowledge to light and to invent technology that has made us immeasurably more effective. The imagination of scientists has enabled us to travel through outer space and walk on the moon, feats that were once only possible in the realm of myth. Mythology and science both extend the scope of human beings. Like science and technology, mythology, as we shall see, is not about opting out of this world, but about enabling us to live more intensely within it.
The Neanderthal graves tell us five important things about myth. First, it is nearly always rooted in the experience of death and the fear of extinction. Second, the animal bones indicate that the burial was accompanied by a sacrifice. Mythology is usually inseparable from ritual. Many myths make no sense outside a liturgical drama that brings them to life, and are incomprehensible in a profane setting. Third, the Neanderthal myth was in some way recalled beside a grave, at the limit of human life. The most powerful myths are about extremity; they force us to go beyond our experience. There are moments when we all, in one way or another, have to go to a place that we have never seen, and do what we have never done before. Myth is about the unknown; it is about that for which initially we have no words. Myth therefore looks into the heart of a great silence. Fourth, myth is not a story told for its own sake. It shows us how we should behave. In the Neanderthal graves, the corpse has sometimes been placed in a fetal position, as though for rebirth: the deceased had to take the next step himself. Correctly understood, mythology puts us in the correct spiritual or psychological posture for right action, in this world or the next.
Finally, all mythology speaks of another plane that exists alongside our own world, and that in some sense supports it. Belief in this invisible but more powerful reality, sometimes called the world of the gods, is a basic theme of mythology. It has been called the ‘perennial philosophy’ because it informed the mythology, ritual and social organization of all societies before the advent of our scientific modernity; and continues to influence more traditional societies today. According to the perennial philosophy, everything that happens in this world, everything that we can hear and see here below has its counterpart in the divine realm, which is richer, stronger and more enduring that our own. And every earthly reality is only a pale shadow of its archetype, the original pattern, of which it is simply an imperfect copy. It is only by participating in this divine life that mortal, fragile human beings fulfill their potential. The myths gave explicit shape and form to a reality that people sensed intuitively. They told them how the gods behaved, not out of idle curiosity or because these tales were entertaining, but to enable men and women to imitate these powerful beings and experience divinity themselves.
In our scientific culture, we often have rather simplistic notions of the divine. In the ancient world, the ‘gods’ were rarely regarded as supernatural beings with discrete personalities, living a totally separate metaphysical existence. Mythology was not about theology, in the modern sense, but about human experience. People thought that gods, humans, animals and nature were inextricably bound up together, subject to the same laws, and composed of the same divine substance. There was initially no ontological gulf between the world of the gods and the world of men and women. When people spoke of the divine, they were usually talking about an aspect of the mundane. The very existence of the gods was inseparable from that of a storm, a sea, a river, or from those powerful human emotions – love, rage or sexual passion – that seemed momentarily to lift men and women onto a different plane of existence so that they saw the world with new eyes.
Mythology was therefore designed to help us to cope with the problematic human predicament. It helped people to find their place in the world and their true orientation. We all want to know where we came from, but because our earliest beginnings are lost in the mists of prehistory, we have created myths about our forefathers that are not historical but help to explain current attitudes about our environment, neighbors and customs. We also want to know where we are going, so we have devised stories that speak of a posthumous existence – though, as we shall see, not many myths envisage immortality for human beings. And we want to explain those sublime moments, when we seem to be transported beyond our ordinary concerns. The gods helped to explain the experience of transcendence. The perennial philosophy expresses our innate sense that there is more to human beings and to the material world than meets the eye.
Today the word ‘myth’ is often used to describe something that is simply not true. A politician accused of a peccadillo will say that it is a ‘myth’, that it never happened. When we hear of gods walking the earth, of dead men striding out of tombs, or of seas miraculously parting to let a favored people escape from their enemies, we dismiss these stories as incredible and demonstrably untrue. Since the eighteenth century, we have developed a scientific view of history; we are concerned above all with what actually happened. But in the pre-modern world, when people wrote about the past they were more concerned with what an event had meant. A myth was an event which, in some sense, had happened once, but which also happened all the time. Because of our strictly chronological view of history, we have no word for such an occurrence, but mythology is an art form that points beyond history to what is timeless in human existence, helping us to get beyond the chaotic flux of random events, and glimpse the core of reality.
An experience of transcendence has always been part of the human experience. We seek out moments of ecstasy, when we feel deeply touched within and lifted momentarily beyond ourselves. At such times, it seems that we are living more intensely than usual, firing on all cylinders, and inhabiting the whole of our humanity. Religion has been one of the most traditional ways of attaining ecstasy, but if people no longer find it in temples, synagogues, churches or mosques, they look for it elsewhere: in art, music, poetry, rock, dance, drugs, sex or sport. Like poetry and music, mythology should awaken us to rapture, even in the face of death and the despair we may feel at the prospect of annihilation. If a myth ceases to do that, it has died and outlived its usefulness.
It is, therefore, a mistake to regard myth as an inferior mode of thought, which can be cast aside when human beings have attained the age of reason. Mythology is not an early attempt at history, and does not claim that its tales are objective fact. Like a novel, an opera or a ballet, myth is make-believe; it is a game that transfigures our fragmented, tragic world, and helps us to glimpse new possibilities by asking ‘what if?’ – a question which has also provoked some of our most important discoveries in philosophy, science and technology. The Neanderthals who prepared their dead companion for a new life were, perhaps, engaged in the same game of spiritual make-believe that is common to all mythmakers: ‘What if this world were not all that there is? How would this affect our lives – psychologically, practically or socially? Would we become different? More complete? And, if we did find that we were so transformed, would that not show that our mythical belief was true in some way, that it was telling us something important about our humanity, even though we could not prove this rationally?
Human beings are unique in retaining the capacity for play. Unless they are living in the artificial conditions of captivity, other animals lose their early sense of fun when they encounter the harsh realities of life in the wild. Human adults, however, continue to enjoy playing with different possibilities, and, like children, we go on creating imaginary worlds. In art, liberated from the constraints of reason and logic, we conceive and combine new forms that enrich our lives,  and which we believe tell us something important and profoundly ‘true’. In mythology too, we entertain a hypothesis, bring it to life by means of ritual, act upon it, contemplate its effect upon our lives, and discover that we have achieved new insight into the disturbing puzzle of our world.
            A myth, therefore, is true because it is effective, not because it gives us factual information. If, however, it does not give us new insight into the deeper meaning of life, it has failed. If it works, that is, if it forces us to change our minds and hearts, gives us new hope, and compels us to live more fully, it is a valid myth. Mythology will only transform us if we follow its directives. A myth is essentially a guide; it tells us what we must do in order to live more richly. If we do not apply it to our own situation and make the myth a reality in our own lives, it will remain as incomprehensible and remote as the rules of a board game, which often seem confusing and boring until we start to play.
Our modern alienation from myth is unprecedented. In the pre-modern world, mythology was indispensable. It not only helped people to make sense of their lives but also revealed regions of the human mind that would otherwise have remained inaccessible. It was an early form of psychology. The stories of gods or heroes descending into the underworld, threading through labyrinths and fighting with monsters, brought to light the mysterious workings of the psyche, showing people how to cope with their own interior crises. When Freud and Jung began to chart the modern quest for the soul, they instinctively turned to classical mythology to explain their insights, and gave the old myths a new interpretation.
There was nothing new in this. There is never a single, orthodox version of a myth. As our circumstances change, we need to tell our stories differently in order to bring out their timeless truth. In this short history of mythology, we shall see that every time men and women took a major step forward, they reviewed their mythology and made it speak to the new conditions. But we shall also see that human nature does not change much, and that many of these myths, devised in societies that could not be more different from our own, still address our most essential fears and desires.

                                               “As our circumstances change…”
[The following chapters represent fundamental changes in “circumstances,” hence myths]

The Paleolithic Period: The Mythology of the Hunters  (20,000 to 8,000 BCE)
The Neolithic Period: The Mythology of the Farmers (8000 to 4000 BCE)
The Early Civilizations (4000 to 800 BCE)
The Axial Age (800 to 200 BCE)
The Post-Axial Period (200BCEto 1500 CE)
The Great Western Transformation (1500 to 2000)

[The Axial Age is especially interesting because “it proved to be pivotal in the spiritual development of humanity; the insights gained during this time have continued to nourish men and women to the present day.”    Key developments/figures during this time include: Confucianism, Taoism, Buddhism, Hinduism, monotheism in the Middle East, Greek rationalism in Europe; the great Hebrew prophets, the sages of the Upanishads, the Buddha, Confucius, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle.]

The Axial Age (c. 800 to 200 BCE)

By the eight century BCE, the malaise was becoming more widespread, and in four distinct regions an impressive array of prophets and sage began to seek a new solution. The German philosopher Karl Jaspers called this period the ‘Axial Age’ because it proved to be pivotal in the spiritual development of humanity: the insights gained during this time have continued to nourish men and women of the present day. It marks the beginning of religion as we know it. People became conscious of their nature, their situation and their limitations with unprecedented clarity. New religious and philosophical systems emerged. Confucianism and Taoism in China; Buddhism and Hinduism in India; monotheism in the Middle East and Greek rationalism in Europe. These Axial traditions were associated with such men as the great Hebrew prophets of the eight, seventh and sixth centuries; with the sages of the Upanishads, and the Buddha (c. 563-483) in India; with Confucius (551-479) and the author of the Dao De Jing  in China; and with the fifth-century tragedians, Socrates (469-399), Plato (c. 427-347) and Aristotle (c. 384-322 BCE) in Greece.
There is much about the Axial Age that remains mysterious. We do not know why it involved only the Chinese, Indians, Greeks and Jews, and why nothing comparable developed in Mesopotamia or Egypt. It is certainly true that the Axial regions were all caught up in political, social and economic upheaval. There were wars, deportations, massacres and destruction of cities. A new market economy was also developing; power was passing from priests and kings to merchants, and this disturbed the old hierarchies. All these new faiths developed not in remote deserts of mountain hermitages, but in an environment of capitalism and high finance. But this upheaval cannot fully explain the Axial revolution, which made an indelible impression on the way that human beings related to themselves, to each other, and to the world around them.
All the Axial movements had essential ingredients in common. They were acutely conscious of the suffering that seemed an inescapable part of the human condition, and all stressed the need for a more spiritualized religion that was not so heavily dependent upon external rituals and practice. They had a new concern about the individual conscience and morality. Henceforth it would not b e sufficient to perform the conventional rites meticulously; worshippers must also treat their fellow-creatures with respect. All the sages recoiled from the violence of their time, and preached an ethic of compassion and justice. They taught their disciples to look within themselves for truth and not to rely on the teachings of priests and other religious experts. Nothing should be taken on trust, everything should be questioned, and old values, hitherto taken for granted, must be subjected to critical scrutiny. One of the areas that required re-evaluation was, of course, mythology.
When they contemplated the ancient myths, each of the Axial movements adopted a slightly different position. Some were hostile to certain mythical trends; others adopted a laissez-faire attitude. All gave their myths a more interior and ethical interpretation. The advent of urban life had meant that mythology was no longer taken for granted. People continued to examine it critically, but when they confronted the mystery of the psyche, they found that they still instinctively turned to the old myths. The stories might have to be recast, but they were still felt to be necessary. If a myth was banished by the more exacting reformers, it sometimes crept back later into the system in a slightly different guise. Even in these more sophisticated religious systems, people found that they could not do without mythology.
But people no longer experienced the sacred as easily as their ancestors. The gods had already begun to retreat form the consciousness of some of the early city-dwellers. People in the Axial countries still yearned for transcendence, but the4 sacred now seemed remote, and even alien. A gulf now separated mortals from their gods. They no longer shared the same nature; it was no longer possible to believe that gods and men derived from the same divine substance. The early Hebrew myths had imagined a god who could eat and converse with Abraham as a friend but, when the prophets of the Axial Age encountered this same god, he was experienced as a fearful shock, which either endangered their lives, or left them feeling stunned and violated. The supreme reality now seemed impossibly difficult of access. In India, Buddhists felt that they could enter the sacred peace of Nirvana only by mounting a formidable attack on their normal consciousness by means of yoga exercises that were beyond the reach of ordinary folk, while the Jains practiced such severe asceticism that some even starved themselves to death. In China, Confucius believed that the Dao, the supreme reality, was no so alien from the world of men that it was better not so speak about it. This radically different religious experience meant that mythology could no longer easily speak about the divine in the old anthropomorphic way.
China has not figured much in our discussion, because in their high culture the Chinese did not tell stories about the gods. There were no tales of divine combat, dying gods or sacred marriages; there were no official pantheons, no cosmogony, and no anthropomorphic gods. The cities had no patron deities, and no urban cult. This does not mean that Chinese society had no mythical underpinning, however. Ancestor worship was of crucial importance, and pointed to a world that had predated the world of human beings. Rituals to departed kinsfolk provided the Chinese with a model for an idealized social order, which was conceived as a family, and governed by the principles of decorum. Rivers, stars, winds and crops all had indwelling spirits which lived harmoniously together in obedience to the Sky God, Di (later also know as Tian: ‘heaven’). Unlike other Sky Gods, the Chinese High God did not fade away. He became more prominent at the time of the Shang dynasty (c. 1600-mid-eleventh century BCE). The king’s legitimacy derived from the fat that he alone had access to Di/Tian, and, according to the principles of the perennial philosophy, he was the earthly counterpart of God – a myth that survived in Chinese culture until the revolution of 1911. Earthly government was identical to the arrangements of heaven; the king’s ministers aided him just as Tian was assisted in the governance of the cosmos by the gods of the elements.
The Chinese seemed to have been groping towards the Axial ethos earlier than the other cultures. In 1126 BCE, a people from the Wei River valley, in the present-day Shensi province, overthrew the Shang state and established the Zhou dynasty. The Zhou claimed that the last Shang king had been corrupt and that, in his concern for the people’s suffering, Tian had passed his mandate to the Zhou – a myth that endowed Tian with an ethical character. The Zhou celebrated the order of heaven in elaborate ritual ceremonies, accompanied by powerfully beautiful music. This liturgy was experienced as an epiphany of a social harmony that was itself divine. All participants, living and dead, had to conform to these ceremonies. All beings – spirits, ancestors and humans – had their special place; everybody had to subordinate their likes, dislikes and personal inclinations to the rites, which made the ideal order of the universe a reality in the flawed world of men and women. It was the rites and not the actors who were important; individuals felt caught up and subsumed into the Sacred World, which was the foundation of both the cosmos and their own polity.
By the time of Confucius, however, the Zhou dynasty had fallen into decline and the old order was in ruins. Confucius attributed this anarchy to the neglect of the rituals and the accepted codes of behavior (li) that had taught people how they should comport themselves to one another. Now decorum had been cast aside and people pursued only their own selfish interests. Some of the old myths had pointed out that creativity was based upon self-sacrifice, but the Axial Sages made the ethical consequences of this insight more explici9t. This self-immolation had to be practiced in daily life by everyone who wished to perfect his humanity. Confucius infused the old Chinese ethos with the Axial virtue of compassion. He promoted the ideal of ren (‘humaneness’), which required people to ‘love others’. He was the first to promulgate the Golden Rule: ‘Do not do unto others as you would not have done unto you.’ The Axial spirit demanded inner reflection and self-scrutiny, a deliberate analysis of the deeper recesses of the self. you could not behave rightly to others unless you had first examined your own needs, motivation and inclinations; proper respect for others required a process of shu (‘likening to oneself’).
But Confucius realized that this could not be done by an act of will or by rational reflection alone. Absolute transcendence of selfishness could only be achieved through the alchemy of ritual and music, which, like all great art, transfigures human beings at a level that is deeper than the cerebral. Yet it was not enough simply to attend the rituals: it was essential to understand the spirit behind them, which inculcated an attitude of ‘yielding’ (rang) to others in order to overcome pride, resentment and envy. As the worshippers bowed to the other participants, submitted to the demands of the rite, and allowed others to take the lead when required – all to the accompaniment of sublime music – they learned how to behave to their fellows in ordinary transactions and relationships. Confucius looked back to exemplary models of the past. The Chinese had no stories about the gods, but they did revere culture heroes, who were in fact mythical figures but were thought to be historical. Confucius’s special heroes were two of the five Sage Kings of remote antiquity. The first was Yao, who had not only taught the Chinese the proper use of ritual and music, but had demonstrated the virtue of rang. Because he deemed none of his sons worthy to rule, he chose the virtuous peasant Shun as his successor. Shun had also displayed exceptional selflessness when he had continued to love his father and brothers and treat them with reverence and respect, even though they had tried to kill him.
But for Confucius, ritual, if properly understood, was more important than these mythical stories. There had been a similar development in Vedic India, where the rituals of sacrifice had eclipsed the gods to whom they were offered. The gods gradually retreated from the religious consciousness, and the ritual reformers of the rights century BCE devised a new liturgy that put the solitary individual at centre-stage. Henceforth men could not rely on the gods for help; they had to create an ordered world for themselves in the ritual arena. The power engendered by these ceremonies, which was know as Braham, was experienced as so overwhelming that it was thought to be the ultimate reality that lay beyond the gods and kept the world in being. Even today, a religious festival can produce the rapture that Indians call anya manas, the ‘other mind’ that is quite different from normal, profane consciousness. The Indian and Chinese emphasis on liturgy reminds us yet again that myth cannot be viewed in isolation from this context. Myth and cultic practice are equal partners, both help to convey a sense of the sacred, and usually do so together, but sometimes ritual takes first place.
The Axial Sages, all insisted on a third component, however. To understand the true meaning of the myth, you must not only perform the rites which give it emotional resonance, but you must also behave in the correct ethical manner. Unless your daily life was informed by what Confucius called ren, rang and shy, a myth like that of Yao or Shun would remain abstract and opaque. In Vedic India, ritual actions had been called karma (‘deeds’).  The Buddha, however, had no interest in sacrificial ritual. He redefined karma as the intentions that inspired our ordinary actions. Our motives were internal karma, mental actions that were far more important than ritual observance, and just as important as external actions. This was a revolution typical of the Axial period, which deepened and interiorized the understanding of both morality and mythology. Myth had always demanded action. The Axial sages showed that myth would not reveal its full significance, unless it led to the exercise of practical compassion and justice in daily life.
The third-century BCE author of the Dao De Jing, traditionally known as Laozi, also had a negative view of traditional ritual. Instead of li, he relied on exercises of concentration similar to the Indian practice of yoga. Civilization, he was convinced, had been a mistake, which had diverted human beings from the true Way (Dao).  Laozi looked back to a Golden Age of agrarian simplicity, when people lived in small villages with no technology, no art or culture, and no war. This Golden Age, the Chinese believed, had come to an end with the death of the culture hero Shen Nong, who, at immense cost to himself, had taught human beings the science of agriculture. Shen Nong had personally tasted all plants to find out which were edible, and had once been poisoned seventy times in one day. By the third century BCE, when the more powerful kingdoms were swallowing up small states and communities in one destructive war after another, the myth of Shen Nong had changed. He was now regarded as the ideal ruler. It was said that he had governed a decentralized empire, had ploughed his own fields alongside his subjects, and had ruled without ministers, laws or punishments. Idealistic hermits had dropped out of public life to recreate the Shen Nong ideal, and the Dao De Jing, which is addressed to the ruler of a small state, gives similar advice. It is best to retreat, lie low and do nothing until the great powers have overreached themselves.
But like all Axial teachers, Laozi was not simply concerned with the practicalities of survival, but with finding a source of transcendent peace in the midst of earthly turbulence. He aspires to the ultimate reality, the Dao, which goes beyond the gods, and is the ineffable basis of all existence. It transcends everything we can conceptualizes, and yet if we cultivate an inner emptiness, without selfish desire and without greed, and live in a compassionate manner, we will be in harmony with the Dao and thus transformed. When we give up the goal-directed ethos of civilization, we will be in tune with the Way things out to be. Yet just as Laozi appeals to the mythical Golden Age of Shen Nong when describing the ideal polity, he also appeals to traditional myths (which may have been current in popular culture) in order to evoke the Dao. The Dao is the Source of Life, the Perfect Ancestor, and also the Mother. Prehistoric human beings had seen the Great Mother as fierce and violent, but in the new Axial spirit, Laozi gives her the attributes of compassion. She is associated with the selflessness that is inseparable from true creativity. Prehistoric men and women had sometimes enacted a return to the womb by burrowing through subterranean tunnels. Laozi imagines the Sage, the perfected human being, making this return by conforming to the Way of the universe.
Both Laoze and the Buddha were willing to use old myths to help people to understand the new ideas. Believing that animal sacrifice was not only useless but also cruel, the Buddha attacked Vedic ritualism, but was tolerant of traditional mythology. He no longer believed that the gods were efficacious, but he was able to set them quietly to one side, and felt no need to mount an ideological offensive against them. He also gave the gods a new, symbolic significance. In some of the stories about his life, gods such as Brahma, the supreme deity, or Mara, lord of death, seem to be reflections of his own inner states, or personifications of conflicting mental forces.
But the prophets of Israel could not take this relaxed attitude. They felt compelled to fight hard against old myths that they found incompatible with their Axial reform. For centuries, Israelites had enjoyed the ritual and mythical life of the Near East, worshipping Asherah, Baal and Ishtar alongside their own god, Yahweh. But now that Yahweh seemed to distant, prophets such as Hosea, Jeremiah and Ezekiel undertook a radical revision of the old anthropomorphic myths. Because the old stories now seemed empty, they declared them to be false. Their god Yahweh, whose towering transcendence showed the triviality of these old tales, was the only god. They mounted a polemic against the old religion. Yahweh himself is depicted as having to make a belligerent bid for the leadership of the Divine Council, pointing out that his fellow-gods are neglecting the Axial virtues of justice and compassion, and will, therefore, be phased out, dying like mortal men. Culture heroes, such as Joshua, David and King Josiah are shown violently suppressing the local pagan cults, and the effigies of Baal or Madre are ridiculed as man-made, consisting entirely of gold and silver, and knocked together by a craftsman in a couple of hours.
This was, of course, a reductive view of Middle Eastern paganism. But the history of religion shows that, once a myth ceases to give people intimations of transcendence, it becomes abhorrent. Monotheism, the belief in only one god, was initially a struggle. Many of the Israelites still felt the allure of the old myths, and had to fight this attraction. They felt that they were being torn painfully from the mythical world of their neighbors, and were becoming outsiders. We sense this strain in the distress of Jeremiah, who experienced his god as a pain that convulsed his every limb, or in the strange career of Ezekiel, whose life became an icon of radical discontinuity. Ezekiel is commanded by God to eat excrement; he is forbidden to mourn his dead wife; he is overcome with fearful, uncontrollable trembling. The Axial prophets felt that they were taking their people into an unknown world, where nothing could be taken for granted, and normal responses were denied.
But eventually this distress gave way to serene confidence, and the religion that we now call Judaism came into being.
Ironically, this new self-assurance came after a great catastrophe. In 586 the Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar conquered the city of Jerusalem and destroyed the temple of Yahweh. Many of the Israelites were departed to Babylonia, where the exiles were exposed to the towering ziggurats, the rich liturgical life of the city, and the massive temple of Esagila. Yet it was here that paganism lost its attraction. We see the new spirit in the first chapter of Genesis, probably written by a member of the so-called Priestly School, which can be read as a posed, calm polemic against the old belligerent cosmogonies. In calm, order prose, this new creation myth looks coolly askance at the Babylonian cosmology. Unlike Marduk, Israel’s god does not have to fight desperate battles to create the world; he brings all things into existence effortlessly, by a simple command. The sun, moon, stars, sky and earth are not gods in their own right, hostile to Yahweh. They are subservient to him, and created for a purely practical end. The sea-monster is no Tiamat, but is God’s creature and does his bidding. Yahweh’s creative act is so superior to Marduk’s that it never has to be repeated or renewed. Where the Babylonian gods were engaged in an ongoing battle against the forces of chaos, and needed the rituals of the New Year festival to restore their energies, Yahweh can simply rest on the seventh day, his work complete.
But the Israelites were quite happy to use the old Middle Eastern mythology when it suited them. In the book of Exodus, the crossing of the Sea of Reeds is described precisely as a myth. Immersion in water was traditionally used as a rite of passage; other gods had split a sea in half when the created the world – though what is being brought into being in the Exodus myth is not a cosmos but a people. The prophet we call Second Isaiah, who was active in Babylon in the middle of the sixth century, articulates a clear, unequivocal monotheism. There is no stridency; he has no doubt that Yahweh is the only god; the antagonism has gone. Yet he evokes the ancient creation myths that depict Yahweh fighting sea-monsters to bring the world into being, just like any other Middle Eastern deity, equating this victory over the primal Sea with Yahweh’s parting of the Sea of Reeds at the time of the Exodus. Israelites can now expect a similar show of divine strength in their own time, since God is about to reverse the exile and b ring them home. The Babylonian author of The Epic of Gilgamesh brought ancient history and mythology together, but Second Isaiah goes further. He links the primordial actions of this god with current events.
In Greece, the Axial Age was fuelled by logos (reason), which operated at a different level of the mind from myth. Where myth requires either emotional participation of some kind of ritual mimesis to make any sense at all, logos tries to establish the truth by means of careful inquiry in a way that appeals only to the critical intelligence. In the Greek colonies of Ionia, in what is now Turkey, the first  physicists tried to find a rational basis for the old cosmological myths. But this scientific enterprise was  [to be continued]