empty signifiers

The idea of the apocalyptic as a critical school is a descendent from Biblical form criticism (that analyzes the Bible and other theological texts as exactly that--texts). In a culture of suppression and persecution, it does the militant or the rebel no favors to be easily identified. The only way to spread and communicate the messages of solidarity, perseverance, and imminent revolution, the emotional and psychological tools necessary to maintain a single cultural identity in the face of an overwhelming aggressor, is through secrecy, symbol, and misdirection.

To use an example relevant to American neoconservatism, consider the apocalyptic literature canonized in the Christian Bible. The Book of Revelation was most likely written by John of Patmos, as a screed against the decadence and imperialism of contemporary (at the earliest, during the reign of either Emperor Nero, at 65 A.D., or the Emperor Domitian, at A.D. 95) Rome. Part of the Christian gestalt was inherited from the Jewish concept of the Hebrew peoples as God's Chosen, and thus the Christians who were at this point merely an offshoot of the Jewish and Hebraic traditions would have considered their martyrdom and status as social pariahs as tests of faith.

As a digression, the metal fish on the rear of many evangelicals' cars is not a reference to the "fishers of men" quotation. Rather, the Greek word icthys ("fish" in English) is acronymic of the Greek words for Jesus the christ, son of God. The drawing of the fish served as coded self-identification, both declaring and protecting the association of the artist. This symbolic, coded self-identification is fundamentally similar to the process of encoding found in apocalyptic literature. The dream-logic and intense imagery can be assimilated by those outside the context of the authors, but that mainstream audience lacks the competencies to interpret the symbols as calls for social reform and group solidarity.

I continue referring to apocalypticism as calling for "solidarity," and for good reason. The secondary culture, the "oppressed" culture, risks being assimilated by the dominant mostly through what we might call force of will. As the dominant culture, imperial Rome could enforce their own sets of mores by enacting law or by realigning social pressure. The Christian minority lacked the political capital to maintain their own identity through force, and had to rely on guile. It becomes necessary to reinforce the belief that one's cultural identity both has meaning and has value, that the sole purpose of self-identifying as secondary is not to incur pain and wrath.

The Revelation to John describes a world where a united Christianity ultimately defeats its animalistic, bestial aggressors and ushers in peace and deliverance to its chosen people. In this manner, Christian apocalyptic literature is both revolutionary and anti-revolutionary. "Our dominance is coming," Revelation says, "but our deliverance will indeed be delivered to us." It displaces the violent desire for revolution onto the religious father-figure, the Messiah, and so absolves the body politic of the duty of actually engaging a revolution. As the Jewish Revolt in Rome occurred in 66 A.D., the effect of attempting to wage revolutionary war on imperial Rome would not have been lost on John.

If you are unfamiliar with the Jewish Revolt of 66 A.D., it is best described as a cataclysmic disaster. David and Goliath works well as allegory, but rarely does David emerge victorious in a historical context.

So apocalyptic literature performs at least one function--to encourage the believing masses to maintain belief, for salvation is around the corner. In the next part of this series, we'll discuss the second function of apocalyptic literature: the investiture of the other in dominant culture.