Have Catholics missed an opportunity to engage Thiel on theology? There is no need to be dismissive and snob. His effort means we should be open to talk to him.
Peter Thiel faced heavy criticism from Italian theological circles aligned with the pontificates of Pope Leo XIV and his predecessor, Francis, during his lectures in Rome on the Antichrist. The criticism was sharp and derisive of the need for theology, a need of which Thiel is a personal embodiment. He represents a generation of people more or less aligned with the current U.S. administration. One might say that the criticism was theologically relevant yet existentially misguided and ill-timed.
Yet, especially when inspired by Pope Francis’s welcoming humanism, theology should have a special regard for people’s existence, even when they think diametrically opposite to us and frame their existential questions within a theological framework that is, at the very least, shaky. If one wishes to criticize Thiel’s theology, one should at least ask why this man, who has everything, feels such a pressing need for theology. Failing to do so represents a missed opportunity—one that must be remedied.
There is something in Thiel’s expression of his need for theology that resists the simple manipulation of religion to support a political, ideological, and cultural agenda. It is something elusive that Thiel himself seems unable to grasp or express as he would like. It is not something missing, which would make God the “stopgap” Dietrich Bonhoeffer spoke of, but rather, it is something that exceeds and eludes the “whole” enclosed in the power of our hands and the might of technology.
We cannot enter Thiel’s innermost spiritual being to determine what it is, but we can engage in dialogue with him and his colleagues in Silicon Valley and Washington. We must be willing to listen to his/theirs reasons and desires. Reading his words and listening to his reflections, we might say that there is something in the power of technology—which some, very few, have mastered—that intrigues technology itself at the pinnacle it has reached in our time.
Thiel seems convinced that technology will save us. It would suffice to not oppose it and let it run its course; salvation would be ours, our creation, our generation. However, salvation would be the fruit of our power. Though this may resemble Nietzsche’s Übermensch, I don’t believe it is. It is not a thought, but a work. It is not arrogance that rebels against the heavens once inhabited by the gods, but the full realization of human potential, which, according to theology, is God’s own secret desire for his creatures.
I can already imagine the reaction of my colleagues committed to dismantling Thiel’s theology, but let’s try to suspend judgment and consider some commonplaces of Catholic thought and doctrine. One that is exemplary, in my view, is that of possible perdition—the second death, as Hans Urs von Balthasar called it. On the one hand, we theologians engage in a strenuous defense of God’s omnipotence. Yet, we then declare it null and void in the face of human freedom that opposes God’s desire for every human being: to share with them his mysterious intimacy of love. Faced with such freedom that chooses against God, the almighty God can do nothing but respect it. This declares the power of human freedom superior to the omnipotence of God’s love—but only for perdition.
This is too simple, too convenient, and contradictory if one posits that the maximum extension of human freedom is incapable of its opposite: salvation. Here, Thiel’s theological claim strikes me as hitting the mark—at the very least, as a provocation to rethink this commonplace of theological thought. Technology is the form of this salvific extension of human freedom today. Not only that, but it is also the world itself—the environment in which we are immersed from birth to death (as long as it exists). For this reason, technology is now more than just an ethical issue, which we theologians continue to grapple with. It is everything. When the “whole” is at stake, theology’s time has come—in this, Thiel is consistent with the history of the West, which is what it is today only because it has been traversed by the contingency of the Christian God, much more than many Catholic theologians.
Thiel’s assertion that “only technology will save the world” is analogous to Dostoevsky’s claim that “only beauty will save the world.” Both assertions stand in opposition to Heidegger’s dictum that, in the face of the pervasive reign of technology, “only the God can save us.” Before dismissing Thiel and his ideas, we should carefully consider the common ground he shares with Dostoevsky in resisting the temptation of the “last God” invoked by Heidegger as a replacement for the failed Nazi project.
Why does Catholic theology give so much credence to Dostoevsky’s assertion yet oppose Thiel’s with such intransigence? What is the difference between beauty and technology, both of which are work of human hands and our creations? Why do we attribute salvific power only to the former yet abhor the latter? Perhaps because beauty appears sweeter—or rather, more docile? But that would be romanticism, not thought. Is it because we delude ourselves into thinking that beauty cannot cause harm, while technology certainly can? If beauty were in itself innocent and capable only of salvation, we would not have been thinking about it since time immemorial. Thus, Thiel’s assertion—however unpalatable to our romantic ears—tells us precisely this: Beauty and technology must both be thought about, not merely used.
Thinking about technology means, to borrow Richard Feynman’s conviction, reweaving the threads of its genesis—returning it to science as a discovery of the new. This means not resting on the use of its outcomes, which is precisely the sign of the stagnation that drives Thiel to his theological endeavor.
Catholic theologians should have the intelligence and humility to accept the vote of confidence extended to them by Thiel on behalf of a generation that now holds the reins of the world and the destiny of history as we have known it. When the most important task is to think deeply technology and reactivate its generation rooted in science, than we need an understanding that goes beyond mere knowledge so we can shape the “whole” that surrounds our lives with wisdom and finesse. This is the reason behind Thiel & Co.’s clear need for theology. We must decide how to respond to this invitation, however uncomfortable it may be and despite it coming from someone we don’t consider one of us (contrary to Jesus’s clear instruction).
Pope Leo XIV, in the encyclical Magnificent Humanity, seems to be pushing the Catholic Church and its theology toward this undertaking, which is theological precisely because it goes beyond ethics and the part to call into question the “whole.” However, all good theology arises from engaging with those who hold different views, even heretical ones. If we only think within our own soup and engage in dialogue only with those who share our views, we will not be doing the Church or the world any good. We would think we have saved ourselves—the righteous—and perhaps we could have, but at the cost of losing all those awaited by God in his/her Trinitarian intimacy.
I have to admit that I’m disturbed about the positive resonance for Peter Thiel. So I have written a reply, which I would appreciate if you would publish it. Best regards, Andreas
Andreas Herberg-Rothe (www.herberg-rothe.com)
Clausewitz’s War Within the Chains of Reason versus the Apocalypse, and the Far-Right Christian Movement in the U.S.
The media’s focus on the current U.S. president’s personality can easily lead us to overlook deeper, underlying changes. It is well known that French sociologist René Girard plays a significant role in shaping the self-image of the Silicon Valley tech billionaires. In particular, his disciple Peter Thiel, founder of Palantir, is advancing this agenda and strongly influencing U.S. Vice President J.D. Vance, whom Thiel financially supported during his campaign. This connection leads to a billionaire-backed far-right movement that sees its legitimacy in a fundamentalistic interpretation of Christianity. This has already been amply documented in numerous U.S. discussions. The rather helpless counterreaction attempts to prove that Girard is merely being exploited and misunderstood. He certainly is—but the central problem is that in his book Battling to the End, Girard describes the approaching apocalypse. To escape it, Girard recommends absolute nonviolence, which he sees as realized in Christianity. Peter Thiel and the other tech billionaires, however, believe that in this approaching apocalypse, one must fight to the bitter end to survive. It is no coincidence that the latest book by the U.S. “Minister of War,” Pete Hegseth, is titled American Crusade. Hegseth compared the rescue of the American pilot at Easter to the resurrection of Christ. Girard is indeed being instrumentalized by Thiel and others. However, the problem is that Girard adopts an apocalyptic approach and appears to justify it scientifically by referring to a reductionist interpretation of Clausewitz, arguably the most significant theorist of war. Only through reference to Clausewitz does Girard’s theory of imitation (mimesis) gain the political explosiveness that would otherwise remain confined to academia.
René Girard’s theories on mimesis, mimetic rivalry, scapegoating, and the role of myth and religion in the emergence of culture provide profound insights into human history and behavior. So, what is mimetic desire?
Mimetic desire begins with human needs and desires. While needs are biologically rooted, desires are strongly influenced by others. Girard’s identification of the basis of the human problem is simple: most of the things we desire—be they a person, a relationship, an object, an experience, or a feeling—are based on imitation. We develop a desire for these things through our observation of others who desire or possess them, whether consciously or not. This explains the power of advertising—when we see enough people using something, we want it too—as well as the power of celebrity. We want the kind of house, car, clothes, or wife that the rich, famous, and powerful man has.
Children learn through imitation, acquiring language and other skills necessary for social success. By learning the ethos of their culture, they become part of the community and eventually pass it on to the next generation. In this respect, mimesis is unproblematic. However, for Girard, mimesis is also the primary cause of social unrest and violence because mimesis leads to rivalry when people compete for scarce resources. Sometimes, class differences separate the object of rival desire, such as when one harbors a mimetic desire for what the rich possess. In this situation, which Girard calls “external mediation,” violent conflict arising from mimetic rivalry is unlikely. However, in situations of internal mediation, where individuals or groups desire the same thing and are close to one another, the possibility of violence is real.
Girard asserts that this mimetic rivalry is the primary cause of human violence: tribes fight over resources, two men desire the same woman, and envy of another’s wealth, fame, honor, or power escalates into violence. Examples include tribes fighting over resources, two men desiring the same woman, and envy of another’s wealth, fame, honor, or power escalating into violence.
Girard argues that mimetic rivalry would degenerate into violence that would destroy lives and even human civilization if not for the scapegoat mechanism. By creating a scapegoat, one can blame all of one’s problems on that person and cast them out or sacrifice them, thereby stabilizing one’s identity and community. Determining who belongs to a community and who does not reunites the community. A famous example is Kaiser Wilhelm II before World War I, who declared, “I no longer know of any parties; I know only Germans.” Anti-Semitism is also based on this combination of exclusion and sacrificing others. In essence, it is elevated to the status of a seemingly sacred act.
Girard argues that Jesus’s voluntary sacrificial death broke this scapegoat mechanism once and for all because he took on the sins of the world. However, regardless of any theological assessment, this interpretation clearly does not apply to the Crusades, religious wars of the Middle Ages, colonization, the two world wars, or the Holocaust. In fact, one could view these events as repetitions of the scapegoat mechanism, where unity is created through the “sacrifice” of others. This raises the fundamental question of whether Christianity is characterized by a particular form of nonviolence, as devout Christians would argue, or by a particular escalation of violence aimed at establishing “eternal peace” on earth, as its universal claim suggests. Historically speaking, societies that saw themselves as Christian have a distinct history of violence (as does Islam, which likewise views itself as fundamentally peaceful). Of course, Christians will say that their religion is fundamentally peaceful and has merely been misunderstood. The victims of colonization and the Holocaust would disagree.To lend greater legitimacy to his controversial position, Girard explicitly refers to the most significant theorist of warfare, Carl von Clausewitz. In his three treatises on the escalation of war, Clausewitz had indeed argued that mimetic rivalry would degenerate into violence that would destroy lives and even human civilization were it not for the scapegoat mechanism. By constructing a scapegoat, someone is made responsible for all one’s own problems and is cast out or sacrificed, thereby stabilizing one’s own identity and community. By determining who belongs to a community and who does not, the community is reunited. Famous examples include Kaiser Wilhelm II before World War I, who declared, “I no longer recognize parties; I recognize only Germans.” Anti-Semitism, too, was based on this combination of exclusion and the sacrifice of others; in essence, it is elevated to what appears to be a sacred act.
Girard now argues that through Jesus’ voluntary sacrificial death, this scapegoat mechanism was broken once and for all, as Jesus took the sins of the world upon himself. Regardless of theological evaluation, however, this interpretation clearly does not apply to the Crusades and religious wars of the Middle Ages, colonization, the two world wars, and the Holocaust. On the contrary, one could understand these as a repetition of the scapegoat mechanism and the creation of unity through the “sacrifice” of others. This raises the fundamental question of whether Christianity is characterized by a particular form of nonviolence (as devout Christians will argue) or, through its universal claim, by a particular escalation of violence aimed at establishing “eternal peace” already on earth. Historically speaking, there is a distinct history of violence in societies that saw themselves as Christian (as well as in Islam, which likewise views itself as fundamentally peaceful). Of course, Christians will say that their religion is fundamentally peaceful and has simply been misunderstood. The victims of colonization and the Holocaust hold the opposite view.
To lend greater legitimacy to his controversial position, Girard explicitly refers to the most significant theorist of warfare, Carl von Clausewitz. Clausewitz had in fact advocated a nearly mimetic position in his three principles regarding the escalation of war. He accompanies the mutual escalation to the extreme at the beginning of his book with the words “the enemy does the same.” He justifies this, on the one hand, by arguing that whoever escalates the spiral of violence gains the upper hand and wins the war. Furthermore, he argues that as long as I have not subdued the enemy, I must fear that he will subdue and defeat me—thus, it is the fear and dread of defeat that compels both adversaries to escalate further and further. Ultimately, it is the mutual striving for power on both sides that leads to this escalation. Furthermore, in parts of his book, Clausewitz regards the absolute and the extreme as the ideal of warfare. To this extent, one could certainly follow Girard.
However, Girard overlooks significant differences. For example, Clausewitz’s three dynamics leading to escalation are followed by three dynamics aimed at moderating war. These dynamics occur on both sides. The crucial point is that the desired post-war political state—and thus peace—already exerts a retroactive influence on the conduct of war. At the end of the first chapter, Clausewitz emphasizes that war consists of inherent violence, the interplay of probabilities and chance, and the subordinate nature of war as a political tool. He attributes war to pure reason. Thus, the tendency toward extremes, as interpreted by Girard, is indeed present in Clausewitz; however, it is limited and contained by “pure reason,” with which Clausewitz associates politics. Whether monotheistic religions, which see themselves as peace-loving, harbor a core of violence is a matter of debate. This could be the case when they became state religions because it was at that point that they had to legitimize war as an exception. However, religiously motivated war has always brought with it a particular escalation, whether internally or externally. Girard’s tendency toward absolute peacefulness is unrealistic, whereas the religiously legitimized far right seeks to wage the final battle internally and externally. Yet, both refer to the assumption of an impending apocalypse. This is the core of the problem, which leads on one side to absolute pacifism, and on the other to a similar absolute “battling to the end”.