COMMENTARY
Second Annual Podhoretz Lecture

May 17, 2006

New York City

Toast by Dr. Henry A. Kissinger

Neal Kozodoy (introduction):

We are honored tonight by the presence of . . . another of Norman's elders, one whose schedule last year made it impossible for him to join us for the inaugural lecture. But, fresh off the plane from somewhere or other, and no doubt en route to somewhere else, he has made it here this evening to help us raise a glass to his young friend. In front of this tough crowd, I almost despair of explaining the deep personal bond that has grown over the years between these two men, who come at the grand questions of politics and policy, and no doubt at life itself, from such dissimilar assumptions and understandings--and the elder of whom, as he will not hesitate to remind you, has been, especially during the days when he served in high national office, the object of the younger's incessant reproof. Think of other improbable pairings in history: Moses and Aaron; da Vinci and

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Machiavelli; Lewis and Clark; Martin and Lewis. Each of them unlikely, no? Now try to imagine any of these partners actually loving each other. Here to explain it all to you is Henry Kissinger.

Dr. Kissinger:

When I was serving in government, the idea that I would come to an occasion to celebrate Norman Podhoretz would have seemed absolutely grotesque to me. The truth is that I am a veteran of encounters with Norman. He attacked me from the Left, he's attacked me from the Right, and when we became good friends he attacked me from the front. In fact, I have spent my life trying to get a little approbation from Norman Podhoretz.

But it was correct to point out that what binds us together is huge admiration and deep affection. Norman is a prophet. He's written about prophets, and he thinks like a prophet--which means that he believes not only in absolute values but in the fact that absolute values must be realized instantly and that any time lag is unacceptable. And here am I, somebody who has tried to conduct foreign policy, which deals with the contingent and which tries to adapt goals to necessities. And therefore I have from time

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to time fallen short of Norman's expectations--frequently fallen short of Norman's expectations.

But I am here to tell you that the role that Norman has performed in our society--to hold us true to our values, to look into a future from a perspective of what is needed and not of what is expedient--has been an inspiration to me, and an inspiration to many others. We've gone in this period through extraordinary changes: the 70's, with the 1973 war and with the debate over how to deal with the Soviet Union; the 80's, with a gradual victory in the cold war; the 90's, which to some seemed a final culmination of history; and now the extraordinary phenomenon of the reappearance of many of the issues that were dealt with or had to be dealt with 30 years ago.

If one takes the debate on energy, for example: every issue was before us 30 years ago, and was not solved then, and has come back in more acute form. And now at this moment we are facing a watershed. There are all kinds of tactical discussions about how to deal with Iran, and we all make contributions to those discussions. But there are a number of fundamental principles to keep in mind. If Iran acquires nuclear weapons, we will live in a new world. That is the fundamental issue we must face. And our only choice is either to prevent it, or to pay the price of not having

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prevented it. We have to understand how much time we have
and what, in all the discussion of tactics, the penalties
are that we can exact. But above all we have to know that
this is not a tactical issue. This is a fundamental issue
of a historical turn.

But I am not here to make a speech on foreign policy.
I am here to say that whenever we are in a crisis we need
Norman more than ever--because he will make sure that we
will keep our eye on fundamentals. My wife says: he quotes
you all the time, but he's an optimist; he _believes_ that
life, that the world, can be better, and he feels we have a
_duty_ to make the world better, and he also knows that you
cannot do that by phrases, but only by commitment.

So I want to thank Roger [Hertog] and this evening's
organizers for giving me the opportunity to pay tribute to
a man who has meant so much to our country, to the Jewish
people, to the future of freedom, and without whom it would
be hard for me to imagine what my life would have been
like. Thank you for giving this opportunity, and thank you
for letting me say a few words about a remarkable man.

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David Gelernter
Podhoretz Lecture

May 17, 2006

It's an enormous honor to be speaking at Commentary's dinner in honor of Norman Podhoretz. Norman has been a leader of my personal pantheon since I was a teenager, which (Lord knows) was a long time ago; but his career is not only inspiring, it's mysterious. By training he's a literary critic. He studied with some of the great literary minds of the 20th century, notably Lionel Trilling (he was Trilling's favorite student) and FR Leavis; he was tipped as one of the sharpest critics of his generation—if there'd been a young critics draft, he would undoubtedly have been number one draft choice the year he emerged from graduate school & would probably have wound up at Harvard, or whatever university had finished last the year before; and even though he decided to become a real writer and editor instead of a professor, he published some brilliant literary criticism at the start of his career—and in recent years has done so again. Yet early in his brilliant career he threw literature over to write mainly about politics and contemporary culture. Why? Why did he hang up his gloves and turn his back on the field he loved and was made for?

Because the real character of this civilization of ours in broke in on Norman when he was a young man, and ever since he has been following the hardest, most exalted profession of all: he's been telling the truth. No man has been a better, straighter, braver truth-teller than Norman, no matter what it cost him—and it cost him plenty. A whole book full of ex-friends, for one; and much else. It was hard work, but there aren't too many men who have changed a great nation's political culture, and Norma is one. Nietzsche gives a description of

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"philosopher" that's strikes me as just right for Norman. "This is a man," says Nietzsche, "who constantly experiences, sees, hears, suspects, hopes and dreams extraordinary things; who is struck by his own thoughts as if from outside, from above and below, as if by his type of events and lightning bolts; who is perhaps a storm himself, pregnant with new lightning." Throughout his career Norman has been a storm, angry and dangerous; cleansing and purifying; pregnant with new lightning; and he still is today. Reading Nietzsche's definition reminds us of how closely philosopher, poet and prophet are related; Norman represents all three lines of work. He didn't abandon literature, he transcended it. In my life no one on earth has been a greater inspiration, and I can't think of a bigger privilege than to speak at a dinner to do him honor.

As for Commentary—as Auden said about Freud, it’s an entire climate of opinion. It’s one of the world’s most important intellectual institutions. Think of its extraordinary influence on the political life of this country—it’s put more important thoughts *and* thinkers into play, during Norman’s reign and then Neal’s, than any other periodical or newspaper in the country. Commentary and its writers have more breadth, depth and throw-weight than any university department in the humanities or social science anywhere in the world—under the leadership of its dean, provost and president all in one, Neal Kozodoy. It’s a great honor and privilege to congratulate Commentary on having completed yet another year at ground zero of American culture.

And finally one word about Neal. My own career has been easy in some ways, hard in others—true of nearly everyone; and of absolutely everyone whose interests don't quite line up with the standard categories. But the luckiest break in my professional life was meeting up with Neal Kozodoy. That blessing

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overwhelms me still, and fills me with gratitude; I'll never be able to thank Neal for all he's done for me. But you can't blame a fellow for trying. Thank you, Neal.

And now I'd like to sit down—but I'm supposed to say a few words; and here they are.

If I were a rabbi or minister, I'd probably start with a Biblical text. I'm not, but I'd like to start with one anyway—and discuss it not from a religious point of view but from the viewpoint of a literary critic of American life—or a 2-bit street-corner philosopher, which is what I am. The text is familiar, from the Book of Psalms: “Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain.”

There are many things a rabbi could say. But what I'd like to say is that the psalmist has put his finger on one of the bitterest arguments in modern American life. Is religion political? Of course I don't mean, is it connected Democratic or Republican party politics? I mean, do the religious lives of the citizens matter to the nation as a whole? To the spiritual health and physical safety of this great American city on a hill? Or is religion (on the contrary) a strictly private affair? Does it *matter* if the Lord keep the city?

Americans are free to choose any religion they like, or to choose none. Over the roughly 400 years since Europeans first settled this continent, most Americans have been Jews or Christians. In asking whether the religious lives of American citizens matter to society as a whole or are merely and strictly private, one asks: is America (in some sense) a Judeo-Christian nation, or only a secular

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nation with many Jewish and Christian citizens? I'd like to consider that question, and then circle back to the biblical verse.

*****

Today, America's cultural leadership mostly says that the psalmist was wrong: Judeo-Christian ideas and beliefs don't matter to the public life of this nation. Our cultural leadership asserts that *America is a secular republic*; that secularism is in fact one of the great ideas on which this nation is built.

I want to assert to the contrary that America is no secular republic; America is a *biblical republic*. A term I'll have to define or at least explain.

Our secularist culture-leaders are a large contingent—big wheels in elementary, high school and college teaching, at Ed schools, law and graduate schools, at major newspapers, the broadcast networks, the Hollywood studios. And some of our leading secularists are rabbis, ministers and priests--in "main-line," left-leaning institutions.

Promoting the secularist agenda involves many kinds of hard work: suppressing religion in public life, starting with "under God" in the pledge of allegiance. Working to delete Judeo-Christian morals from the nation's view of childhood and what children should be taught. (Religion out, sex in.) Changing the nation's view of marriage and the family, its view of euthanasia and its ideas on many other important topics.

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In working on all these issues, secularist culture-leaders can't claim to be supported by a public consensus--because the public is floundering; there is no consensus. Mostly our leaders don't even bother to make such a claim. They claim instead to be defending the American way. In working on behalf of secularism, they claim to be realizing ideals that are latent in the American tradition, just as civil rights were latent in "all men are created equal."

Concretely they believe that America's founders and framers were secularist; or at least, not traditionally religious. And they believe that freedom of religion and separation of church and state *imply* secularism.

Are they right? *Were* the founders and framers essentially secularist?

There's far too much contrary evidence to mention, and it starts with the place of the Bible in early American life--especially the Old Testament or Hebrew Bible. The 17th-century Puritan settlers who did so much to create the idea of America were obsessed with the Bible, and saw many Bible stories mirrored in their own lives, including the resettlement of Abraham that begins Israel's history—and the exodus above all. They had escaped a tyrant and settled in a new promised land. "Let my people go"—in Exodus 5:1 and many other verses—was understood to explain the Puritan emigration to America in the 17th century—as it would later explain the American revolution of the 18th, and the Civil War of the 19th as Lincoln came to interpret it. The same phrase would play a role in the civil rights movement and in several other struggles of the 20th century too.

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As for the founding fathers themselves, consider an incident Michael Novak discusses in his seminal *On Two Wings* (2002). "The first official prayer before the Continental Congress was Psalm 35, [read] aloud from the Book of Common Prayer..." -it begins 'Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: fight against them that fight against me.' "The emotion in the room was palpable," Novak continues, "and John Adams wrote to his wife Abigail that he 'had never heard a better prayer.... I never saw a greater effect upon an audience. It seemed that heaven had ordained that psalm to be read.... I saw tears gush into the eyes of the old, grave pacifist Quakers of Philadelphia.... I must beg you to read that Psalm."

The founding fathers were not biased against religion, they were biased in favor--especially of biblical religion. One glance at the proposed seal for the new Republic, designed in 1776 by a congressional committee of Adams, Franklin and Thomas Jefferson, makes that clear—it showed Israel crossing the Red Sea, with the divine pillar of fire and the motto "Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God." The founding fathers had the Bible on their minds; and would almost certainly have agreed with the psalmist: Religion must guide not merely private life but public and political life. Political from *polis*, city. "Except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain."

Much of today's cultural leadership argues also that freedom of religion and separation of church and state *imply* secularism.

Religious freedom is indeed, *is of course*, a founding and guiding principle of this nation. But this noble idea is often misunderstood. Freedom doesn't imply indifference. "I won't interfere" doesn't imply "I don't care." Perhaps I

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have no right to interfere; nonetheless I might strongly prefer one choice, or
dislike another. Parents often say: you may choose any college you like; any
major you like. Some parents even say "you may marry anybody you like."
(Misguided parents.) Which certainly does *not* mean "we don't *care* what college
you choose, what major you choose, what wife or husband you marry." The
American public is *not* unconcerned whether you choose to be religious or an
atheist; whether you choose a biblical religion or some other kind. Although it
respects non-biblical religions (especially ones with their own scriptures) far
more than it does atheism, it strongly prefers biblical religion.

The founders believed that a religious public is essential to a free nation—
and by accident or on purpose, they hit on the best method for achieving one. If
it's important that everyone eat ice cream, let everyone choose his own flavor.
America's religion menu can't compare with Britain's several centuries ago,
when Voltaire is supposed to have said that "England is the nation with five
thousand religions and one sauce." (A perfect summary of the French
worldview, on practically everything.) But it's still no surprise that America,
with its history of absolute religious freedom, should have a far more "religious"
public today than any other nation in the West. In fact, sad to say, America
today might easily be a more Christian country than Israel is a Jewish one.

In sum: secularism is not a great American idea, and is *not* inherent in
America's founding documents *or* in the thought of America's founding fathers.
But something else *is* inherent in both, and *is* a great American idea. I'll call it
"democratic chivalry."

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There's an important point here about America that far transcends the import of identifying some new category for discussion of debate. Too many intellectuals (and other naïve Americans) believe that, where the big problems of war and peace are concerned, in principle you have two choices. You can be pro-war or anti-war. You can be pacifist or a war-monger. When it comes to war in Iraq there are (as always) two choices-- and it's impossible that intellectuals and their followers should be war-mongers. So they're pacifists, and oppose the war in Iraq.

This is a failure of reason and language; a failure to know history. In fact there are three choices, not two. You can be pacifist, *chivalrous*, or a war-monger. The middle alternative (*chivalry*) doesn't mean that you are "in favor of war." It means that you accept it as a terrible tool for accomplishing noble goals.

Chivalry is essentially a religious idea, a Judeo-Christian idea, a biblical idea. Roughly 200 years ago Edmund Burke famously wrote that "The age of chivalry is gone: that of sophisters, economists and calculators has succeeded: and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever." The glory of Europe, maybe. But what should we call the heroism of America's combat troops in Iraq, who fight bravely for the weak against the strong every day, if not *chivalrous*?

Chivalry in medieval and late-medieval Europe made noblemen believe that they had a Christian duty to butt in on the side of right. In the late 1200s, the Spaniard Ramon Lull wrote a handbook of chivalry that required aspirants to "protect the weak, women, widows and orphans"; required a knight to "be ready to go out from his castle to defend the ways and to pursue robbers and malefactors." In other words, to make the world safe for decent people. In another treatise of around 1350, the Frenchman Geoffrey de Charny wrote that

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"those who have served with distinction in wars in their own land are to be honoured, but still more to be honoured are those who have seen service in 'distant and strange countries.'"

Even though chivalry was a Christian duty, its underpinnings lay in classical Israel—which in time made chivalry a perfect fit to American thinking. Chivalry required godly heroes. Classical Greece and Rome could provide heroes but not godly ones; the New Testament doesn't deal much in heroes at all. So medieval authorities looked to the Hebrew Bible and the Apocrypha. "For the perfect model of knighthood," de Charny continued, "one should look to Judas Maccabeus, who was worthy and hardy, handsome but without pride, ever honourable, a great fighter who died armed in God's cause. He who can be likened to this noble knight will come to the highest honour in chivalry."

And what *are* the Hebrew Prophets (after all) but recruiters for proto-knights in arms to protect windows and orphans, feed the hungry, shelter the homeless and above all free the captive all over the world—while cleansing and purifying the service of the Lord?

America took up this same large theme of chivalry; but American chivalry unlike Europe's had nothing to do with aristocracy. Americans believed nearly from the first that it was their Christian (or Judeo-Christian) duty to intervene on the side of right. And they have groped steadily towards the realization of these principles. Americans started lecturing the world on right and wrong long before the United States was born. (One reason the world loves us so much.) Lincoln taught the nation to look at war not only as a means of self-protection but as an instrument of God's justice, a way to do God's work. If God wills that

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