The cataclysm of World War I shook European academic culture: How could European culture have produced such barbarity? The greatest scientific culture the world had ever seen had used science and technology for catastrophically inhumane purposes. Cultural pessimism and nihilism were options that many took. Other academically inclined Europeans responded by rethinking the place of history and philosophy of science in academic and social life. Some of these new projects, such as George Sarton’s New Humanism, explicitly linked them to humanism. In others, such as the logical empiricism that developed in Vienna and Berlin, the connections to humanism were more implicit but no less real. This chapter considers some of the main themes of Sarton’s New Humanist history of science and Rudolf Carnap’s and Hans Reichenbach’s logical empiricism as they relate to questions of the unity of knowledge, the unity of humanity, and the responsible use of scientific knowledge.

This chapter explores an often-overlooked religious group in the United States: those who are not affiliated with religion. The chapter discusses the quantitative and qualitative challenges in measuring religious “nones” and considers historical patterns of stigma and prejudice against the religiously unaffiliated. The number of secular Americans is growing and they need a seat at the table of civil religion.

This chapter summarizes the aims, scope, and contents of the book. Both science and humanism have evolved over hundreds of years, and both are associated with influential forms of inquiry into the world. Throughout this evolution, humanism and science have been intimately connected, in ways that are crucial for thinking about whether, as a significant strand of humanist thought contends, the sciences can (or can be relied upon to) enhance the welfare of humans, other life, and the environment. It is clear that there is no necessary connection between scientific inquiry and social or moral progress; the sciences have facilitated both significant goods and significant harms. Faced today with pressing challenges to the well-being of people and the planet, our attitudes toward science call for renewed scrutiny. With chapters spanning the history of entanglements of forms of humanism and science up to the present, and case studies of the value implications of the sciences, this book asks us to think about what relationships between science and humanism we should build for the future.

The concern of this chapter is with varieties of philosophical humanism and their own conceptions of the nature and significance of science. After an initial characterization of major themes in Renaissance humanism, it describes three main varieties that are evident in twentieth-century European philosophy – humanism as essentialism, humanism as rational subjectivity, and existential humanism. Different varieties of humanism are associated with different conceptions of science, some allied to the sciences, others antipathetic to them, while yet others offer subtler positions. The upshot is that there are different tales to tell about the relationship of (varieties of) philosophical humanism to (conceptions of) science, only some of which fit popular modern celebratory claims about a necessary alliance of humanism and science. If we take a wider look at the history of philosophy, we find ongoing experimentation with forms of humanism and explorations of diverse ways of understanding and evaluating scientific knowledge and ambitions. What we find is what we ought to expect of social, creative, epistemically sophisticated, self-expressive creatures: endless variety.

This chapter argues against an interpretation of scientism according to which science determines the limits of objective thinking. Central to the argument is Kuhn’s distinction between normal and extraordinary science. Understanding science as normal science makes science the plausible basis for an “ism” that delimits what counts as objective thinking because normal science has epistemologically and sociologically attractive features. But understanding science this way undermines the idea that a fundamental part of science, extraordinary science, involves objective thinking. Understanding science in a way that includes extraordinary science vindicates extraordinary science. But science understood this way no longer possesses the attractive epistemological and sociological features which made science understood as normal science the plausible basis of an “ism.” So, science cannot constitute an “ism” that determines the limits of objective thinking without undermining a fundamental aspect of itself. The argument is placed within a larger frame, about how to understand the connection between science and humanism. The view that humanism should take the form of scientism is rejected in favor of a view of humanism that takes the presence of interpretation and criticism as fundamental but that embraces science by finding interpretation and criticism within science itself.

Humanism, conceived as a worldview concerning, among other things, how we understand ourselves and our relationships with others, and science, conceived as a family of forms of inquiry into the world, are deeply interwoven over our intellectual and cultural histories. This chapter considers their co-evolution as a prelude to the present, reviewing formative aspects of Renaissance humanism and deepening associations of values central to the Enlightenment with precursors to modern science, en route to an arguably peculiar situation today. While some past, humanist conceptions of the aim of science seem intimately connected to the idea of making a better world – one featuring better and more widespread human and planetary flourishing – contemporary thinking seems largely devoid of normative discussions of what science itself is for. This chapter offers reflections on a possible return to a humanist conception of the role and promise of science.

Although the merchants under study spent much of their career in commerce or in positions associated with it, they also evidenced cultural interests and accomplishments that signaled their membership in the broader culture of the Renaissance. In addition to interest in music, philosophy, and literature, they also invested in dress and the rituals of gift-giving in ways that were characteristic of Renaissance society.

Sir Thomas More’s Utopia provides an occasion to delve into how fiscal policy and administrative activity constitute forms of worldmaking. This chapter argues that More’s Utopia places the challenges of defining and funding security at the center of its project, both in Book One’s critique of contemporary rule and in Book Two’s thought experiment about how to govern security. Utopia, as an alternative to contemporary Europe, can be seen as an attempt to resolve the fiscal security dilemmas besetting European governments by eliminating private property and money. The presence of other polities, though, complicates the effort to imagine a world in which security is distributed equitably, a world without fiscal conflict or the violence that monarchical wealth enables. Utopia thus provides both a powerful diagnosis of the shortcomings of contemporary governmental practice and a meditation on the limits of the ability to govern security.

The Northern Crusades came to an end not with the formal conversion of Lithuania but with the victory of Poland and Lithuania over the Teutonic Knights at the battle of Grunwald in 1410. This victory made possible the conversion of Samogitia and, by the 1440s, the final neutralisation of paganism as a political force in the Baltic. However, the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople intensified curiosity about non-Christian religions and peoples from beyond the edges of Christendom and coincided with the rise of a new humanist ethnography grounded in curiosity about human nature as well as a desire to convert people to Christianity. This chapter examines the responses of the fifteenth-century humanist project to the apparent survival of pockets of pre-Christian religion from Vilnius to Tenerife, paying attention to the ways in which this discourse anticipated debates that would follow European voyages to the New World. The chapter considers the unique contribution of Pawel Wlodkowic in arguing for the rights of unchristianised peoples and assesses the reliability of humanist ethnographies as a source for pre-Christian religions. The chapter argues that ‘mere Christianisation’, a surface identification with Christianity, was often enough in this period for a region to be assimilated to Christendom.

This chapter examines the unstable intellectual situation of Marx’s Paris Manuscripts, in which an abstract conception of the Hegelian subject–object that had allegedly been naturalized by Feuerbach into the pair human–nature jostles, on the one hand, with a recognition on Marx’s part of a historical dimension lacking in Feuerbach but which had already been present in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit and, on the other, with an emerging familiarity with radical politics. Marx’s conception of the human as Gattungswesen, the basis of a communism that as fully developed naturalism equals humanism, and as fully developed humanism equals naturalism, is still indebted to that of Feuerbach. At the same time, he is developing his own conception of the human that resolutely carries Aristotle’s theory of soul through into the case of rational soul where Aristotle himself suffered a failure of nerve.

The Christian community of Rome, since its origins, was adamant in preserving written texts. Documents and books of multiple kinds were treated as important, precious objects. The history of the popes’ libraries exemplifies this approach. In addition to spreading Christianity and keeping records of discussions and decisions taken by the Church, the library was intended as a repository not only of religious books but also of literary and scientific texts of non-Christian traditions, including pagan classics and others. The mission of ensuring the conservation and spreading of the knowledge was clearly stated during humanism, when the current Vatican Apostolic Library was founded. Books were there made accessible “for the common benefit of the learned.” Such a mission continues today. The papacy considers the Library and its books to be the “heritage of mankind,” one that needs to be made available for generations through continuous technological innovations and cutting-edge preservation strategies.

Through patronage of art, architecture, and classical scholarship and through development of classically inspired rhetoric and ceremonies, the popes of the medieval and early modern periods promoted the recovery and reinterpretation of ancient Greek and Roman culture. Critics (including Roman civic leaders, Renaissance humanists, and Protestant reformers) pilloried the papal court as a symbol of corruption and cultural stagnation, but pontiffs and their advisers continued to adapt ancient and early Christian precedents to support their traditional claims to authority and to justify their new initiatives. This chapter argues that the papacy played a vital role in recovering and using the classical legacy throughout the (long) Middle Ages. It also argues that the venues and motivations for this appropriation remained more consistent than standard periodization of the medieval, Renaissance, and Counter Reformation papacy has suggested.

Throughout his life, Johnson’s heroes were the humanist scholars – Erasmus, Roger Ascham, and above all Joseph Scaliger – who had pioneered the close textual analysis of classical texts. Unlike Swift and Pope, Johnson was not satirical about true scholarship, and he produced two major feats of scholarship in their own right: The Dictionary of the English Language and The Plays of William Shakespeare. The Dictionary’s innovation was that, following the example of the humanist lexicographers of Latin, it was compiled by reading books and recording their use of English words. The book’s most striking feature is its more than 100,000 quotations; its weakest is Johnson’s etymologies. Compiling it helped to Johnson to cement his close knowledge of Shakespeare’s plays, and so to edit them – sometimes proposing imaginative emendations, but with the caution his humanist exemplars recommended. Some of his comments, meanwhile, amount to moralistic mini-essays.

Although no direct claim for the autonomy of spheres was advanced in the scholastic speculations discussed in Chapter 5, such notions would be put forward in the circles where humanism and the artistic renewal pursued in contact with it emerged in Renaissance Italy. A powerful example was Giorgio Vasari’s assertion that what caused art and architecture to decline from its ancient heights was the substitution of religious values for aesthetic ones by Christianity as it became established under the Roman Empire. This defense of aesthetic autonomy would become more general and explicit as the expansion of the audience for painting and sculpture and the display of art objects in locations specifically dedicated to them – museums and galleries instead of churches or princely and noble residences – confronted viewers with “art as such,” and it would be theorized in Kant’s aesthetics at the end of the eighteenth century, which removed both religious and social value from judgments about art. But this development was singularly European. No similar move toward attributing autonomy to the aesthetic sphere would take place in India, China, or Muslim territories, despite the many beautiful objects produced in all of them and the exalted position attributed to artists in some.