Bad Faith! No Auto Da Fé for You!

Long before Sartre misquoted him in "Existentialism Is a Humanism," Dostoevsky was a bastion of the existentialist movement. One of the most famous of his existentialist pieces is "The Grand Inquisitor," a story of an old monk who has devoted his life to correcting Jesus' mistake of insisting on freedom for all. While "The Grand Inquisitor" is on one level simply a scathing indictment of organized religion, on another level it is a fascinating study of freedom and human nature. Especially interesting when read in conjunction with "Existentialism Is a Humanism," "The Grand Inquisitor" poses questions such as "Are freedom and happiness mutually exclusive?", "Can freedom be overcome?", and "Is the Inquisitor really freer or less deluded than the 'thousands of millions'?" While the Inquisitor answers "yes" to all of these questions, he is wrong; he is deceiving himself as well as the masses. His faith is lacking in not only a religious but also a Sartrean sense. For a man of the cloth, both deficiencies are tragic.

The Inquisitor's authenticity is dubious at best. At first he seems authentic with regard to himself: he recognizes his freedom in choosing his path: "'Know that . . . I too prized the freedom with which Thou hast blessed men, and I was striving to stand among Thy elect . . . But I awakened and would not serve madness'" (Dostoevsky 33). However, a closer examination of Sartre's ideas of authenticity and bad faith reveals that the Inquisitor is not authentic at all. Sartre says that since humans must choose freely, "any man who takes refuge behind the excuse of his passions, or by inventing some deterministic doctrine, is a self-deceiver [in bad faith]. . . . [Furthermore,] I am in contradiction with myself [and therefore in bad faith] if I will [certain] values and at the same time say that they impose themselves upon me" (13). The Inquisitor certainly fits this profile, as when he says, "That deception [claiming to work for Jesus] will be our suffering, for we shall be forced to lie" (Dostoevsky 27); he is not forced by anything but his own ideals. Even more damning, however, is Sartre's further argument that "the actions of men of good faith [authenticity] have, as their ultimate significance, the quest of freedom itself as such. . . . I cannot make liberty my aim unless I make that of others equally my aim" (13). The whole of the Inquisitor's existence is actually devoted to destroying freedom: "For fifteen centuries we have been wrestling with Thy freedom, but now it is ended and over for good" (Dostoevsky 24). Worse, he is not even consistent in willing the end of freedom: the masses must renounce it, but "the clever people" (Dostoevsky 35) must retain it in order for his envisioned system to work. Sartre frowns upon this double standard, saying, "The attitude of strict consistency alone is that of good faith" (13). The shepherd here is as deceived as the flock.

When shepherd and flock are equally deceived, unfortunate results can ensue. It is no different in the Inquisitor's case. He claims that in order to give the masses happiness, he must confiscate their freedom. This presupposes that happiness and freedom are mutually exclusive: "'Didst Thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil? . . . [N]othing is a greater cause of suffering [than freedom]'" (Dostoevsky 28). But can adults, who have "eaten the apple and know good and evil," as Ivan says (Dostoevsky 8), truly give up their freedom? Can the apple, once eaten, be spit out? Not a whit; no matter how much a person may wish to cease choosing and leave all decision-making up to other people, she cannot in truth do that, for in choosing to give up choosing, she is choosing, and by telling herself that she is not choosing, she is in bad faith. For, as Sartre says, "[M]an is free, man is freedom . . . and from the moment that he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does" (6). But if a person is told that there is only one choice, and that choosing is therefore moot, what then? Such an excuse is at best a child's; as soon as a person is able, she owes it to herself and all of humanity (for by choosing what is fit for her, she chooses what is fit for the rest of the human race) to find out for herself how many courses of action are truly open to her. Should she choose not to do this, she is again in bad faith and submitting to what Sartre calls quietism, the feeling that one cannot do anything anyway, so one might as well not bother (9). Whether someone chooses not to choose or not to investigate all the choices, still that is a choice. The Inquisitor's scheme of the "thousands of millions" renouncing freedom is just plain bad faith.

In addition to being in bad faith about the renunciation of freedom, the Inquisitor is also wrong about the mutual exclusivity of freedom and happiness. Throughout the Inquisitor's tirade, Jesus says nothing. Instead, he simply looks at him, finally kissing him, an act of blessing. By adding nothing to what has already been said, Jesus confirms humanity's freedom: there are no new laws, no new signs, only faith and love. The kiss also confirms the possibility of happy free humans, and this is what upsets the Inquisitor so: he has wasted years of his life serving a lie. But thinking it too late to change, he continues as he has begun: in bad faith.

Dostoevsky's "The Grand Inquisitor" is a classic in both a literary and a philosophical sense. The questions it poses are long-enduring ones, deserving of great thought and study. Reading it alongside other existentialist writings, such as Sartre's "Existentialism Is a Humanism," can yield valuable insights into freedom and humanity. And although--and because--the Inquisitor is in tenaciously bad faith about his beliefs, he ultimately emerges a tragic figure, and a powerful reminder about the dangers of bad faith.

November '02

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