I. Previous Scholarship

Although scholarly interest in Alfarabi has increased since the work of Leo Strauss in the 1950s, the philosopher remains critically understudied relative to his importance as the founder of political philosophy in the Islamic world.Footnote ¹¹ The Book of Religion in particular has received relatively little attention, having only appeared in English translation as recently as 2001. Nevertheless, the work has not gone entirely without notice. This section will review, in chronological order, three scholarly attempts to offer relatively in-depth interpretations of this text. I intend to show that previous work on the subject has not focused on Alfarabi's confrontation with orthodoxy and has therefore left unexplained Alfarabi's attempt to establish a solid basis for his rationalist political teaching.

While Strauss's writings on Alfarabi focused primarily on his works of Platonic interpretation, Muhsin Mahdi devotes the fifth chapter of Alfarabi and the Foundation of Islamic Political Philosophy to a discussion of the Book of Religion.Footnote ¹² Mahdi rightly observes that, according to Alfarabi, “the theoretical views in religion contain nothing inherently supernatural or suprarational in the strict sense” (112). Furthermore, he notes the existence of the opposite view, unmentioned by Alfarabi, according to which “religion communicates truths inherently and eternally hidden from, and beyond the reach of, human beings: they are mysteries a human being can only accept and perhaps seek to understand but can never hope to know” (112). Mahdi goes on to say that this view “is the mystical view, where ergon rather than logos is the way to the mysterious One-Beyond-Being-and-Nonbeing,” a view he attributes to Plotinus and al-Ghazali (112). According to Mahdi, Alfarabi took this alternative view seriously, “[seeing] in religion the alternative to science or philosophy, an alternative whose claim to be the true way had to be given the most serious consideration” (113). But having thus laid out the crucial issue, Mahdi does not explain how Alfarabi justifies his silent dismissal of this alternative, nor the practical suggestion based on this dismissal that the successor to the religious founder must sometimes alter his predecessor's legal injunctions. This explicit subjection of religious law to human revision is the most radical practical consequence of Alfarabi's consistent habit, already noted by Mahdi, of offering a rational account of religion in place of a mystical account. Were God's mysteriousness upheld, pious obedience to divine law would stand as a reasonable alternative to the prudential revision of divine law; God may simply desire, for reasons unknown or perhaps unknowable to us, that his laws be followed, regardless of their apparent suitability or unsuitability to particular circumstances. Mahdi therefore does not explain how Alfarabi confronts what is, in Mahdi's own words, “the alternative to … philosophy” (116). On this account, it would appear that Alfarabi fails, in the Book of Religion, to establish any basis for preferring rationalism to humble submission to suprarational demands.

Christopher Colmo offers an analysis of the Book of Religion in the sixth chapter of Breaking with Athens: Alfarabi as Founder. He begins this chapter by noting that Plato, as presented by Alfarabi, has “no theoretical basis for his practical action.” In drawing attention to this fact, Alfarabi thus “points … to the need to unite theory and practice at the level of philosophy itself” (89). However, Colmo delays his treatment of this topic until well after his discussion of the Book of Religion, thereby suggesting that such a unification does not occur in that work. The Book of Religion instead treats a question “easier of access,” namely, whether Alfarabi “[endorses] the union of theory and practice at the level of politics” (89, emphasis added).Footnote ¹³ Accordingly, Colmo's highly insightful subsequent treatment of the work does not mention the extent to which the Book of Religion itself contains an attempt by Alfarabi to vindicate normative rationalism in the face of its most serious rival. Colmo recognizes the singular problem posed by revealed religion—especially monotheistic revealed religion—stating, “Because of its comprehensive claim to certain knowledge based on revelation, Islam confronts philosophy with a kind of challenge that Plato never faced. No Greek claimed for Homer the kind of authority that every Muslim claims for the Qur’ān” (91). But in Colmo's presentation, rather than attempt to meet this challenge, the Book of Religion appears simply to assert the subordination of revealed religion to philosophy, not as “Alfarabi's esoteric teaching,” but “his publicly stated doctrine”; how Alfarabi justifies this admittedly “shocking” teaching is left unsaid (95). This question receives a greater urgency in light of Colmo's interpretation of Alfarabi's assertion that the theoretical opinions found in religion have their proofs in theoretical philosophy. According to Colmo, “For Alfarabi, there is nothing in theoretical philosophy that religion might usefully imitate.” On this basis, he suggests that “the theoretical things that the first ruler imitates are, in fact, his own free creations” (99, emphasis added). If such a radical notion is indeed what Alfarabi has in mind, the Book of Religion is only made more mysterious: On what basis does Alfarabi feel justified in claiming that the theoretical opinions in religion are the prudential fabrications of a charlatan prophet rather than the direct and literal word of God? Must we turn to other of Alfarabi's works, or are at least the beginnings of an answer contained within the Book of Religion itself? It must be mentioned that Colmo's book, like Mahdi's, has much higher ambitions than merely offering an interpretation of the Book of Religion. The present essay should therefore be considered a comparatively narrow and specialized investigation largely motivated and made possible by the tremendous work of these two scholars.

Finally, in “The Book of Religion’s Political and Pedagogical Objectives,” Waseem El-Rayes argues that Alfarabi wishes to teach those who are drawn towards philosophy “to take seriously the spiritual and moral claims religion … makes” (177).Footnote ¹⁴ However, as El-Rayes rightly notes, by asserting that the opinions and actions of virtuous religion are corroborated by theoretical and practical philosophy, Alfarabi “seems to preclude the possibility that religious beliefs are superrational” (176n2). Thus, in implying that “religious belief and practice needs to be subject to rational examination” (179), the Book of Religion depends on an audience already convinced of the primacy of reason. Such a starting point is understandable if the text is primarily meant to cater to those who are already inclined towards philosophy, as El-Rayes suggests. But if Alfarabi does in fact wish to convince would-be philosophers to take the claims of religion more seriously, why does he not address the far more fundamental issue of whether reason ought to be privileged over faith in the first place? El-Rayes does go on to state that “for a man of faith, personal salvation in the world to come requires … concern with the well-being of the community (the problem of the common good), which means concern with politics” (180), thus pointing to the fact that politics is the common ground between the rationalist and the pious believer. Furthermore, he recognizes that, just as philosophy “seems to promise the attainment of happiness to those who follow its way,” religion, too, makes a similar promise (182). It is therefore by investigating the political pursuit of happiness that the otherwise intransigent conflict between rationalism and piety may at least begin to be resolved. Indeed, toward the end of his essay, El-Rayes states that, according to Alfarabi, it is at least the partial task of political science to investigate religious opinions about “how … happiness is, or can be, attained” (196). El-Rayes rightly sets the stage for such an investigation, but does not himself reveal how the Book of Religion itself undertakes this very task. The present essay intends to do just that.

In general, while the scholars reviewed in this section believe that Alfarabi had reasons for rejecting the orthodox view and its implications for divine law, they either do not think that such reasons may be found in the Book of Religion, or they simply choose not to focus on this particular theme in their analysis of it. As I argue below, it is in fact the primary purpose of the Book of Religion to confront this political aspect of orthodox piety, and therefore any comprehensive interpretation of the work must give a central place to this theme.

II. The Rational Account of Religion

Alfarabi possesses an unparalleled ability to offer profound and sweeping insight with utter concision, and this ability is fully displayed in the Book of Religion. In the course of just over twenty pages, Alfarabi addresses such diverse issues as the problem of political succession, the relationship between political expediency and truth, and the choiceworthiness of the life of political rule.Footnote ¹⁵ A full treatment of the Book of Religion is therefore well beyond the scope of the present essay. Instead, I will focus on those parts of the work most relevant to what I take to be Alfarabi's central task: the confrontation with the orthodox view of divine law. Indeed, as long as this alternative remains unaddressed, Alfarabi's entire account of religion and politics is altogether tenuous. I will first show, in this section, how the Book of Religion represents a departure from orthodoxy before going on, in the following two sections, to discuss Alfarabi's justification for this departure.

The first mention of revelation in the Book of Religion occurs toward the end of section 1, in which it is introduced as that which accompanies the kingly art and thus distinguishes the virtuous ruler from all others; as Alfarabi states, “the craft of the virtuous first ruler is kingly and joined with revelationFootnote ¹⁶ from God [Allāh]Footnote ¹⁷” (44:6–7). Earlier in section 1, Alfarabi had explicitly stated that the errant—as opposed to virtuous—ruler believed himself to possess wisdom, but surprisingly, the virtuous ruler was not said to possess wisdom explicitly (43). Thus, revelation first comes to light as a substitute for wisdom as the distinguishing feature of the virtuous ruler. Furthermore, it is clear that the specific knowledge that separates virtuous rule is knowledge of true happiness—this is precisely the way in which all other types of rulers fall short. It is, at this early point in the text, not perfectly clear what the relationship among revelation, wisdom, and knowledge of true happiness is in Alfarabi's scheme.

For now, Alfarabi elaborates on the first of these subjects, asserting that the virtuous first ruler determines the actions and opinions of religion by means of revelation. But this may occur is one of two strikingly different ways: either revelation bestows determined, particular commands directly upon the ruler, or “[the ruler] determines them by means of the facultyFootnote ¹⁸ he acquires from revelation and from the Revealer, may He be exalted, so that the stipulations with which he determines the virtuous opinions and actions are disclosed to him by means of it” (44:9–11). In the first case, the ruler appears to exert no influence over the content of religious law; he is merely the vessel through which God communicates his will to the community. In the second case, however, Alfarabi emphasizes the agency of the ruler; God reveals to him a special faculty, through which he determines opinions and actions himself.Footnote ¹⁹ It is also possible that “some [virtuous opinions and actions] come about in the first way and some in the second way” (44:11–12). Alfarabi therefore leaves open the radical possibility that revelation consists entirely of a divinely bestowed faculty through which a virtuous first ruler is able to determine the proper actions and opinions to legislate for his community. Such a faculty could perhaps also be described as a kind of practical, political wisdom—a far cry from the orthodox account of revelation.Footnote ²⁰ The first section concludes with the remark that theoretical science has already explained how divine revelation comes about “and how the faculty acquired from revelation and from the Revealer occurs in a human being” (44:13). Theoretical science therefore confirms that revelation operates, at least in part, in the second way mentioned by Alfarabi. The alternative extreme possibility, that revelation consists entirely of predetermined particulars, is quietly dismissed.

The first mention of philosophy in the text occurs in section 5, in which Alfarabi treats its relationship with religion. Just as religion contains theoretical and practical aspects, so too does philosophy; in both cases, “the theoretical-contemplative [part] is that which, when a human being knows it, he is not able to do, and the practical [part] is that which, when a human being knows it, he is able to do” (46:23–47:1*). Both the practical and theoretical aspects of religion are subordinate to the corresponding aspects of philosophy, but in different ways. The practical injunctions of religion are in fact the universals of practical philosophy, “made determinate by stipulations restricting them” (47:3). For this reason, “all virtuous laws [sharā’i ʿ]Footnote ²¹ are subordinate to the universals of practical philosophy” (47:5–6). Apparently, the universals of practical philosophy, if they are to be useful, require translation into more specific injunctions fit for a particular time and place. As Alfarabi will go on to discuss explicitly in section 8, laws are therefore in need of updating as social circumstances change. Theoretical religious opinions, on the other hand, “have their demonstrative proofs in theoretical philosophy and are taken in religion without demonstrative proofs” (47:6–7). Alfarabi makes no mention of theoretical opinions needing to be made more particular or to be adapted to historical circumstance. He therefore seems to indicate that this aspect of religious legislation is inherently more enduring than practical legislation; while unforeseeable historical changes will render many traditional laws obsolete and require new laws where there previously were none, opinions about the highest things may continue to guide a community indefinitely.

Section 5 concludes with the remark that the kingly craft, as that which is “responsible for what the virtuous religion consists of” (47:16–17), is entirely subordinate to philosophy. Thus, revelation, which in section 1 was said to accompany the kingly craft of the virtuous first ruler, is dropped from the account when philosophy explicitly enters the picture. But by claiming that religion in its entirety is subordinate to philosophy, Alfarabi is not simply denigrating the former. Rather, by insisting that virtuous religion has a basis in a philosophic understanding of the truth, he in fact offers a firm, rational basis for religious teachings. But at what cost does establishing religion on such grounds come? Certainly, Alfarabi has greatly restricted the autonomy of religious legislation. By doing so, he seems to be committing a grave oversight. What about the possibility that revelation in fact exists in the first sense mentioned in section 1; that is, as a collection of predetermined, particular actions and opinions given to man by God? As long as revelation of this type remains a possibility, Alfarabi cannot reject outright the need to follow those mandated actions and opinions that do not permit philosophic explanation. As the product of divine wisdom, such laws would have a claim to be obeyed, regardless of their apparent reasonableness or unreasonableness. For the moment, Alfarabi seems to ignore this challenge entirely.

Having raised the reader's expectations for the possibility of religious rule based on philosophic truth, Alfarabi turns in section 7 to consider practical limitations that constrain the first ruler's political project. For “diverse reasons” (48:9), it is unlikely that the first ruler will be able to offer legal guidance for all situations that might arise. Death may cut his career short, or political demands such as war will prevent him from devoting his full attention to legislation. Furthermore, if the ruler restricts himself to offering guidance only on those topics which present themselves in his time and place, much will be left undetermined, “since not all accidental occurrences happen in his time nor in the country in which he is” (48:13–14*). It is therefore reasonable to expect an incomplete legacy of practical determinations from the first ruler. But by lowering our expectations in this way, Alfarabi seems to be overlooking the obvious alternative to his account of religious founding. According to the ordinary, pious view, the virtuous first ruler is not a philosopher with special access to theoretical knowledge, but a prophet chosen by God to convey the latter's message to humanity.Footnote ²² If God wills that his teaching be conveyed in its entirety, then what reason do we have to fear that our only line of communication to the divine will be cut off prematurely by death, or that God's chosen prophet will be so distracted by earthly affairs that he will neglect to discharge his duty in full? Alfarabi is again frustratingly silent about the primary alternative to the rationalist account that he offers.

Section 7 concludes with the remark that if the first ruler begins by legislating those actions that are of greatest benefit to the city, it is possible that “someone else can extrapolate them, either in [the first ruler's] time or after him, if he imitates him” (49:7–8*, emphasis added). Thus, the one responsible for extrapolating from the first ruler's basic principles may begin to do so even while the first ruler is still alive! It would therefore be possible to have a regime in which a philosophic founder operates alongside a more active, but subordinate, executive officer who applies the law to particular circumstances as they arise. In such an arrangement, the first ruler would presumably focus his attention on providing a healthy theoretical framework that will guide his community far into the future. To the extent that the first ruler makes practical determinations, he does so with full knowledge that they are contingent on current circumstances and may be subject to change at a later date or in another place. Alfarabi therefore emphasizes the distinction between the first ruler as founder and dependent or successive officers who actively apply the former's legislative principles to particular cases. Presumably, the first ruler would prefer such an arrangement in part so that he may direct his energies to pursuits that are of more fundamental interest to him than practical determination.

In section 8, Alfarabi considers the possibility that the virtuous first ruler is succeeded after his death by someone “who is like him in all respects” (49:9). In this case, the responsibility for filling in lacunae from the first ruler's legislative determinations will fall to such a man. But the task of the virtuous successor is not limited to making determinations in cases where the first ruler was silent; in addition, “it is also up to him to alter much of what the first [ruler] legislated and to determine it in another way, when he knows that this is the most suitable [a l-aṣlaḥ] for his time” (49:11–12*). Such an alteration would in fact be undertaken by the first ruler himself, if only he were alive to see how circumstances had changed. Alfarabi thus makes it clear that, in the absence of a succession of rulers whose virtue matches that of the founder, the particular actions legislated in religion will necessarily become outdated. The mortality of the virtuous founder is deeply problematic for political society because, in the absence of living wisdom, laws cannot be properly updated to maintain their original intention.

Furthermore, even if a community is fortunate enough to experience a succession of virtuous rulers, we cannot expect the ruled to accurately determine the virtue of any particular successor; such a judgment can only be made by someone sufficiently wise. By remaining silent about the actual process by which a successor ascends to power, Alfarabi hides the enormous difficulty involved in ensuring that the best men rule. If, by some further fortune, the wisest man is indeed chosen to rule, will the ruled stand by passively as he overturns the now obsolete determinations of his predecessor? A wise successor has no choice but to present himself as a restorer and updater of the founder's will, but it is not at all clear that he will be permitted by his subjects to do anything more than slavishly follow the letter of the established law. Despite these severe practical limitations, Alfarabi achieves an important goal in this section of the text: by illustrating the utopian circumstances that would be necessary to uphold the will of the founder, he makes the theoretical point that law will necessarily deteriorate with time. In doing so, he may be seeking, in part, to temper the often violent attachment that the many have to ancestral religious determinations. But in making his point, Alfarabi completely ignores the possibility that the laws of the founder are meant to apply, unchanged, to all times and places. For if these laws are nothing other than the commands of God, what possible grounds does Alfarabi have to suggest that they be altered when their goodness is no longer apparent to mere human beings? His assertion that religious law be amended in the face of changing historical circumstance is a further example of his opposition to conventional piety.Footnote ²³

Although political science is first mentioned, in passing, toward the end of section 10, it first comes into focus as a subject in its own right in the first sentence of section 11. Here, Alfarabi states, “Political science investigates happiness first of all” (52:10). More specifically, it distinguishes between true happiness and that which is merely presumed to be happiness. In section 1, Alfarabi had stated that the virtuous ruler is distinguished from all others in that he alone aims at “the ultimate happiness [as-sa ʿādat al-quswā] that is truly happiness” (43:8–9). Thus, the first ruler must either possess political science or, through some other method, come to possess the knowledge about happiness that political science offers. As for the nature of true happiness, Alfarabi first makes clear that it is in no way instrumental; rather, true happiness “is the one sought for its own sake; at no time is it sought in order to obtain something else by it; indeed, all other things are sought in order to obtain this one, and when it is obtained, the search is given up” (52:12–14). While this identification of true happiness with the end sought by man in all his activities is sensible, Alfarabi immediately goes on to claim that true happiness “does not come about in this life, but rather in the next life [al-ḥayāt al-ākhira]Footnote ²⁴ which is after this one” (52:14–15). The virtuous kingly craft therefore aims at a happiness that can only be attained after death!

With this sudden declaration, Alfarabi aligns himself more closely with orthodoxy than at any other point in the Book of Religion. Indeed, appearing as it does immediately after radical claims regarding revelation and divine law, the assertion that true happiness does not come about in this world stands out to the reader so dramatically precisely because of its apparent conformity with received religious opinion.Footnote ²⁵ Given Alfarabi's heretofore consistent rationalism, what accounts for the sudden shift? The answer to this question must await a further exploration of Alfarabi's account of political science, which turns out to be the keystone of his teaching in the Book of Religion.

III. Critique of the Rule of Law

The afterlife is explicitly mentioned only in two other places: once in the final section of the work and once in section 14, the only part of the Book of Religion that is divided by Alfarabi into subsections. In the first of five such subsections, Alfarabi states that political science “distinguishes the ways of life, moral habits, and dispositions that, when practiced in cities or nations, make their dwellings prosper and their inhabitants obtain goods in this life here below [al-ḥayāt ad-dunyā],Footnote ²⁶ and ultimate happiness in the afterlife; and it sets them apart from those not like that” (54:1–3). This statement makes explicit the fact that the virtuous first ruler must be the political scientist par excellence. Furthermore, and most crucially, Alfarabi speaks here as if the same ways of life that are conducive to prosperity in this world also attain ultimate happiness in the next life. But prosperity, according to any conventional definition, would seem to involve the acquisition of what Alfarabi has previously referred to as “ignorant goods”; that is, physical health, wealth, pleasure, honor, and conquest (43:10–11).Footnote ²⁷ Indeed, Alfarabi had gone so far as to say that “examples of what is presumed to be happiness but is not such are affluence, pleasures, honor and being glorified, or anything else sought and acquired in this life that the multitude calls goods” (52:15–18, emphasis added). It must therefore be the case that, while such objects by no means constitute man's ultimate good and should not be treated as though they do, they are not simply opposed to ultimate happiness. At least some of the ignorant goods must either be prerequisites along the way to ultimate happiness or byproducts of the pursuit of ultimate happiness. The pursuit of such goods is only ignorant when they are pursued as ends, rather than means. The quest for true happiness will attain, incidentally, “goods in this life here below.”

Toward the end of section 14b, Alfarabi introduces a medical analogy: to the extent that the virtuous kingly craft protects the virtuous city from ignorant ways of life, it resembles the medical craft, “for the latter consists of cognizance of all the actions that establish health in a human being, preserve it for him, and guard it from any sickness that might occur” (56:17–19).Footnote ²⁸ The comparison of political rule to medicine raises several important questions; most fundamentally, given that a physician works with individual patients, to what extent must the virtuous king cater his rule to the idiosyncratic needs of individual subjects? Alfarabi treats this question in the passage that immediately follows.

Section 14c begins by laying out three medical facts that ought to be known by the physician, each more specific than the last: that opposites combat opposites, that chill combats fever, and that barley water or tamarind water combats jaundice. Alfarabi states that when the physician cures, he necessarily does so with respect to single beings. Even the most particular level of knowledge available through the study of the medical art is insufficiently specific to deal with individual cases. Thus, though it may be true that jaundice can be combated by barley water, in the case of a particular individual, it could be that “barley water will heal the bodily humor, but not let him perspire” (57:12–13). The very medical treatment that saves one individual may therefore be capable of killing another; thorough knowledge of individual cases is needed if the physician is to avoid visiting tremendous harm upon his patients. Furthermore, the sort of individualized knowledge needed cannot be acquired from books of medicine, nor from the physician's cognizance of universals of the medical art. Rather, such knowledge is available to the physician only “through another faculty developing from his pursuit of medical practices with respect to the body of one individual after another, from his lengthy observation of the states of sick persons, from the experience acquired by being occupied with curing over a long period of time, and from ministering to each individual” (57:21–58:2). The virtuous physician therefore needs two distinct faculties if he is to successfully practice the art of medicine: “one is the ability for unqualified and exhaustive cognizance of the universals that are parts of his art so that nothing escapes him; then there is the faculty that develops in him through the lengthy practice of his art with regard to each individual” (58:3–6).

This must be kept in mind as Alfarabi returns to the political side of the analogy in section 14d, reiterating that the first kingly craft is like the medical craft. Just as the physician must possess a combination of universal and particular knowledge, the ruler “is not content to have comprehensive cognizance of universal things, or the ability to grasp them, unless he has another faculty as well, one acquired through lengthy experience and observation” (58:8–10). Political rule necessarily deals with particulars, and therefore “the actions of the kingly craft are only concerned with particular cities … this city and that city, this nation and that nation, or this human being and that human being” (58:13–15). Political science can therefore determine the proper actions and opinions all the way down to the individual level, legislating only that which is most fitting for a given human being. But of course such a level of sensitivity to individual needs is impossible to achieve through lawgiving. The determinations of a founder necessarily order the entire political community, and must therefore overlook critical differences among individual human beings. By presenting political rule as if it were simply comparable to the medical craft, Alfarabi leads the attentive reader to discover a massive limitation of the lawgiver's art. Just as barley water may cause grave injury if prescribed to the wrong patient, so too may an otherwise beneficial law cause tremendous harm to exceptional individuals. Of course, just as a physician may stipulate exceptions to general injunctions regarding health, so too may a ruler decree exemptions from established patterns of policy. But to the extent that the ruler is a lawgiver—and this is primarily true of the founder—he is forced to work with blunt instruments. On this basis, law would seem to be emphatically inferior to living wisdom.

Why, then, should a virtuous first ruler resort to law at all? Could he not instead offer general injunctions that are open to flexible interpretation and application based on the particular circumstances of each individual case? In previous sections of the text, Alfarabi has presented us with two reasons to reject this possibility. First, as he stated in section 7, the founder is mortal. Given that there can be no guarantee of a succession of virtuous rulers, if the founder cares at all about the welfare of the political community after his death, he will act as a lawgiver, albeit one who fully recognizes the limitations of law as such. Second, Alfarabi has increasingly begun to hint that the life of active rule may not be the happiest.Footnote ²⁹ To the extent that engaging in active rulership distracts the founder's attention from matters that are of more fundamental interest to him, he will restrict himself to issuing general injunctions which would ideally be implemented by subordinate executive officers; such an arrangement was briefly hinted at in section 7. In sum, the two fundamental shortcomings of human rulers that necessitate the imperfect instrument of written law are mortality and the inability to perform multiple tasks simultaneously. The perfect political community would therefore require a ruler both immortal and omnipotent. In this way, Alfarabi prepares the ground for his forthcoming account of God's rule over the cosmos and its relation to human rulership.

While the comparison of the political and medical arts is undertaken as part of the discussion of political science simply, Alfarabi turns, in section 15, to consider “political science that is a part of philosophy” (59:3). This more philosophic political science remains his theme throughout the remainder of the text, and it is in this context that the explicit comparison of the virtuous political ruler with God, the divine ruler, is made in section 23. Here, Alfarabi states that philosophic political science “[places] the king and the first ruler in the same station as the deity [al-ilāh] who is the first governor [al-mudabbir al-awwal]Footnote ³⁰ of the beings and of the world and the classes [of beings] in it” (63:18–20). The virtuous religious founder is therefore the earthly counterpart of the cosmic governor.

The comparison of the virtuous first ruler to the divine ruler is by this point fully expected, but precisely by priming his audience for its arrival in the preceding sections, Alfarabi allows less careful readers to overlook its central importance in the teaching of the Book of Religion. As Alfarabi had mentioned in section 14d, the practitioner of the first kingly craft cannot rest satisfied with knowledge of universals; in addition, he must possess a prudential faculty that arises through experience with individual cases. Furthermore, as was discussed above, this would seem to mean that the first ruler must view law as a particularly clumsy tool for governance, unable as it is to cater to exceptional individuals. However, owing above all else to his mortality as well as his need to focus on a single task at a time, the first ruler may nevertheless resort to lawgiving as an encapsulation of his political prudence, albeit one that will necessarily deteriorate with the passage of time. But crucially, these limitations presumably do not apply to the most perfect being. Alfarabi states in section 20 that the perfect being is “the sempiternal one [al-wāhid al-aqdam], to whom nothing can be prior” (63:7–8). And while he does not explicitly claim that this being is omnipotent, he says in section 19 that “it is not possible for there to be any deficiency in him, not in any way at all” (62:18–63:1). It is therefore entirely unclear why the deity would choose to rule human beings through divine law, rather than by catering his rule to the needs of each particular individual. Indeed, the deity's governance of the cosmic, as opposed to the human, realm does not appear to suffer from this shortcoming, since it takes into account the “natural worth” of each being at every level of existence (63:14). Why, then, does the divine will, as it has been communicated to human beings through prophets, take the shape of divine law, thereby displaying such bluntness as law requires?

Clearly, the human world would need to be radically different than it is if the shortcomings inherent in law were to be overcome. The very diversity of human beings and the constant flux of political circumstances prevent a single code of law from applying to all people at all times, no matter how wise its authorship. But are not such characteristics of the human world well within the power of the deity to alter? Alternatively, the deity could leave the world as it is and still do away with the need for law entirely, if only he would minister to each of us individually, making the path to happiness clear for every man. The question of why divine will takes the shape of a static and uniform divine law therefore quickly turns into a more basic one: Why has man been created in such a way that he is left isolated in his individuality and unsure of the path to happiness? And although Alfarabi offers no answer here—it is not clear that such a question can be answered—his comparison of human and divine governance has not been without purpose. Rather, by provoking defenders of static divine law to consider why the deity does not act like the perfect physician, he initiates a dialogue between rationalism and piety, one that will perhaps moderate the latter's tendency to adhere unreflectively to religious tradition.

IV. Divine Law and Worldly Good

It is worthwhile to construct at least the basic outline of such a dialogue, thereby taking seriously the questions that Alfarabi wishes to provoke. An advocate of divine law may reasonably claim that by providing human beings with an imperfect instrument with which to regulate political life, the deity wishes to encourage the development of prudence, such as would be impossible if he ministered to each individual as the physician does to his patients. In other words, perhaps the shortcomings inherent in divine law are the necessary soil for the development of that faculty by which human beings are distinguished from all other creatures. But if this is the case, then Alfarabi has been correct throughout the Book of Religion in asserting that the religious founder's laws must be subject to revision by prudential successors when these laws are rendered obsolete by the passage of time. Those who insist on slavish obedience to unchanging laws are left with an uncomfortable choice: either obedience to laws that appear harmful is, in some mysterious way, good for us in our worldly existence, or the divine ruler is wholly unconcerned with the worldly happiness of man.

Beginning with the first of these possibilities, the claim that divine law might be good for us despite appearances to the contrary enjoys some immediate plausibility; measured against the wisdom of a perfect being who is in no way deficient, human wisdom is paltry.Footnote ³¹ In response to the claim that certain laws have become outdated, the orthodox believer may reply that the deity alone possesses perfect knowledge of the future; thus, a law that produces varying effects over time may simply be part of a divine plan that no human being can hope to comprehend. In addition, recognizing the limits of human wisdom suggests another possible defense of static divine law. Might it not be the case that God, through the blunt instrument of legislation, wishes to foster humility in his subjects above all else? From this perspective, those who insist on following solely the guidance of their own reason, despite its inability to come to firm conclusions regarding the origin of the world and humanity's place in it, are guilty of the ultimate hubris. The proper attitude would involve, in contrast, a humble acknowledgment of the limits of the human mind, such as would be encouraged by submission to commands that may, at times, not serve our immediate interest. Obedience to divine law—divine law that is not subject to human revision—would therefore be a continual reminder that the human mind is not the ultimate arbiter of right and wrong.

It is therefore clear that as long as God's essential mysteriousness is upheld, believers are spared the task of showing how divine law is good for us in ways that are recognizable by human wisdom. Why, then, does Alfarabi feel entitled to claim, in section 14, that the same ways of life that lead to ultimate happiness in the afterlife produce, in addition, worldly prosperity, thereby appearing to rule out the possibility that divine law only benefits us in ways that are imperceptible to human wisdom?

While it is possible to imagine a religious law that denies its followers the right to pursue worldly goods, it is much harder to imagine human beings who would believe that such a teaching is divine. Rather, we encounter the claim that worldly happiness is itself, to some extent, a genuine good. Believers are not asked to give up all worldly goods for the sake of true happiness in the afterlife, but rather to seek them in the right way; this is particularly noticeable in political, legislative religions such as Islam. Even a religious morality that demands the noble sacrifice of one's own access to worldly goods still aims at the enjoyment of precisely those goods by others—martyrs do not die so that others will suffer, but so that others will benefit.

It is for this reason that Alfarabi writes as if the expected benefits of divine law will always include worldly prosperity. And crucially, any theological position that aims at the enjoyment of goods here on this earth, even if such enjoyment is not an end in itself, opens itself up to judgment by political science, as the science of both “happiness presumed to be happiness without being such, and happiness that is truly happiness” (52:11–12). The political pursuit of worldly goods is the common ground between philosophy and theology;Footnote ³² this is the single most important observation to which the Book of Religion leads us. It is therefore in no way a distortion to suggest that divine law, while maintaining that the goods of this life do not constitute ultimate happiness, nevertheless aims, at least in part, at worldly happiness for its followers. Indeed, a system of law that did nothing of the sort would be seen by potential believers as diabolical rather than divine. Alfarabi therefore proceeds on the reasonable assumption that, while its ultimate aim is the attainment of a happiness that can only come about in the afterlife, divine law nevertheless seeks in addition to secure worldly goods for its followers.

But what of the second, and more radical, possibility outlined above, that God is wholly unconcerned with the well-being of man here on this earth and that therefore the attainment of ultimate happiness in the afterlife requires that we forgo entirely the pursuit of worldly happiness? Alfarabi does nothing to dispel the possibility of utterly mysterious, tyrannical divinities who have no apparent concern for earthly human welfare. But as long as divine law potentially originates in such deities, it would be a mistake of the highest order to subordinate its precepts to worldly considerations and thereby risk incurring divine wrath. If, as I contend, the Book of Religion is primarily aimed at grounding political rationalism in the face of the theological alternative, how can such an oversight be justified?

It is difficult to imagine what Alfarabi could say in the face of this possibility; indeed, the commands of tyrannical gods would necessarily fall outside the realm of political science, insofar as that science investigates worldly goods, ultimate happiness, and the link between them. Once this link is severed, political science can offer no guidance whatsoever. It is therefore not clear that Alfarabi would have regarded the existence of such gods as a hypothesis capable of refutation.Footnote ³³ But crucially, there is no reason to believe that such a possibility would have disturbed him overmuch. Those inclined towards rationalism encounter at least indirect evidence of the existence of just gods, not only in the form of the religious experiences of prophets and believers—the latter group constituting an enormous proportion of the human race—but also in their own moral concerns. Human beings who follow divine commandments, even when those commandments are not apparently beneficial to them, presumably do so out of faith that God knows and directs them toward what is best for them. And as discussed above, what is ultimately best for us cannot be considered in total isolation from what is good for us here on this earth; even if the pious believer does not always act with reference to his own selfish desires, he acts so that others will live happy, prosperous lives.Footnote ³⁴ This is the conclusion to which we are led by actually existing claims of religious experience; in the absence of similar evidence pointing toward unjust, amoral, and tyrannical gods, their existence must remain a merely logical possibility.Footnote ³⁵ It is therefore the case that Alfarabi's confrontation with the theological alternative is made compelling only by the existence of very common, perhaps universal, assumptions about the nature of divinity on the part of pious believers. The capacity of political science to judge the virtue of divine law depends entirely on the belief that the latter is meant, in part, to make our mortal lives better, to achieve some kind of common good here on earth.

In this context, we are in a better position to understand Alfarabi's striking claim in section 11 that true happiness can only be attained in the afterlife. This assertion is the keystone of the pious position, rendering the pursuit of happiness in this life as an end in itself utterly irrational; for when man's horizons are extended to eternity, and when the character of eternity depends entirely on obedience to divine commands, any life other than the life of piety is fundamentally misguided. Thus, Alfarabi's political teaching, which demands that even divine law be subjected to the rigor of reason, involves a tremendous risk as long as the orthodox position on the afterlife remains a possibility, which it does as long as philosophy or science lacks the ability to rule out miracles.Footnote ³⁶ Aware that the knowledge necessary to do so evades human beings,Footnote ³⁷ and that therefore no one can presume to know with certainty what awaits man after death, Alfarabi would be foolish to merely deny pious claims about the afterlife. The only path left open to him is to meet the orthodox position on its own terms, to concede, arguendo, that true happiness exists only in the afterlife, and somehow yet show that divine commandments ought to be subject to prudential revision, or that revelation ought to be subordinate to reason. To the extent that he is able to do this, Alfarabi will have taken steps toward establishing his rational political teaching on a far more solid footing than if he had simply ignored the theological challenge.

One final matter deserves further consideration. Given the prominence of certain themes in the Book of Religion—the comparison of the political art and the medical art, as well as the assertion that the virtuous political ruler is the earthly counterpart of the divine ruler—there can be little doubt that Alfarabi intends to provoke readers into considering the limitations of the rule of law as such and wondering at its apparent adoption by God. But if this interpretive proposal is correct, it is worth asking why Alfarabi does not simply make all of this explicit. Why allow the confrontation with the theological alternative to take place in the background of the text? This is especially puzzling if, as I have suggested, confronting the theological challenge to political rationalism is indeed Alfarabi's most fundamental purpose in the work.

Certainly, Alfarabi could have offered a succinct outline of the orthodox account of revelation: that a willing, providential God chose a prophet to receive His literal message; that this prophet, as transmitter, had no role in determining the content of that message; and that the prescriptions of divine law are equally valid for all times and places. Furthermore, he could have cited Qur’ānic verses and relevant Hadith, such as those pointed to in this essay, that corroborate this view. But to display one's familiarity with the orthodox position in this way, only to oppose it at every point, is necessarily to antagonize the orthodox community at large. Although Alfarabi is often quite candid, such a conspicuous attempt to refute orthodoxy point by point would be surprising from an author who has demonstrated his familiarity with the dangers of speaking too openly.Footnote ³⁸ Rather than adopting this approach, Alfarabi presents himself in the Book of Religion as a naive rationalist who overestimates the ability of the human mind to offer comprehensive political guidance and, as a result, too easily assumes that reason can account for all particular injunctions of divine law. By thus avoiding an open attack upon mainstream piety, Alfarabi allows his heterodoxy to be explained as the product of excessive faith in human wisdom rather than a lack of faith in divine wisdom.