Transcription
Truth passes through three stages: first, it is ridiculed; then it is violently opposed; finally, it is accepted as self-evident. This quote, often attributed to Schopenhauer, doesn't appear literally in his works, but it perfectly captures the spirit of his thought. His ideas followed that exact path: initially ignored or mocked by academic circles, then fiercely opposed for his radical critique of religion and society, and eventually re-evaluated as one of the clearest and most courageous voices in modern philosophy.
Schopenhauer had already fully lived through the first two stages of that process—ridicule and opposition—and today many of his attacks against religious illusions and systems of power feel more relevant than ever, as if they had become obvious truths. In fact, nothing is more powerful and more dangerous than an idea that has stopped being questioned. Once a concept is accepted without the filter of doubt, it loses its living essence and becomes dogma—something imposed by habit and authority rather than by truth. That's where the real danger lies: the moment an idea becomes untouchable, it begins to exercise absolute power over the collective mind, precisely because no one dares to challenge it anymore.
And that's exactly where Schopenhauer decided to begin his fight—against all forms of illusion. It starts with one of the most venerated texts in Western history: the Bible—a book that, for millions of people, represents the ultimate truth, sacred and inviable. But to him, nothing was sacred unless it first passed through the test of reason. And in that book, written, rewritten, and manipulated over the centuries, he saw something deeply human—too human to be considered divine.
But first, there's a basic and often overlooked question that deserves to be addressed: Was the Bible really written under the direct dictation of God, as many still believe? The reality is quite different. The Bible is not a single book, but a collection of texts written over more than a thousand years by dozens of different authors, often anonymous, coming from vastly different eras, cultures, and intentions. The texts were transmitted orally, rewritten, translated, edited, and reorganized many times. Nothing in this process suggests a direct or divine dictation; on the contrary, everything points to a profoundly human construction, shaped by historical, religious, and especially political needs.
It's important to recognize that today there are multiple versions of the Bible, each with a different number of books and translations, depending on the religious tradition. The Jewish Bible, the Catholic Bible, the Protestant Bible, and the Orthodox Bible do not fully align with one another; they differ in content, in the order of texts, and even in the interpretation of key passages. This alone shows that what is often labeled as sacred has, in fact, been shaped by human hands throughout history.
Schopenhauer wasn't speaking in abstract terms; he referred to a specific Bible—the version widely read and distributed in Protestant Germany during his time, translated by Martin Luther. It was the most commonly read, studied, and cited text in 19th-century Germany. It was this version that he subjected to his sharp critique, exposing its internal contradictions, moral absurdities, and historical inconsistencies. What struck him wasn't faith itself, but the fact that such an obviously human book was still revered as if it had been dictated by a divine being. He didn't simply doubt; he attacked head-on.
Raised in a cultured, wealthy, and cosmopolitan environment, he traveled across Europe, observing different religions, cultures, and peoples. As a young man, he immersed himself in the study of medicine, natural sciences, and eventually philosophy, where he finally found his intellectual home in the ideas of Emanuel Kant. But he didn't stop at following Kant; he dissected his thought and reshaped it, especially in relation to religion. While many of his contemporaries sought to reconcile faith and reason, Schopenhauer drew a sharp line.
In his major work, *The World as Will and Representation*, he made it clear that what we perceive as reality is nothing more than a veil, an illusion, behind which lies the true nature of things—a blind, irrational, and above all insatiable will—a force that offers no salvation, no divinity, only suffering, desire, and frustration. Unlike the Christian worldview, which interprets suffering as the result of an original fall and promises the possibility of salvation, Schopenhauer saw existence as doomed from the start by a blind and insatiable force, devoid of meaning or redemption.
It is precisely in this radical vision that his most devastating critique takes shape. To him, Christianity offered an illusion, selling future consolation in exchange for present obedience; and more than a spiritual guide, it appeared to him as a sophisticated form of control. And so Schopenhauer took the Bible in his hands and read it with surgical attention, page by page, not seeking comfort but clarity. What he found instead was inconsistency, internal contradictions, multiple versions of the same events, genealogies that didn't align, and miracles that defied both logic and the laws of nature. He wondered how a text supposedly written by an omniscient God could be so full of errors, omissions, and absurdities.
Among the first targets of his critique was the double account of creation in the Book of Genesis—two stories that already contradict each other in the very first chapters; or the two genealogies of Jesus found in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, so different that they seem to describe two entirely separate people. Then came the conflicting accounts of the resurrection—arguably the most central event in Christianity—yet told in wildly different ways by each gospel writer. And beyond these discrepancies, there was the issue of historical evidence. Schopenhauer pointed out that monumental events like the Exodus from Egypt or the biblical plagues leave no trace in historical records or archaeological findings. Could it really be, he asked, that no Egyptian recorded the escape of hundreds of thousands of slaves—that no account, no monument, no document ever mentioned it? To him, it was clear: the Bible was nothing more than a collection of texts written by men, limited by the time, culture, and beliefs of their own era—no divine revelation, only mythology and control.
One particularly sharp critique focused on the late appearance of the Christian Revelation. If God truly wanted to save humanity, why wait thousands of years to deliver his message, and only in a small, remote region of the Middle East? And what about all the civilizations that never had access to that message? Schopenhauer's answer was brutal: This wasn't divine salvation; it was spiritual provincialism.
Then came the moral problem, which he considered devastating. How could a text that claims to offer moral guidance include episodes of genocide commanded by God, rules for managing slavery, or norms that institutionalize the subjugation of women? The case of the Amalekites, slaughtered by divine command, was, for Schopenhauer, one of the clearest examples of a morality completely incompatible with any true sense of good. "It is easier to split an atom than to break a prejudice," Einstein would later say, but Schopenhauer got there first, dismantling one of the most deeply rooted—slavery. Accepted and regulated in various passages of both the Old and New Testaments, slavery was, for Schopenhauer, an undeniable weakness. There was no clear condemnation, only rules on how to own, sell, or treat slaves. How could a text inspired by an all-loving deity tolerate such practices?
The role of women didn't escape his critical lens either. The constant call for silence, submission, and obedience to husbands revealed a deeply patriarchal and discriminatory worldview. Even though Schopenhauer himself held problematic views about women, that didn't stop him from pointing out the hypocrisy of a text that preaches love and justice while relegating half of humanity to a secondary role.
What struck him even more was the foundation of Christian morality itself. According to him, it wasn't rooted in authentic ethics but in fear of punishment and hope for reward. Isn't that, he argued, a form of selfishness disguised as virtue? For Schopenhauer, true morality arises from compassion—a deep recognition of the suffering of others—not from spiritual bargaining to earn a reward in the afterlife.
The problem of evil, too, was, he believed, the Achilles' heel of Christian theology. How can the existence of a world full of suffering be reconciled with the idea of an omnipotent and benevolent God? Traditional answers—free will, evil as the absence of good, the mystery of divine plans—didn't stand up to reason. It was more honest, in his view, to admit that the world wasn't the creation of a benevolent mind but of a blind force, indifferent to human happiness.
And finally, religion as a tool of power. Schopenhauer was among the first to clearly state that organized religion doesn't serve God; it serves power. Its purpose is to maintain order, secure obedience, and legitimize privilege. Institutional Christianity, with its historical alliances with monarchs and governments, was, for him, a perfectly structured hierarchy designed to control the masses through fear of hell and hope of heaven. "Religion is the opium of the people," Marx would write a few decades later, but Schopenhauer had already planted the seed of that idea. The control of knowledge, the prohibition of reading the Bible in common languages, the persecution of dissidents like Giordano Bruno or Galileo—these, for him, were signs of a system afraid of free thought. Even Christianity's fragmentation into countless sects, each convinced it holds the only truth, was, to him, further proof of its human, not divine, origin. If it were truly inspired by God, shouldn't it speak with one voice?
In the end, what remains of Schopenhauer's destructive critique is not just a rejection of Christianity, but something deeper—an invitation to think for oneself in a world that pushes people to accept dogmas, authorities, and prepackaged truths. His example remains a beacon of intellectual courage. His impact on Western philosophy was enormous; he influenced Nietzsche, anticipated many modern critiques of religion, and helped lay the groundwork for a secular worldview that today is often taken for granted. But his message is still relevant; thinking has never been more necessary, and perhaps that is Schopenhauer's most powerful legacy—not to offer answers, but to push others to ask the right questions.
And so today, one can't help but wonder: Since that book has been written, rewritten, and manipulated over centuries and clearly shows a deeply human nature, how divine can it truly be? If those pages reveal more about human intentions than any absolute voice, then maybe it's time to ask who really spoke through those texts. And if people today have the courage to question those in power governing politics, economics, and media, why not do the same with the ancient powers that ruled over human consciousness for centuries, presenting their choices as sacred and beyond dispute? Didn't they wield the same determination, the same hunger for control, only masked in the name of God?