Gatherings of the ancient Athenian citizen assembly began with the sacrifice of a pig and the sprinkling of blood to consecrate a sacred space. When a Roman emperor wanted to discover the future, he sacrificed an animal and dispatched a specialist to read the entrails. It’s been a long time since sacrifice was so intimately connected to political life, and, as I argued in Defending Constantine, we have Constantine to thank for that.

A number of recent writers, however, have raised uncomfortable questions about whether we have come so far from the classical world as we believe. In Why Politics Can’t Be Freed From Religion (Blackwell, 2010), Ivan Strenski “interrogates” our understanding of both religion and politics to show how intertwined they continue to be. Strenski wants to know why the nation-state, “an otherwise worldly institution, defined by its monopolization of the use of force . . . , assume[s] a religious character? Why does it become, for example, the focus of absolute obedience, for which individual citizens not only do sacrifice their lives, but also feel that they are obliged so to do?” His answer, after a summary of the history of contests between Pope and Emperor in the medieval West, is that the modern nation-state is a “transformed Church” (the phrase comes from Louis Dumont).

One of the most powerful statements of this theme comes from Paul W. Kahn’s Putting Liberalism in Its Place. Kahn, who teaches law at Yale, argues that liberalism does not have the intellectual tools to understand itself. What gets ignored, he argues, is the political significance of love and especially of love expressed in sacrifice.

Isaiah 24 begins the section of Isaiah known as the “little apocalypse.” It’s a good name for this chapter. It’s a text of terror.

The world is coming apart at the seams. The earth is emptied; and not only that, but the earth is laid waste; and not only that, but its face is marred, and not only that but the people who live on the earth are dispersed like seeds (v. 1). It is a four-fold devastation, a devastation that reaches to the corners of the earth.

The earth is withered vine, and the high men and women of the earth are cast down (v. 7-9). It is like the end of harvest. Earth is an olive tree, shaken and shaken until all the olives are scattered over the ground. The earth is a grape vine, with only a few grapes left (v. 13). The earth is violently broken; and not only that, the earth is split open; and not only that, but the earth is shaken exceedingly; and not only that, but the earth reels like a drunkard; and not only that, but it totters like a hut that is ready to collapse (vv. 18-20).

As at the time of the flood, the windows of the heights open to let the water fall (v 18). As in the flood, the foundations of the earth are shaken. And it’s not just the earth. The hosts of heaven – the stars and their constellations – fall from the sky and into a pit, where they are locked up. When this day comes, the moon will, and the sun will be ashamed (vv. 21-23).

No one escapes. The priest is no safer than the people he serves at the temple, the master is no more secure than his servants; the mistress of the house is just as vulnerable as her maids. Lender and borrower, investment bankers and the poor suckers with interest-bearing loans – all are at risk (v. 2). There is no escape even if you flee the city at the first alarm. If you flee in terror when the report comes to the city, you’ll fall into a pit. If you are able to climb out of a pit, then you’re going to be caught in a bear trap (vv. 16-18). Everything is coming apart and there’s no safe place to be.