Equality as a Consolation Prize

In a secular world, equality is a last attempt to offer some dignity to the weak

I am not the first to notice that the moral imagination of the modern world feels, in certain respects, flattened. Not long ago, after immersing himself in nineteenth-century novels, Matthew Yglesias remarked on how foreign the language of honor now sounds to us and how distant from the moral world of someone like Dorothea in Middlemarch. Think about it: when was the last time you praised someone for being noble or honorable? Even good has been replaced by the epiteths “kind” or “nice”.

The ends we pursue tend to cluster around three dominant aims: safety, utility, and equality. Of these, only equality still gestures toward something like a moral ideal; the others are entirely managerial and materialistic in nature.

Having noticed this, I began to wonder: why equality? Why the persistent fixation on oppression and the moral drama of victim and perpetrator? Why, out of all the possible goods, has this one become so central?

Nietzsche suggested that egalitarianism was the afterglow of Christianity—a moral residue lingering after faith itself had faded. But Christianity bequeathed many values to the modern world: humility, charity, forgiveness, self-sacrifice. Why did equality, in particular, survive as the organizing principle?

It seems to me that equality functions as a kind of consolation prize in a secular age. The shift from an “enchanted” premodern cosmos to a “disenchanted” secular order has undoubtedly expanded individual freedom. Yet in casting off the old metaphysical scaffolding, we have also stripped the so-called “losers” of society of any sense of inherent dignity rooted in a larger cosmic story.

At the same time, secular narratives place an immense weight of responsibility on the individual. In a world without providence and fate, outcomes appear to flow almost entirely from human choice and human systems. Nothing is “meant to be” or cosmically allotted.

The contemporary fixation on oppression narratives—closely allied with the language of equality and often emerging from the same moral circles—can be understood, in part, as a response to this strain. By locating suffering within structures of domination, it externalizes at least some portion of the otherwise crushing responsibility modernity places on the self.

Man shall not live by bread alone

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“She appeared at daybreak one rainless morning, at the top of a hill on the road from Quijingue, carrying a wooden cross on her back. She was twenty years old, but she had suffered so much she looked ancient. She was a woman with a broad face, bruised feet, a shapeless body and mouse-colored skin (…)

She had cut all her hair herself after being raped for the fourth time.”

So begins the story of Maria Quadrado in The War of the End of the World, one of Mario Vargas Llosa’s most ambitious and unsettling novels. On her journey through the Brazilian backlands she is violated repeatedly — by a constable, a cowboy, two hunters, and finally a goatherd who had offered her shelter. The first three times she feels only revulsion and prays she will not be left pregnant. But the fourth time something more troubling occurs: she feels pity for her assailant. Horrified by this flicker of compassion, she punishes herself by cutting off her hair, remaking herself into something grotesque, as if to extinguish the last trace of tenderness within her.

Maria Quadrado is not an isolated tragedy in the novel. She is one among many broken figures who gather in the doomed settlement of Canudos. Set in late nineteenth-century Brazil, the novel recounts the rise and annihilation of this community in the arid sertão of the northeast. Around a wandering ascetic known as the Counselor, the destitute and displaced assemble: former slaves, bandits, prostitutes, the mutilated and abandoned — those for whom the promises of the modern republic – secular, rationalizing and impatient with religious fervor – mean nothing.

At the heart of the novel lies the most important question: what does the modern world offer to such people? The republic promises progress, order and rational administration. But these abstractions do not feed the souls of “the wretched refuse” that constitute the citizens of Canudos. In this social order, they would be losers anyway.

The Counselor offers something the Republic cannot. He does not promise comfort or prosperity, but dissolution — the surrender of the isolated self into a transcendent design. And he encourages this dissolution quite explicitly:

“Although he mentioned God and said that it was important for the salvation of a person’s soul that the person destroy his or her own will - a poison that gave everyone the illusion of being a little god who was superior to the other gods round about him – and put in its place the will of the Third person, the one that built, the one that labored, the Industrious Ant, and things of that sort, he spoke of these things in clear language, every word of which they understood”.

In Canudos, the wretched give away their will and in return, they are no longer superfluous. Instead, they inhabit a cosmic narrative, brought on Earth by the Counselor.

Canudos in 1895.

The newly established Brazilian Republic interprets Canudos as a threat to order and modernity and it dispatches military expeditions to crush the settlement. Yet again and again, these better-armed and professionally trained forces falter against the ragged defenders of the town. The defeats acquire an almost fantastical quality: a modern state, armed with technique and confidence, undone by a people who possess little but belief.

For a brief season, the annihilation of the isolated will — the surrender of individuality into a single, sacred purpose — seems to generate a force capable of holding even the republic’s army at bay. In losing themselves, the inhabitants of Canudos discover an intensity that they did not know existed.

And yet Canudos falls. Surrounded, starved, and finally overwhelmed, it is finally obliterated.

The disenchanted world

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The inhabitants of Canudos are not equals in any modern sense. The settlement does not rest on the fiction of symmetry. It is hierarchical, ordered and shaped by charisma and submission.

One of the Counselor’s most impressive powers is precisely this: men who once lived by violence and appetite — the bandit Pajeú among them — bend before him without coercion or the need or persuasion. Their obedience arises as though it were the most natural fact in the world. What he offers to them is simple: in Canudos, each person occupies a place, and that place, however lowly, is intelligible within a sacred whole.

The disenchanted, secular world has killed Canudos for most people.

So what is left for them? As a consolation prize, a sterile “equality.”

In a disenchanted world, a world that has lost its connection to transcendence, an obsession with equality is born but of a desperate structural necessity—the only remaining safety net preventing the autonomous from sliding into total dehumanization.

In A Secular Age, the philosopher Charles Taylor offers a remarkable account of just how foreign that land of the past truly is. His ambition is sweeping: to illuminate the quiet shift in the unspoken assumptions that structure our experience of the world. These assumptions lie prior to philosophical reflection. They are, as Taylor puts it, “the way we naively take things to be (…) the construal we live in without ever being aware of it as a construal.”

According to Charles Taylor, modernity is marked not merely by a decline in religious belief, but by a profound transformation in our imaginative horizon. What he calls the transition from an enchanted to a secular world is this shift in how the world is experienced.

In the pre-modern “enchanted” world, the world of “spirits, demons and moral forces”, reality was thick with agency and meaning. The cosmos was not neutral or inert, but constantly impinging upon humans. Human beings were vulnerable to forces beyond them, open to both corruption and elevation by powers that exceeded their control. The boundaries between self and world were permeable.

Taylor describes this as the condition of the porous self: a self embedded in a morally charged universe, susceptible to outside influence, and conscious of its dependence within a larger, divinely structured order. That dependence came with a recognition of a certain impotence, but it also conferred belonging. One’s life was situated within a cosmic order not of one’s own making.

Disenchantment dissolves this structure. What disappears is not simply belief in spirits but the very sense that meaning resides in the fabric of the world. The modern cosmos becomes impersonal, governed by impersonal, physical laws. The locus of meaning is relocated from the world to solely inside the human mind. Thoughts, feelings, aspirations — what Taylor calls “fullness” — are now understood to arise within human minds alone. And minds themselves are bounded.

This gives rise to what Taylor terms the buffered self. The buffered self encounters the world from behind a kind of membrane. It is no longer vulnerable to cosmic forces; nature is no longer enchanted but inert, available for explanation and manipulation. Even when we acknowledge limits, the dominant modern posture assumes that natural obstacles yield, eventually, to technique — through science and technology. We do not propitiate unseen powers for a good harvest, we design irrigation systems and engineer crops.

The advantages of a buffered self and of living in a disenchanted world are clear: no longer do we feel a sense of helplessness in the face of the powers of nature. No longer do we feel like our very destinies are at the mercy of Gods. The modern, buffered self can control fate itself. We are Gods on Earth.

Yet with such immense empowerment comes a crushing burden: that of radical responsibility. Once we anchor meaning within the individual and we understand him to be radically able to improve his condition, there is no longer any refuge in helplessness. The loser is solely responsible for their condition.

This goes the other way too. In earlier times, even the powerful, kings included, understood themselves as subordinate to God. The secular mind implicitly understands power and merit as matters of will.

There are many other ways, in my mind, in which the disenchanted world makes things hard for the “losers” of this world. One obvious loss is eschatological. In the older, enchanted imagination, earthly failure did not exhaust a life’s meaning. The poor, the humiliated, the obscure could inhabit a story whose resolution lay beyond mortal time. Salvation, not success, was the final measure. An inversion of status, even, was heavily hinted at: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Yet disenchantment also robs “the weak” of dignity in this life. In the enchanted world, society was as it was due to a divinely ordained order: “A kingdom could only be conceived as grounded in something higher than mere human action in secular time. And beyond that, the life of various associations which made up society, parishes, boroughs, guilds and so on, were interwoven with ritual and worship (...) One could not help but encounter God everywhere”. In this divinely ordered world, one’s station, not matter how limited, was not arbitrary, but was understood to participate in a cosmic design.

Medieval society could thus be imagined as a hierarchy of complementary functions: the clergy praying for all, the lords defending all, the peasants laboring for all. The roles were unequal in honor, yet mutually necessary. Even the humblest life had intelligibility within a larger whole.The buffered, modern self stands in a different landscape. There is no divinely ratified structure into which one is fitted. There is only the immanent frame: a social world understood as the product of human construction, revisable and contingent.

What, then, consoles the weak? Very little. Without transcendence, there is no deferred compensation. Without a sacred order, there is no given place of inherent dignity that one might inhabit in the world. And with radical responsibility comes the realization that some might “deserve” to be the losers of this world.

And more disturbingly, without all these, it becomes difficult to resist the conclusion that some lives contribute less, matter less and perhaps even, are less necessary. Perhaps not coincidentally, the most intentionally mass-scale genocidal regimes took shape once the world had largely lost its confidence in God.

It is in erecting barriers to reaching this conclusion that post World War II modernity’s moral energy gathers. The relentless pursuit of equality, the acute sensitivity to oppression and the refusal to accept hierarchy as natural are not merely fashions. They are attempts to supply, through political means, what religion once provided: an assurance that no life is negligible. In a world where dignity no longer descends from heaven, it must be constructed on earth. Or else the weak are left with nothing at all.

The classical liberal dilemma

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We still glimpse fragments of enchantment in modern life. Meaning has not entirely disappeared. In fact, it is now most accessible through work and especially work that presents itself as larger than the individual, as participation in a mission rather than the mere earning of a wage.

Nowhere is this more visible than in start-ups. In such spaces, even the pretense of equality is often suspended in practice. Employees willingly subordinate themselves to a founder, often investing that figure with a quasi-prophetic aura. An entire mythology around the figure is born. "Founder-mode” might be the closest we get in the modern era to a grand hero narrative.

This hierarchy is accepted, even celebrated, because it promises belonging to a grand narrative: building the future and bending the arc of history through innovation. In recent years, companies like Anthropic have inspired precisely this kind of near-religious devotion in their employees.

For the fortunate — the talented and the educated— this becomes a form of salvation. One may dissolve oneself into “the mission”, much like the inhabitants of Canudos.

But such salvation on Earth is rarely available to “the weak”. In modern America, where meritocracy has taken perhaps its most uncompromising for, the psychological weight of absolute personal responsibility grows even heavier. The Statue of Liberty may welcome the “wretched refuse,” but even that promise carries an implicit demand: that they transform themselves, that they succeed. The refuge it offers is also a challenge.

And so the final excuse disappears. For those less endowed by talent or circumstance, for those who chose poorly or were never given real choices at all, possibility itself becomes more of a burden.

The high-IQ classical liberal often fails to perceive the existential strain this creates. He speaks of growth, mobility and opportunity — of the long arc of history bending favorably. In doing so, he resembles the bewildered journalist at the end of The War of the End of the World, who confronts the doomed inhabitants of Canudos with incredulity: “I don’t understand, I don’t understand. What sort of creatures are you all anyway? What are you doing here, why didn’t all of you flee before they had you surrounded? What madness to wait in a rat trap like this for them to come kill you all!”

And the reply, given by the deformed Lion of Natuba, cuts through the incomprehension: “There isn’t anywhere to flee to. That’s what we kept doing before. That’s why we came here. That was the place we fled to.”

There is nowhere left to flee and retreat to. The secular age has dismantled the old sanctuaries that once shielded people from the full weight of responsibility. There is nowhere to hide from the self. And in the absence of a grand narrative, sterile equality is itself a rather pathetic consolation prize.