International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, Volume 68, Numbers 1-3, December 2010

International Journal for Philosophy of Religion Volume 68 , Numbers 1 - 3 / December 2010 Special Volume on the Occasio...

Author: Eugene Thomas Long (Editor-in-Chief)

27 downloads 606 Views 1MB Size Report

This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is wrongfully on our website, we offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below!
Report copyright / DMCA form

DOWNLOAD PDF

International Journal for Philosophy of Religion Volume 68 , Numbers 1 - 3 / December 2010 Special Volume on the Occasion of the 40th Anniversary of this journal

1-5 Reasons and religions: Introduction Eugene Thomas Long 7-13 Friendly atheism revisited William L. Rowe 15-29 All too skeptical theism William Hasker 31-42 Easy to remember?: genocide and the philosophy of religion John K. Roth 43-58 Philosophy of religion, fictionalism, and religious diversity Victoria S. Harrison 59-75 Loving without understanding: Raimon Panikkar’s ontological pluralism Anselm K. Min 77-94 Self-sacrifice From the act of violence to the passion of love I. U. Dalferth 95-106 Pure reason and contemporary philosophy of religion: the rational striving in and for truth Pamela Sue Anderson

107-119 Blinding me with (queer) science: religion, sexuality, and (post?) modernity Ellen T. Armour 121-138 IJPR: beyond the limit and limiting the beyond Michael Purcell 139-152 Something new under the Sun: forty years of philosophy of religion, with a special look at process philosophy Philip Clayton 153-165 Rival concepts of God and rival versions of mysticism Daniel A. Dombrowski 167-181 The logic of authoritative revelations John H. Whittaker 183-199 Disagreement Graham Oppy 201-213 Jonathan Edwards, God, and “particular minds” William J. Wainwright

Int J Philos Relig (2010) 68:1–5 DOI 10.1007/s11153-010-9253-6

Reasons and religions: Introduction Eugene Thomas Long

Received: 9 July 2010 / Accepted: 9 July 2010 / Published online: 4 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

This volume is presented in celebration of the fortieth anniversary of the International Journal for Philosophy of Religion. The first issue of the journal was published in the Spring of 1970, edited by Edgar Henderson. Henderson said that the journal is to be world wide in scope and is intended to ‘provide a medium for the fruitful interchange of basic philosophical ideas between all peoples, all major faiths, and all varieties of philosophical thought.’Although the journal depends to a large degree on submissions and reflects the issues and methods of philosophical investigation most widely discussed at any one time, Henderson, Bowman Clarke and the current editor have made and continue to make efforts to represent the varieties of philosophical reflection on religions. In the twenty-fifth anniversary volume of the International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, I provided a brief history of the journal and the philosophical context from its beginning to 1995. I will not repeat that story here. Suffice it to say that the journal began at a time when the philosophy of religion was emerging from what some have described as vetoes imposed upon it by the logical positivists on the one hand and the positivists of revelation on the other hand. Religious language and the classical arguments for the existence of God were the dominant themes during the early years of the journal and articles focused on a wide range of classical and contemporary authors. It is fair to say that the analytic style of philosophy dominated the pages of the journal but articles were also published representing the process, Thomistic, continental and pragmatic traditions. Beginning in the 1980s more articles on classical and contemporary forms of theism began to appear along with discussions of religious experience, the problem of evil, realism, and religious diversity.

E. T. Long (B) Department of Philosophy, University of South Carolina, Columbia, SC 29208, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

2

Int J Philos Relig (2010) 68:1–5

Among the most discussed topics in the journal since 1995 are the problem of suffering and evil and concepts of divine reality. Other frequently discussed topics include religious diversity and arguments for the existence of God. Religious experience continues to be a frequently discussed topic and there appears to be an increase in the number of articles on the topics of atheism and ethics. Most articles are written within the context of the Judaeo-Christian tradition although there are a few articles focusing on other religious traditions. In general there appears in recent years to be evidence in the journal of a difference between what for want of better terms might be called more traditional and more progressive traditions in the philosophy of religion. This difference is not primarily a matter of belief in God for one finds theists and atheists in both traditions. Nor is merely a difference between Anglo-American and Continental philosophers of religion although that is part of the story. Speaking broadly it might be said that the more traditional approach tends to place more emphasis upon foundationalism, absolutism, realism and classical theism and the more progressive tradition tends to place more emphasis upon non-foundationalism, relativism, nonrealism and the reconstruction of classical theism. Having said that, it should also be noted that there is considerable diversity within these broad categories. On the so-called traditional side, for example, one often finds what might be called modified forms of classical foundationalism, and revised views of the classical attributes of God. On the progressive side many strive to avoid more radical forms of relativism and anti-realism while retaining their linkage with classical theism. The theme for this anniversary volume is Reasons and Religions. It is hoped that the volume provides a good sample of some of the primary philosophical approaches to the philosophy of religion and a sample of some of the primary issues being discussed. Since it was not possible to cover all topics I invited several philosophers of religion representing different philosophical traditions to consider contributing an article on a topic on which they are currently working or an article reflecting on a major topic since the beginning of the journal in 1970. The problem of evil is much in evidence in early issues of the journal and seems to have gained more prominence in recent years. Much of the current interest in the problem of evil in the analytic tradition of the philosophy of religion is related to the so-called evidential argument in which critics of traditional theism argue that at least some suffering cannot be adequately accounted for in traditional theistic belief. This is the theme of the first paper by William Rowe. In 1979 Rowe published an article entitled “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism” in the American Philosophical Quarterly in which he argued that there are evils in the world for which there is no justification and thus we are warranted in believing that the God of classical theism does not exist. This article with Rowe’s argument for what he called “friendly atheism” received much attention in the literature and Rowe has devoted many of his efforts to the defense of his position. In the article in this volume, “Friendly Atheism Revisited,”Rowe provides an account of the biographical and intellectual background to his development of friendly atheism and a justification for his view. One of the widely discussed responses to the rejection of theism on the grounds of unjustified evils is “sceptical theism,” the view that given our cognitive limitations we cannot determine whether there are reasons for God permitting what are apparently unjustifield evils. In “All Too Skeptical Theism”, William Hasker takes up this

13


3

topic and argues that where moral reasoning is concerned there are good reasons to be skeptical about skeptical theism. Some philosophers have argued that philosophers of religion discussing the traditional problem of evil often make too much of a separation between the intellectual and the practical issues of evil with the result that the focus is more on the idea of God than human action. In his essay, “Easy to remember?: genocide and the philosophy of religion”, John Roth argues that philosophers should concentrate more on the particularities of evil that manifest themselves in genocide and that philosophers of religion have a vital role to play in convincing us of the wrong of murder and encouraging us to act accordingly. Since the 1990s an increasing number of articles have been published on the issue of religious diversity at both the theoretical and practical levels. In ‘Philosophy of Religion, Fictionalism, and Religious Diversity”,Victoria Harrison argues that until recently the central concern of the philosophy of religion has been on western religious ideas and the concept of ‘God’ as it has been understood within Judaeo-Christianity. This, she believes, threatens to render the philosophy of religion irrelevant in a multiculural world. Harrison provides an analysis of fictionalism as a possible methodological standpoint for getting beyond the more narrow approach of western theism and concludes that fictionalism and religious diversity are uneasy bedfellows. Anselm Min is also concerned with the question of religious diversity. In “Loving Without Understanding: Raimon Panikkar’s Ontological Pluralism,” he provides a critical analysis of the work of Panikkar, who shares some things in common with the post modernists and for whom the challenge of pluralism is both a theoretical and a practical concern. Panikkar considers the pursuit of a universal theory or one truth to be a remnant of colonialism and argues that we should cut the gordian knot of a so-called universal theory about God and rediscover the intrinsic diversity within reality itself. While acknowledging a deep respect for Panikkar’s ontological pluralism Min raises the question whether Panikkar’s own view might be inclusivistic in disguise, and whether in the end he is more concerned with the ideal conditions of harmony than the material conditions of concrete history. Self and other has been a dominant theme in recent continental philosophy of religion where the alterity or otherness of the other person seems in some cases to be understood as less of a relation between equals and more of a deferral to the other in order to avoid depriving the other of his or her otherness. This raises the question whether one must sacrifice or do violence to oneself in order to avoid doing violence to or sacrificing the other. In his essay, “Self Sacrifice: From the Act of Violence to the Passion of Love,” Ingolf Dalferth discusses the paradox of self sacrifice as posed by Derrida between violence to self and violence to other and extends the distinction drawn by Schiller between egotistical and altruistic self-sacrifice. Dalferth argues for understanding self sacrifice not as an act of violence against oneself but as an act of unconditional love for the well being of the other in which even one’s own death is understood not as a sacrifice but as the consequence of unconditional love of the other. Although more epistemological in focus, Pamela Anderson’s article, “ Pure Reason and Contemporary Philosophy of Religion: The Rational Striving in and for Truth,” might also be understood in the context of the theme of self and other. She argues for a form of critical reasoning that is grounded in everyday acts of self-reflective and rational interaction with other selves. This requires, she argues, a rethinking of the

13

4


role of Kant’s critical philosophy and a critique of what she calls idolatry in the drive towards an ideal observer point of view in the philosophy of religion and theology. Ellen Armour takes up a significant contemporary question that has becomes a global issue for scientists, philosophers and theologians. In “Blinding Me with (Queer) Science: Religion, Sexuality, and (Post?) modernity,” Armour brings both a continental and a feminist approach to the question of the acceptance of homosexuality with specific reference to the Christian community. Drawing on the work of Michel Foucault and Judith Butler, she argues that so-called “queer science” remains indebted to modernity, that there is a tendency to ignore its complexity and cautions that it does not offer, as some seem to believe, a solution to a problem that it is not well equipped to solve. The resistance to the acceptability of homosexuality, Armour argues, is more cultural than natural and that overcoming resistance within the Christian community will require the work of philosophers, theologians and ethicists more than scientists. The question of the relation between philosophy and theology has been an important question through the history of western theology and philosophy and is receiving new attention in a time when there is talk of analytic theology in the analytic tradition and the theological turn in the continental tradition. Michael Purcell’s essay, “Beyond the limit and limiting the beyond”, addresses this question from the perspective of continental philosophy where on the one hand it sometimes appears that little distinction is made between phenomenology and theology and on the other hand methodological atheism is held essential to the phenomenological method. Is phenomenology concerned only with immanence in which case the turn towards theology would seem to fail or does phenomenology provide access to the possibility of revelation in phenomena? Purcell takes up this question with particular reference to the work of Marion suggesting need for a reformulation of phenomenology as a method. Philip Clayton reflects on the history of the philosophy of religion from the early years of the journal to the state of the discipline today from the perspective of process philosophy. In “Something New Under the Sun: Forty Years of Philosophy of Religion with a Special Look at Process Philosophy,” Clayton provides a framework from which to examine discussions in the field during this period and offers a critical analysis of the state of philosophy of religion today emphasizing the need for crossfertilization of philosophical and theological frameworks, cross cultural dialogue and increased attention to issues of public and practical concern. In his article, “Rival Concepts of God and Rival Versions of Mysticism,”David Dombrowski defends a process or neo-classical concept of God with the aim of showing it better able than classical theism to account for religious or mystical experience. He appeals in his argument to the theory of experience associated with radical empiricism and the work of John Smith comparing his results with William Alston’s theory of religious or mystical experience. The next two essays focus on epistemological issues. In “The Logic of Authoritative Revelations”, John Whittaker discusses the logical status of revealed truths as authoritative. He argues that divinely revealed truths are conceptual truths, that they are logically exempt from normal demands of justification that apply more generally to our beliefs and that they share this exemption with other axiomatic principles. Although revelation may be spoken of in a variety of secular contexts, revelation as understood in the religious context is believed to be authoritative. However, contrary to the belief

13


5

that the justification of religious revealed truths depends upon verifiable contact with divine reality, Whittaker argues that the authoritative status of revelation is due to its role in defining a distinctively religious order of judgement and that the truth claims of religious revelation can still be challenged. It is well known, of course, that philosophers of religion often have significant disagreements with their peers leading to the question, how do we deal with disagreements within a particular religious tradition and among different historical traditions. In his essay, “Disagreement”, Graham Oppy provides an account and critical analysis of recent philosophical literature on the epistemology of disagreement concluding with a discussion of reasonable disagreements among doxastic peers among the religious and how we deal with them. The concluding essay treats a traditional question concerning our understanding of human dependence on God. In “Jonathan Edwards, God, and ‘Particular Minds’,” William Wainwright takes up the claim that human beings are necessarily dependent on God. Wainwright, who has a long time interest in Edward’s philosophical theology, argues that although few have developed the idea of the dependence of persons on God with any precision, Edwards is an exception. Edwards, Wainwright argues, provides us with a detailed and often novel account of humanity’s essential ontological, moral and soteriological dependence on God.

13


Friendly atheism revisited William L. Rowe

Received: 4 February 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 11 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract This paper endeavors to explain what friendly atheism is and why it is reasonable to seek to be friendly toward those whose views about God differ substantially from one’s own. Keywords

Friendly atheism · Necessary moral truths · Reasonable grounds

Before I discuss what ‘Friendly atheism’ is, it will be helpful to describe my early life, my commitment to theism, and how I slowly moved away from theism toward the position that I describe as ‘Friendly atheism’. For I believe that my early commitment to Christian theism had something to do with why, later in life, I developed the view called ‘Friendly atheism’. My mother and father were born and raised in Cornwall, England. My mother was religious and attended a Methodist church. My father was raised as an Anglican, but I suspect he was an agnostic. He emigrated to Canada, and served in the Canadian army in the first world war. After the war he returned to England, met and married my mother. They then moved to Detroit, Michigan where he worked for most of his life at the Ford Motor Company. My parents had two children—my brother, Edlin, and me. My mother required us to attend Sunday school at a nearby Methodist church. Each year at our church an evangelist would be invited to give sermons each evening for a week. After the sermon, the evangelist would invite people in the audience who had not accepted Christ as their savior, and wished to do so, to come forward. When I was in high school, two women were invited to our church: Rita Gould, a gifted musician, and Amy Lee Simpson, an extraordinary evangelist whose sermons were very moving. I went one evening to hear Amy Lee Simpson and was deeply

W. L. Rowe (B) Department of Philosophy, Purdue University, 342 Overlook Drive, West Lafayette, IN, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

8


affected by her sermon. When she gave the call to come forward and accept Christ as one’s savior, I felt compelled to do so and to dedicate my heart and life to Christ. From that day on, for a number of years I felt committed to serve God. In high school I joined a religious group. When I graduated from high school, I wanted to learn more about theism and decided to attend the Detroit Bible Institute (DBI). I went to DBI intending to earn a degree and took two courses from a teacher I came greatly to admire. He was also vice president of DBI. In my second year, to my great surprise, he was charged by the president of the school with being an ultradispensationalist. Dispensationalism is the view that divides the bible into dispensations; holding that present day Christians are now bound to live, not by the rules laid down by the old testament, e.g., the 10 commandments, but by the scriptures in the new testament. Ultradispensationalism, as I understand it, holds that Christians, nowadays, are governed only by the portion of the New Testament attributed to Paul, the apostle. In any case, there was a meeting of the trustees which, as president of the 2nd year class, I was permitted to attend. At that meeting the president presented his case against my favorite teacher (the vice-president). The trustees decided to dismiss the vice president. I was very distressed by this action, and at the end of my second year I decided to withdraw from the Detroit Bible Institute. During my second year at the Detroit Bible Institute, I had been invited to preach a sermon at a German Baptist church on the east side of Detroit where a significant number of German people had settled. While their children grew up speaking English, the parents, although able to get along in English, very much wanted their sermons in German. As a result, there were five German Baptist churches in which the Sunday sermon for adults was in German. The minister of one of the churches invited me to give a sermon each Sunday morning to the young people who had grown up learning English, while he gave a sermon in German to their parents. I did so in a large room beneath the main room where the minister preached to the parents. I was paid by the church for my efforts. When I told the minister why I had left DBI, he seemed not to mind, and was pleased to have me continue. I also took a night job on the assembly line at the Dodge main plant, putting on the left tail light on new Dodge cars. I worked there for about 1 year. After some months passed, I decided to go to Wayne State University in Detroit. I thought I would major in history, but after taking one course from Professor George Nakhnikian, a talented professor of philosophy who had received his Ph.D. degree from Harvard University, I knew that philosophy was a subject that deeply interested me, particularly philosophy of religion. So, I majored in philosophy. Wayne State University also accepted some of the courses I took at the Detroit Bible Institute, enabling me to complete my BA degree in 3 years. Knowing that I wanted to pursue the study of religion, a campus minister at Wayne State University told me that I should consider Chicago Theological Seminary at the University of Chicago, indicating that they had fellowships to provide for students who had done very well in college. Moreover, he told me that there were four theological seminaries there, and although, if accepted, I would belong to Chicago Theological Seminary (CTS), I would be free to take courses at any of the four seminaries. I decided to apply to CTS, and received a very fine fellowship that supported me for 3 years.

13


9

The seminaries at Chicago were theologically very liberal, and my 3 years of study there slowly moved me from my early Protestant fundamentalism. In the summer of my final year at CTS, my teacher and friend at Wayne State University, George Nakhnikian, visited me. His father, an Armenian priest, was buried in a graveyard in Chicago, and I drove George to his father’s grave. Later he talked with me about my plans for the future. When I told him I might continue my studies in theology, he talked with me at some length, telling me that I was a philosopher, and urging me to pursue a Ph.D. degree in philosophy, majoring, if I wished, in philosophy of religion. He also suggested that I apply to the University of Michigan, a place with a strong department of philosophy. I rethought the matter, and decided to follow his advice. I received a teaching fellowship from the University of Michigan and spent the next 3 years in Ann Arbor pursuing a Ph.D. in philosophy. While there I took courses from Richard Cartwright, William Alston, Paul Henley and other very able philosophers. At the end of my third year, before I had done any significant work on my Ph.D. dissertation, I made the mistake of accepting a position in the philosophy department at the University of Illinois. The teaching load was four courses a semester. Needless to say, I had no time to spend thinking about my dissertation. I spent 2 years at the University of Illinois. I suspect they would have kept me there had I managed to complete my dissertation and obtain my Ph.D. While there, I shared an office with two other philosophers: Charles Caton and Norman Kretzmann. We became good friends and they fought to have the department keep me even though I had failed in those 2 years to finish my doctoral dissertation. Caton and Kretzmann were not successful in their attempt. I returned to Ann Arbor and began to work on my dissertation on the philosophical theology of Paul Tillich. I had become interested in Tillich’s work when I was a student at Chicago Theological Seminary. A prominent German philosopher/theologian who spoke out against Hitler, Tillich wisely left Germany to join the faculty at New York City’s Union Theological Seminary and later taught at Harvard University. He ended his career at the University of Chicago. In the course of writing my dissertation, I happened to meet a philosopher, Calvin Schrag, who was also interested in Tillich’s work. Schrag taught philosophy at Purdue University, and invited me to apply to teach at Purdue. Again, without having completed my dissertation, I accepted a position as assistant professor at Purdue, moved to West Lafayette, Indiana, and proceeded to teach philosophy of religion, logic, and introduction to philosophy. During my first year at Purdue I finally finished my dissertation on Tillich and received my Ph.D. degree from the University of Michigan in 1962. After a few years teaching at Purdue, I was entitled to a semester off. Frank Parker, who was then head of the philosophy department, called me into his office and told me that he had decided to give me a full year off. I was enormously grateful. The year off enabled me to write a book on Tillich’s philosophical theology. The book, Religious Symbols and God, was published by the University of Chicago Press in 1968. My interest in analytic philosophy, as well as philosophy of religion, led me to read some of the works of Bertrand Russell and G.E. Moore. I became deeply interested in Moore’s philosophical works, particularly his views about ethical theory. Although I was coming to have some doubts about the claims of religion, I worried that if

13

10


I were to give up my belief in God, I might have no basis for my commitment to living a moral life. For I had grown up believing that morality was somehow grounded in God’s commands. Moore freed me from that worry. For he argued cogently that fundamental moral truths are not just true, but necessarily true. Once I came to believe that there are necessary moral truths, just as there are necessary mathematical truths, such as 2 + 2 = 4, I no longer felt that if there were no God, there might be no rational basis for seeking to live a moral life. I also began seriously to consider the problem of evil. Indeed, it was my confidence that there are necessary moral truths, along with a growing concern about the problem of evil, that slowly led me to abandon my belief in God and become what I call a ‘Friendly atheist’. Here is an actual example of an evil. On a beautiful day, a young woman decided to take a walk. After walking along a road, she came upon a trail leading into a wooded area. After walking for some distance she came upon a man who raped her. While the man was distracted after the rape, the woman, fearing for her life, quickly ran back to the road, ran a short distance alongside the road and then reentered the woods to hide. After noticing the woman’s escape, the man ran to the road, but had no idea which direction she went. He just happened to run in the same direction she had run, and just happened to find where she was hiding, and then killed her. If there is an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being who, as Bible believers claim, turned water into wine at a marriage feast in Cana of Galilee so that a wedding feast could continue in its merriment, surely he could spare the time to lead the rapist to think she had run the other way when she reached the road, thus sparing her life. Although examples such as the one just given provide reasonable grounds for believing that it is more likely than not that no omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being exists, they fall far short of providing a proof of the non-existence of God. For God, if such a being exists, is omniscient, and we most certainly are not. Moreover, for all we know, an omniscient being may know that if he were to have intervened so that the man in question was led to run in the opposite direction, thus sparing the woman’s life, some other even greater evil would have happened instead. Moreover, if God were constantly to intervene in human life, human beings might cease to try to help others in need, leaving it all up to God. So, given what we know, we cannot conclude that the horrible evils in our world provide us with a proof of the non-existence of an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being who created the world in which we live. However, it is clear, I believe, that the vast array of horrible evils in our world provide us with reasonable grounds to believe that no such being as God actually exists. Against the conclusion just reached, it may be claimed, not unreasonably, that we’ve neglected to consider the positive reasons to think that there does exist an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being who created the world. For there are the three major arguments for the existence of God: the Cosmological argument, the Teleological argument, and the Ontological argument.1 In addition, there are the claims of mystics who profess to have directly experienced God — Meister Eckhart and St. John of the Cross, among others. On the other hand, during the medieval period mystics often lived alone in caves, seeking direct experiences of God. The fact that they did

1 A careful discussion of these important arguments may be found in Rowe (2007).

13


11

so indicates that even during a period when belief in God was widespread, having an immediate sense of God’s presence in one’s life, or a direct experience of God, were exceedingly difficult to come by. It is the lack of any direct sense of God’s presence in one’s own life that, I suspect, makes it difficult for an enormous number of rational human beings to sustain a belief that there actually exists an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being. In my own case it was a keen sense of the lack of God’s presence in my life, along with the horrible evils in our world, that led me slowly to move away from being a committed theist to being a friendly atheist, a view I first advanced in “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism” (1979). I don’t mean to suggest that there never has been a reasonable basis to believe that God exists. For prior to Darwin and his theory of natural selection, it was not unreasonable, in my judgment, for human beings to seek to explain the existence of life on our planet, particularly human life, by appealing to a theory of creation by a very powerful, knowledgeable, perfectly good being. Of course, the problem of why a perfectly good being would permit so much horrific evil in the world he creates, given that he could so easily prevent it, would still exist. One could perhaps lessen this problem by supposing that there also exists a very powerful, evil being (the Devil), a being that an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being either cannot destroy or chooses, for some utterly unknown reason, to allow to exist and to lure humans to do evil, rather than good. But I see no reason to travel down that old road. Whatever problems we confront nowadays in seeking to find rational reasons for supposing that God exists will only be substantially multiplied if we also set out to find rational reasons for supposing that along with God, there also exists an enormously powerful, totally evil being, the Devil. But what is it to be a ‘Friendly atheist’? Or, to put the question more carefully, What do I mean to say when I use the expression a ‘Friendly atheist’? Clearly, an atheist is a person who believes that no such being as God actually exists; whereas an agnostic neither believes that God exists nor believes that God does not exist; and a theist is a person who believes that God does exist. I suppose that there may be atheists who differ on what sort of being God would be were he to actually exist. My own conception of God is Anselmian in that I hold that God, an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being, is such that if he exists in any possible world, he exists in every possible world. I suspect that most theists will find this idea of God acceptable. Since I believe that no such being as God exists in the actual world, I therefore believe that God does not exist in any possible world. In short, my Anselmian-like conception of God is such that if God exists in any possible world, he exists in every possible world; and if there is any possible world in which he does not exist, there is no possible world in which he exists2 . What I’ve just stated is a view of God that is to some considerable extent 2 Like Anselm, I think of God as the greatest possible being. But unlike Anselm, I refuse to allow that “exis-

tence in reality” is a great-making property. For if one has any doubts as to whether or not God exists, one should not concede both that ‘existence in reality’ is a great-making property and that God is the ‘greatest possible being’. For to do so is to logically imply that God actually exists. So, while I accept Anselm’s idea of God as the greatest possible being, I refuse to also grant him the extraordinary assumption that existence in reality is itself a great-making property. I do, however, agree that God is such that if he actually exists then it is impossible that any being does or logically could exist that is as great or greater than God. For more on this issue concerning Anselm, See Rowe (2009).

13

12


like Anselm’s concept of God. For it views omniscience, omnipotence, and perfect goodness as great-making properties. Indeed, like Anselm, I wish to hold that God is the greatest possible being. But unlike Anselm I do not propose to regard existence in reality as itself a great-making property. For to do so directly implies that for any possible being X, if X does not exist X would be a greater being were it to exist. Consider, then, the idea of an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly evil being. Suppose we think that such a being is a possible being. Given that we know that both good beings and evil beings can and do actually exist, we have, I suspect, no compelling reason to think that an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being is any more possible than an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly evil being. But if ‘existence in reality’ is a great making property, then both an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being and an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly evil being would be greater beings were they to actually exist. And, since neither would be capable of destroying the other, it is not surprising that the natural world contains evil as well as good. Perhaps God preferred to create an exceptionally good world, whereas Satan preferred to create an exceptionally evil world. Since each might be able to destroy the world created by the other, they may have agreed on creating a world in which there is both good and evil. Thus, we find ourselves in a world containing substantial amounts of both good and evil. Of course, this view fails to take account of the importance of free will among human creatures. But if both God and Satan know the counterfactuals of human freedom, they might be able to know that the world they create with free human creatures would turn out to contain significant amounts of both good and evil, and thus be able to agree on which of the possible worlds they choose to create. All rational human beings know that the world in which we live contains a planet (the earth) in which humans and animals exist and thrive, that our world contains both good and evil, and that human life on earth has a beginning and an end. We also know that within human history there has been an inclination to explain our existence by supposing there is a God (an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being) who has created within our universe a planet that is capable of supporting human life, and has brought human beings into existence, along with animals, etc. Opposed to this view is the Darwinian theory of evolution that has provided a naturalistic explanation of the existence of human and animal life on our planet. Slowly, over time, the need to appeal to God, a supernatural being, to explain the existence of human beings and a planet suitable for human and animal life has weakened considerably. Moreover, the horrendous evils that afflict human and animal life on our planet appear to be more reasonably explained by naturalism than by theism. The result is that human beings no longer need to appeal to supernatural beings in order to explain the existence of a planet suitable to sustain human and animal life. Returning to the topic of Friendly Atheism, I suspect that some atheists see no reason to be friendly toward theists, just as some theists may see no reason to be friendly toward atheists. As a ‘Friendly atheist’ I am inclined to reject such views. This is not to say that one has a moral obligation to be friendly with everyone one meets. Normally, one is friendly with people one has come to like or appreciate. Moreover, it is one thing to like a person and another thing to be respectful to a person. One may be respectful to people without becoming friendly with them. Having said that, I do think it is good for atheists to endeavor to be friendly with agnostics and

13


13

theists, good for theists to endeavor to be friendly with atheists and agnostics. And the same point holds for agnostics in relation to theists and atheists. What counts most in human life, in my judgment, is one’s effort to live a morally good life. And given that there are necessary moral truths, just as there are necessary mathematical truths, one can do so whether one is a theist, atheist, or an agnostic. Having started out as a fundamentalist, Protestant Christian, I realize how difficult it can be for a Christian to believe that there are necessary moral truths just as there are necessary mathematical truths. For a Christian may be disposed to think, or to have been taught, that morality is grounded in God’s commands, and that apart from God there is no rational basis for seeking to live a moral life. I suspect that over considerable time these religious views will slowly fade away. I would like to say that I know that such views will fade away. But we don’t know that. In the meantime we must endeavor to be more tolerant of those among us, whether they are committed theists, atheists, or agnostics, whose views about religion are significantly different from our own. This doesn’t mean that we should continue to seek to be friendly toward those who hate or despise us because of the view of God that we hold. It does mean that we should be open to friendship with theists, agnostics, and atheists, provided they are not opposed to such a relationship with us. References Rowe, W. L. (1968). Religious symbols and god: A philosophical study of Tillich’s theology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Rowe, W. L. (1979). The problem of evil and some varieties of atheism. American Philosophical Quarterly, 16, 335–341. Rowe, W. L. (2007). Philosophy of religion: An introduction (4th ed.). Belmont, CA: Thomson Learning. Rowe, W. L. (2009). Plantinga on the ontological argument. International Journal on Philosophy of Religion, 65(2), 87–92.

13


All too skeptical theism William Hasker

Received: 13 August 2009 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 7 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract Skeptical theism contends that, due to our cognitive limitations, we cannot expect to be able to determine whether there are reasons which justify God’s permission of apparently unjustified evils. Because this is so, the existence of these evils does not constituted evidence against God’s existence. A common criticism is that the skeptical theist is implicitly committed to other, less palatable forms of skepticism, especially moral skepticism. I examine a recent defense against this charge mounted by Michael Bergmann. I point out that the Bergmannian skeptical theist is unable to determine concerning any event or feature of the world whether that feature or event is good or evil all-things-considered. Because of this the skeptical theist must abandon any attempt to act in such a way that the world becomes better rather than worse as a result. These, I claim, are seriously skeptical conclusions, and should cause us to be skeptical about skeptical theism itself. Keywords Skeptical theism · Evidential argument from evil · Inductive skepticism · Moral skepticism · Unjustified evil

Skeptical theism was devised as a strategy for blocking the evidential argument from evil against the existence of God. That argument alleges that there exist instances of evil that could not have been permitted by an all-good God. Skeptical theism replies that, due to our cognitive limitations, we cannot expect to be able to determine whether there are reasons which justify God’s permission of these evils. And since this is so, the existence of apparently unjustified evils does not constitute evidence against God’s existence.

W. Hasker (B) Department of Philosophy, Huntington College, Huntington, IN 46750, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

16


In the intensive discussion that has swirled around this topic, one line of criticism has increasingly come to the fore: it is alleged that the skeptical principles endorsed by skeptical theism commit the skeptical theist to other, unwelcome forms of skepticism—especially, skepticism concerning certain matters of morality. A major article defending skeptical theism against these charges has been published by Michael Bergmann, and the main business of the present paper will be to examine Bergmann’s defense.1 Before launching into this, however, it will be helpful to spend a little time on the formulation of the evidential argument from evil against which skeptical theism is directed. The evidential argument from evil The original, one might say classical, version of the evidential argument from evil was stated by William Rowe in 1979: 1. There exist instances of intense suffering which an omnipotent, omniscient being could have prevented without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. 2. An omniscient, wholly good being would prevent the occurrence of any intense suffering it could, unless it could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. 3. There does not exist an omnipotent, omniscient, wholly good being.2 In 1988, however, Rowe replaced this version of the argument with another: P. No good we know of justifies an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being in permitting E1 and E2 . Q. No good at all justifies an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being in permitting E1 and E2 . not-G: There is no omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being.3 Here E1 is the suffering and death of a fawn trapped in a forest fire; E2 is an actual case described by Bruce Russell, in which a five-year-old girl was raped, beaten, and strangled by her mother’s boy-friend. It is this latter version of the argument that has been prominent in some recent discussions, including those by skeptical theists. Rowe undoubtedly had his reasons for this shift in his argument, but I believe the earlier version provides more insight into the logical structure of the issues at stake. One problem is that (P) is inexplicit about at least one crucial point: what would it take for some good to justify an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being in permitting the evils in question? Unless we know the answer to that question we are unable to test premise (P) against E1 , E2 , and other examples. However, it is plain from other things Rowe says that what he has in mind is the same test implied in premise 1 Bergmann (2009). Page references in the text are to this article. Another significant article is Howard-

Snyder (2010). However, Howard-Snyder’s piece is devoted in its entirety to a single objection to skeptical theism, an objection which is not pursued in the present article. 2 Rowe (1979); quotation is from p. 2 in the Howard-Snyder volume. 3 See Rowe (1988), Rowe (1991), and Rowe (1996). Quotation is from Rowe (1996, p. 263).

13


17

(2) of the original argument: the suffering must be such that an omniscient, wholly good being could not prevent it “without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse.” Now, given that the being in question, namely God, is also supposed to be omnipotent, we must suppose that it is logically impossible for him to prevent the evil without losing the greater good, or permitting the equal or greater evil.4 That is to say, the good in question must be such that (a) the existence of the original evil is logically required for the good state of affairs to obtain, and furthermore (b) the goodness of the good state of affairs outweighs the badness of the evil state of affairs, so that the existence of the two together is an all-things-considered good. If this is the case we can say, following Roderick Chisholm, that the badness of the bad state of affairs is “defeated.”5 Similarly, the goodness of a good state of affairs can be defeated if there is an evil state of affairs which is logically necessitated by the good state of affairs, such that the evilness of the bad state of affairs outweighs the goodness of the good state of affairs. An important point to notice here is that the evil of an evil state of affairs is not defeated by its having as a causal consequence a state of affairs whose goodness outweighs the evil. For in that case an omnipotent being presumably could have obtained the good state of affairs in question without permitting the evil. Nor is a good state of affairs defeated by having an evil state of affairs among its causal consequences, for a similar reason: an omnipotent being could have prevented the evil state of affairs without surrendering the good. In the interest of generality, however, the requirement stated in (2) of Rowe’s argument should be broadened to include any serious evil; there is no reason to limit it to instances of intense suffering, though no doubt such instances will play an important role. Summing all this up, we can restate Rowe’s requirement for the justification of evils more formally: Rowe’s Requirement: An omnipotent, omniscient, wholly good being (that is, God) would prevent the occurrence of any serious evil unless he could not do so without thereby losing (without equivalent compensation) some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. A theist desiring to respond to the evidential argument from evil has several options available. She may admit that there is some evidence supporting the existence of evil that is inconsistent with the existence of God, but may insist that this evidence is outweighed by the evidence in favor of God’s existence. She may, on the other hand, offer candidates for the “greater good” that is served by God’s permitting evils to occur. No one supposes that she can, or should, identify the specific good obtained in most cases, but by offering a number of plausible candidates she can attempt to render credible the claim that there is some such greater good even in cases where we are unable to identify it. Or the theist may challenge Rowe’s Requirement itself, arguing that it is not implied, as is often supposed, either by the core tenets of theism or by the doctrines of some particular religion. Skeptical theism’s response, however, is “None of the above.” 4 There is a slight complication if we assume that the theory of divine middle knowledge is true and that

there are true counterfactuals of creaturely freedom (see 394f. n. 3). This complication does not have a significant impact on the argument being presented, so the matter will not be pursued further here. 5 See Chisholm (1990).

13

18


Bergmann’s skeptical theism According to Bergmann, “The skeptical theist’s signature move is a very natural one.” That move consists in rejecting the inference from “There are some evils that are such that humans can’t think of any God-justifying reasons for permitting them,” to “probably there aren’t any God-justifying reasons for permitting those evils” (p. 374), This inference is unconvincing, because “if God existed, God’s mind would be far greater than our minds, so it wouldn’t be surprising if God had reasons we weren’t able to think of” (p. 375), This objection, Bergmann thinks, is obvious enough that it would almost certainly be made by some student in an introductory philosophy class to which the evidential argument from evil was presented. The skeptical theist, however, is not an introductory student, and is prepared to submit some additional considerations in support of his objection to the inference noted above. Prominent among these considerations are the following three “skeptical theses”: (ST1 ) We have no good reason for thinking that the possible goods we know of are representative of the possible goods there are. (ST2 ) We have no good reason for thinking that the possible evils we know of are representative of the possible evils there are (p. 376). The bearing of (ST1 ) and (ST2 ) on the evidential argument from evil is clear: If (as may well be the case) there are possible goods and evils of which we know nothing, it may very well be that these unknown-to-us goods and evils provide precisely the reasons that justify God in permitting the evils we do know about. Another important principle is: (ST3 ) We have no good reason for thinking that the entailment relations we know of between possible goods and the permission of possible evils are representative of the entailment relations there are between possible goods and the permission of possible evils (p. 376). Later on, Bergmann introduces yet another skeptical principle (ST4 ) We have no good reason for thinking that the total moral value or disvalue we perceive in certain complex states of affairs accurately reflects the total moral value or disvalue they really have (p. 379). (ST4 ), according to Bergmann, is not needed to make the skeptical theist’s case, but it provides “an additional consideration that supports the lesson taught by (ST3 ) – namely, that there may be a God-justifying reason for permitting E1 and E2 among the goods and evils we know of” (p. 380). Given these skeptical principles, then, the inference made in the evidential argument from evil is readily seen to be unwarranted—or so it seems. Bergmann goes on to say quite a bit more about the skeptical theist’s stance on various issues; in particular, he shows how the principles (ST1 )–(ST4 ) apply to a variety of formulations of the evidential argument from evil. A full discussion of (ST1 )–(ST4 ) would occupy more space than is available here, but some additional consideration is called for. First, a point of clarification: (ST1 )– (ST3 ) speaks of the goods, evils, and entailment relations we know of as “representative” of all possible goods, evils, and entailment relations. But “representative” in

13


19

what way? Bergmann explains that they are (or are not) representative “relative to the property of figuring in a (potentially) God-justifying reason for permitting the inscrutable evils we see around us” ( p. 377, italics in original). A question that may be asked about (ST1 ) and (ST2 ), however, is this: for whom are the possible goods and evils in question a benefit or a harm? (I take it as axiomatic that any good (or evil) state of affairs must consist of some actual or possible benefit (or harm) to some rational or sentient being.) If we are thinking of possible benefits and harms for God and his holy angels, it seems extremely plausible that we know very little about them. But on the other hand, it does not seem at all plausible that these are the goods and evils that justify God in permitting inscrutable evils. It would hardly do to suppose that God was justified in permitting the Holocaust because of some incomprehensible-to-us benefit derived from it by God and his angels! To say that would create a new problem of evil worse than the one we are trying to solve. As applied to intelligent extraterrestrials (if any exist), the plausibility of kinds of good and harms that are unknown to us is harder to evaluate. No doubt such beings would be like us in some ways and unlike in others; it’s hard to go beyond that with any confidence. But here we have strong empirical evidence (in the form of the negative results from the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) against the idea that such extraterrestrials are sufficiently involved with human affairs to make goods or harms to them plausible candidates for God-justifying reasons with respect to the evils that afflict human beings. But finally, what about goods or harms to human beings? Here, I submit, (ST1 ) and (ST2 ) are not very plausible at all. The idea that there are major sorts of goods and harms that are possible for human beings, and figure prominently in God-justifying reasons, but that are completely unknown in all human history and experience—this, I believe, is something that we might countenance as at most a bare speculative possibility, but have little reason to see as being in any way plausible. It’s true, to be sure, that the higher levels of spiritual development, which arguably represent the greatest goods of which humans are capable, are realized only rarely and imperfectly in human experience, and many of us have at best a faint grasp of what they may involve. But any reasonable treatment of the problem of evil must consider these as “possible goods we know of”; indeed, they figure prominently in some of the theodicies that have actually been offered. I believe, therefore, that the plausibility of (ST1 ) and (ST2 ) is greatly reduced once we ask the question, “benefits or harms for whom?” Bergmann, however, has contested this claim. William Rowe had argued that “the goods for the sake of which much human suffering is permitted will include conscious experiences of those humans, conscious experiences that are themselves good.”6 Bergmann responds to this with yet another skeptical principle: (ST∗1 ) We have no good reason for thinking that the possible goods we know of that involve conscious human experience are representative of the possible goods there are that involve conscious human experience.7

6 Rowe (1986, p. 283). 7 Bergmann (2001, p. 284).

13

20


This principle, Bergmann claims, is plausible for the same sorts of reasons that (ST1 ) is plausible. And if it is true, then we can’t exclude unknown sorts of benefits to human beings from the possible goods that might justify horrendous evils afflicting humans. I do not believe this move can succeed. First, we should, following William Rowe, include among “known goods” the possibility of a human being’s “experiencing complete felicity in the everlasting presence of God.” This counts as a known good because we have some grasp of what it would involve, even though a full grasp of this is impossible for us in our present state.8 I believe, furthermore, that it accords with Christian theology to hold that this is the greatest and best good that is possible for human beings. Nothing in that theology, however, indicates that this enormous good logically requires the suffering of horrendous evil by those who will enjoy it. Now, for Bergmann’s argument to work, we have to suppose that there are very great goods, distinct from “complete felicity in the everlasting presence of God.” goods that are completely unknown to us, which logically require that those who benefit from them have undergone horrendous evil, and which are sufficient, in each case in which such evils have been suffered, to defeat the horrendous evil the person has suffered. If these goods came to such persons in our present life, they would presumably not be wholly unknown to us. But if they are to be found in the life to come, two additional problems arise: First, what if anything could be added to the experience of complete felicity that adds enough additional value to defeat a person’s horrendous suffering? But second, the supposition that all horrendous suffering is defeated in this way comes into conflict with the teaching of all the major Christian churches, and apparently of the Bible as well, that not all persons (and not all who undergo horrendous suffering) will in fact enjoy a happy eternal life. In this way Bergmann’s argument may bring him into conflict with the very religious worldview it is his purpose to defend. Another point that deserves to be emphasized is the strongly anti-inductive character of (ST1 )–(ST3 ). Each of these, in effect, forbids us to make a certain sort of inductive generalization, from a group of items we know about to a broader group including the same sorts of items both known and unknown. Now, inductive generalization is an absolutely fundamental component of the human cognitive apparatus. Without the capacity to make such generalizations we could not even survive, let alone develop intellectually. It’s true, of course, that inductive generalization can yield falsehoods as well as truths; it’s for good reason that “hasty generalization” is recognized as an informal fallacy. In fact, a good deal of human cognitive development consists precisely in our learning to make a more subtle and discriminating use of this faculty of generalization. (ST1 )–(ST3 ), however, take us in an entirely different direction. They don’t just urge us to be discriminating in the sorts of generalizations we accept concerning goods, evils, and entailment relations; they forbid us entirely to make such generalizations, no matter how extensive our experience and reflection, and that of others with whom we consult. Such a headlong skeptical assault on a major piece of our cognitive apparatus should not pass unchallenged.

8 Rowe (1996, p. 264).

13


21

To be sure, (ST1 )–(ST3 ) do not forbid the use of inductive generalization across the board, but only with respect to certain goods, evils, and entailment relations. It is conceivable, then, that there might be good reasons for rejecting absolutely such generalizations in this range of cases, while permitting it elsewhere. In another article, Bergmann argues this point by comparing the generalizations in question (concerning the goods and evils that there are) to generalizations in cases where we are able to make a fairly complete survey of the reference class in question, a survey that would be extremely likely to bring exceptions to our attention if they exist. (An example that is given is “There are no blue crows in Indiana.”)9 Now it is true that this is the sort of inductive generalization in which we have the greatest degree of confidence, and the generalizations at issue in skeptical theism are not of this kind. But the reasonable use of inductive generalization is not and cannot be limited to such cases. We always begin the process of generalization by reasoning “from the know to the unknown.” Sometimes we are able to follow up with the sort of comprehensive survey that is possible in the blue crow case (thousands of experienced bird-watchers have visited every section of Indiana, and not one has reported a blue crow), and sometimes we are not. In the latter sorts of cases we have less confidence in the result than in the former, but induction confers warrant in both sorts of cases; what differs is the degree of warrant, not its existence. “All crows are black” and “All swans are white” both began life as reasonable inductive inferences even though much of the territory that might harbor exceptions had not been visited. The generalization about crows has held up (so far as I know), while the one about swans was refuted when Europeans reached Australia, but both were initially reasonable, well-founded conclusions. Bergmann’s argument, however, requires that the sorts of generalizations impugned by (ST1 ) and (ST2 ) confer no warrant whatsoever. This, I submit, is a seriously skeptical conclusion, and one he has not adequately defended.10 Is skeptical theism too skeptical? Earlier we saw that the theist wishing to respond to the evidential argument from evil has a number of options open. It’s also true that there are various possible ways in which to respond to skeptical theism itself. One way would be to devise a version of the evidential argument that does not fall prey to the skeptical theist’s defense. (Bergmann considers several attempt to do this, and concludes that none of them succeeds.) Or, one might criticize the skeptical theses (ST1 )–(ST4 ) as being overstated and excessive. (I’ve made a beginning on that sort of objection in the previous section.) 9 See Bergmann (2001, pp. 288–291). 10 The early Christians reasoned thus: “Jesus rose from the dead. He could not have done that except for

the power of God; his resurrection demonstrates that God was with him and approved of his mission and message.” It’s too bad the well-known philosopher, Mikaelos Bergmanos, was not on hand to show them the weakness of this reasoning. He had only to point out to them the evident truth of (STVI ) We have no good reason for thinking that the natural causal processes we know of are representative of the natural causal processes there are, where “representative” means, representative with respect to being such as to enable a dead person to come back to life.

13

22


One of the most important, and most persistent, sorts of objections to skeptical theism is that this view, and the arguments given in its support, commit the skeptical theist to other, unwelcome forms of skepticism. For example, it has been suggested that the skeptical theist is vulnerable to skepticism about the existence of the past and/or the existence of the external world, since we are unable to tell whether God may have some good reason for permitting us to be deceived about such matters. Most frequent, however, are the charges that skeptical theism commits one to an unacceptable skepticism about values and morality. Even here, however, there are multiple possibilities to consider. One fairly popular line is to argue that, if we accept skeptical theism, we have reason not to prevent suffering in cases where it seems intuitively obvious that we have a duty to do just that.11 After all, if God has permitted someone to suffer, there must be a good reason (though one unknown to us) why their suffering is a good thing all-things-considered, and if so it would be counterproductive for us to prevent the suffering. I believe there is some merit in this argument, but it is not conclusive. Bergmann points out that there might be deontological principles that forbid us to permit great suffering in order to promote a “greater good”—principles that apply to us but not to God, the omniscient and loving creator of the suffering persons (see 391–394). My approach in this section is to begin with one case where Bergmann admits the charge of moral skepticism to be correct, though it is not in his view damaging. We will then look more broadly at the sort of moral skepticism implied by skeptical theism, ending by pointing out a possible incoherence in Bergmann’s stance on these matters. The point conceded by Bergmann concerns “some arguments for God’s existence based on identifying something as an all-things-considered good – even in the light of its consequences.” For instance, if the order one sees in the natural world or the joy one witnesses in people’s lives is identified as reason to think that there is a good being who is the cause of such things, one is failing to take into account the lessons of (ST1 )–(ST4 ). Given our cognitive limitations, we simply don’t know what evils may be entailed by those good things and this prevents us from being able to conclude that they are all-things-considered goods that an omnibenevolent being would bring about (p. 389). Bergmann continues, “The skeptical theist’s response to this charge should, I think, be to accept it” (p. 389). He goes on to say that we might have other ways of learning that something is an all-things-considered good, for instance by divine revelation. But the sorts of theistic arguments described above collapse under pressure from (ST1 )–(ST4 ). Now, the loss of the specific kind of theistic argument specified by Bergmann need not, perhaps, be greatly regretted. What I believe we should focus on, however is the extremely sweeping and profound value-skepticism entailed by the skeptical theist stance. We are, in his view, unjustified in identifying any aspect of the world as an all-things-considered good—or as an all-things-considered evil—on the basis of our 11 This is the objection pursued in Howard-Snyder (2010).

13


23

observation of the aspect in question and its known entailment relations. (Hereafter, I will refer to a state of affairs that is good as judged by its intrinsic character and known entailment relations as a prima facie good, and likewise for prima facie evils.) As applied to specific cases, this is likely to strike us as incredible, even outrageous. Think of some happy, healthy, family that is known to you. Do you not believe that, overall, the world is a better place because of the existence of this family, with its relationships of love and mutual concern between parents and children, and the general human flourishing of all concerned? Would it not strike you as unacceptable for someone (Bergmann, for instance!) to insist that for all we know the world might be a much better place had nothing of the sort ever existed? And on the other hand, take some instance of truly horrendous evil—the examples are not scarce, so make your own choice among them—and ask yourself, how plausible is it that the prevention of this horrendous evil would not have improved the state of the world, but might actually have made it worse than it is? Could this apparently terrible event really have been an “all-things-considered good that an omnibenevolent being would bring about”? (To be sure, there may be some readers who are committed to the view that even the most horrific evils are, when properly understood, all-things-considered good. What I am attempting to do here is to arouse our awareness of how extremely counterintuitive this view really is.) Now to Bergmann’s credit, he does not deny that the prima facie good state of affairs really is good in many ways, nor does he deny that the horrendous evil really is evil. With regard to the latter, he states that “When we see or learn of utterly horrific suffering, the sensible and appropriate response is to be extremely upset that it has occurred and, with deep feeling, to think ‘There had better be a good reason for God, if he exists, to permit that suffering; if there isn’t, then there is no perfectly good God”’ (p. 388). The catch comes, however, when we consider the states of affairs in question in the light of their entailment relations with other goods and evils. Since, according to (ST1 )–(ST4 ), we have no idea what those entailment relations may be, we are completely at a loss to determine whether the existence of that happy family, taken as a whole, is a bane or a blessing—and similarly for that horrific suffering. Now I submit that, confronted by this argument, one’s response ought to be to question (ST1 )–(ST4 ) and/or the conclusions derived from them, rather than give up our strong natural conviction that we do have, in a great many cases, good reason to conclude that some things really are good all things considered, and some other things really are all-things-considered bad. Where, in such cases, is our skepticism most plausibly, and most profitably, directed? Our tendency towards being skeptical of the conclusions derived from (ST1 )–(ST4 ) may be reinforced when we consider that the goods and evils that are relevant here must be goods and evils that are connected by logical necessity to the states of affairs in question. The possible evil states of affairs that might outweigh the goodness of the happy family must consist of states of affairs that are logically necessitated by the existence of that happy family. If in later years one of the family’s children goes wrong and becomes a cause of great suffering for others, this is surely tragic. But it does not undermine the all-things-considered goodness of the family’s life together, because the good family life did not logically necessitate the turn of that person towards evil. And on the other hand, the good states of affairs that might outweigh the horrific evil must be good states of affairs that logically require

13

24


the existence of that particular evil, or of some other evil at least as bad. Now, no doubt there do exist in some cases such outweighing evils and goods, states of affairs that are logically related in the required way to the original good and evil states of affairs. But it seems enormously implausible that in a great many, even most situations involving conspicuous good and evil, the goods and evils are outweighed and defeated in the way described. That at least is what we all ordinarily think; we ordinarily suppose that, when we see a good state of affairs with no discernable evil entailments, it is very likely that the state of affairs in question really is good all-things-considered; and similarly for egregiously evil states of affairs that, so far as we can tell, are not logically required for goods that are commensurate in their value with the evils. This, however, is denied outright by the skeptical theist, and I submit that this denial constitutes a major kind of moral skepticism. You might, however, be wondering whether the skeptical theist really is obliged to take the rather extreme position we’ve been discussing. In order to see why this stance is required, we need to consider Bergmann’s response to an argument first put forward by Richard Swinburne.12 Begin by considering some case of egregious evil—perhaps the rape and murder of a small child—concerning which it seems extremely improbable to you that there is any good state of affairs for which this atrocity is logically required, and which is sufficiently good to outweigh the terrible evil involved. Then, consider the implications of Bergmann’s principles (ST1 )–(ST4 ). In the light of these principles, the following possibilities occur to you: 1. We may fail to recognize the existence of some good state of affairs that is made possible, or some evil that is averted, because this instance of evil is not prevented. 2. We may fail to grasp the logical connection between this particular evil and some good that is made possible, or some evil that is averted, as a result of its not being prevented. 3. We may fail to evaluate properly the moral significance of this evil state of affairs, or of the good that is made possible, or of the evil that is averted, by its not being prevented. In view of our liability to error in all of these ways, you may think that it is less certain than you had previously supposed that this terrible event, tragic though it undeniably is, is an instance of all-things-considered evil. However, this train of thought seriously underestimates the skeptical implications of (ST1 )–(ST4 ). We need to keep in mind also the following possibilities: 4. We may fail to recognize the existence of some additional evil state of affairs that is made possible, or some good that is prevented, by this instance of evil. 5. We may fail to grasp the logical connection between this particular evil and some additional evil that is made possible, or some good that is prevented, as a result of its not being prevented. 6. We may fail to evaluate properly the moral significance of this evil state of affairs, or of the further evil that is made possible, or the good that is prevented, by its not being prevented. 12 See Swinburne (1988, 27f).

13


25

Now, the point made by Swinburne is that (ST1 )–(ST4 ) give us no reason whatever to think that we are more likely to err in the ways specified by (1)–(3) than in the ways specified by (4)–(6). If the sorts of errors specified by (1)–(3) predominate, there may be fewer all-things-considered evils in the world than we are inclined to suppose— even, in the limiting case, none at all. On the other hand, if the errors specified by (4)–(6) predominate, there may be more all-things-considered evils than we suppose even in our darkest moments. Swinburne rightly asks, “Why should our inadequacies of moral belief lead us to suppose that the world is worse rather than better than it really is?”13 And since the skeptical theist principles (ST1 )–(ST4 ) say nothing about which sorts of errors are more likely, they give us no reason to alter our original judgment about the presence of all-things-considered evil, either in this case or in a great many others. Lacking any reason to think we are more likely to err in one direction than in the other, says Swinburne, the skeptical theist’s maneuver is worthless. Bergmann’s response is that Swinburne has misconceived the point of the skeptical theist’s strategy. The skeptical theist does not propose (ST1 )–(ST4 ) in order to lower our original probability estimate concerning the presence of all-things-considered evil in this or that case. Rather, the intent is to entirely discredit that estimate. He writes, “But in fact, the skeptical theist’s response is that we aren’t justified in thinking the probability judgment initially appears the way Swinburne says it appears. Clear thinking and reflection on (ST1 )–(ST4 ) reveal that there’s no particular value or range (short of the range between 0 and 1) that the probability in question appears to be” (p. 388).14 It is clear that Bergmann’s answer here, if accepted, successfully undermines the evidential argument from evil. One can’t expect the conclusion of an argument to be accepted on the basis of premises concerning which one has no idea whether they are at all probable. It is also clear that, even apart from Swinburne’s counter-argument, it is much more satisfactory if theists can reject altogether the judgments concerning the probability of instances of all-thingsconsidered evil, instead of merely reducing those probabilities. For suppose someone, under the influence of (ST1 )–(ST4 ), should find her probability for the judgment that the child’s rape and murder are all-thingsconsidered evil reduced to as little as 20%. Ironically, this result would be nearly as threatening for theism as if the probability were rated much higher, say at 80% or more. This is because of the well-known fact that there are vastly many instances that most of us would be initially inclined to classify as all-things-considered evil. If the probability that there are outweighing goods for a single instance of prima facie gratuitous evil is set at 0.8, the combined probability that each of ten such instances is thus outweighed shrinks to 0.107—and given enough more such instances, the probability that each and every one of them is outweighed becomes vanishingly small. The enormous number of apparently gratuitous evils is a central feature of the entire situation, though it tends to be overlooked because of the tendency to examine one or two examples at a time.

13 Ibid., p. 27. 14 Bergmann does not intend to deny that a great many people are initially inclined to make the sorts of

probability judgments to which Swinburne is appealing. His claim is rather that these judgments are devoid of epistemic warrant.

13

26


Bergmann’s position here, however, may exact a price of its own. If we are to discredit entirely our probability-judgments concerning apparently gratuitous evil in the way described, it would seem that an additional assumption is required, as follows: (ST5 ) The relation between the prima facie goodness or badness of a state of affairs and its all-things-considered goodness or badness is completely random. That is to say, a prima facie good state of affairs is as likely to be evil all-thingsconsidered as a state of affairs that is prima facie extremely evil—and vice versa. If this were not so, one might argue, our judgments concerning the prima facie goodness or badness of a state of affairs would constitute evidence of its all-things-considered goodness or badness, and would confer probability on judgments concerning this. Bergmann, however, does not endorse (ST5 ) and does not agree that his view requires him to accept it.15 What he does accept, rather, is (ST∗5 ) The relation between the prima facie goodness or badness of a state of affairs and its all-things-considered goodness or badness is unknown to us (there may be a strong correlation, there may not be, we don’t know whether and how likely it is that there is such a correlation). That is to say, we have no idea how likely a prima facie good state of affairs is to be evil all-things-considered and we have no idea how likely a state of affairs that is prima facie extremely evil is to be evil all-things considered—and the same point applies with respect to how likely they are to be good all-things-considered.16 The upshot of this is that (ST∗5 ) makes an epistemological point; it disclaims entirely any knowledge (or even well-founded belief) on our part as to how likely it is that a state of affairs that is prima facie good will be good all-things-considered. However, Bergmann refuses to endorse (ST5 ) itself, which is not merely epistemological but makes a substantive assertion about the actual state of the world. But what of the argument suggested earlier: that if as a matter of fact there is a good (though not perfect) correlation between the prima facie goodness of a state of affairs and its goodness all-thing-considered, our judgments to this effect in particular cases will be reliable and therefore warranted? (On a Plantinga-style epistemology, one would say that our cognitive apparatus is “functioning properly” in such cases.) Bergmann’s response is that (ST5 *), which itself is based on (ST1 )–(ST4 ), constitutes an undercutting defeater for our belief, based on the prima facie goodness of a state of affairs, that the state of affairs in question is good all-things-considered. So even if (for example) the existence of the happy family referred to earlier is good all-thingsconsidered, a person’s belief that this is so is unwarranted because of the defeater (ST5 *). This is so even for someone who does not accept (ST5 *), because she ought to accept (ST5 *) even if in fact she does not accept it. She is in the same position as someone who believes, quite unreasonably, that the number of hairs on her head has a 6 as the last digit—and the belief happens to be true. Such a person does not in fact believe any proposition that is a defeater for this belief, but she ought to believe such a 15 My thanks to Michael Bergmann for clarifying his stance on these matters in correspondence. 16 Michael Bergmann, in correspondence.

13


27

defeater; she ought to realize, “It’s quite unlikely that the last digit is a 6, and I have no positive reason whatsoever to believe that it is.” And because of this, the proposition that she ought to believe is a defeater for her belief about the number of hairs on her head, and renders that belief irrational. Here, then, is the upshot: Bergmann has no idea whatsoever—and the rest of us ought to have no idea whatsoever—as to whether states of affairs that are prima facie good tend on the whole to be good all-things-considered. So even if the correlation does in fact hold, we are irrational to accept that it holds; if we are right and it does in fact hold, that is purely a matter of epistemic good luck. Is skeptical theism incoherent? Up to this point Bergmann’s position, while extremely skeptical on certain points, is at least coherent. In what follows, its coherence will be challenged. The problem we are concerned with arises in the section in which Bergmann responds to the charge that skeptical theism commits him to views which have a crippling effect on ordinary moral reasoning. In response, he sets out a proposal for how skeptical theists (and others) can go about making moral decisions. He notes that “we may have some duties that constrain our behavior independently of the consequences of our actions”—thus, we need not assume a thoroughly consequentialist approach to ethics. However, he acknowledges also that “it is often very important in making moral decisions that we consider the consequences of our actions – the good and the harm that we think will result from our choices” (p. 392). He goes on to say, we aren’t morally bound to do what in fact has the overall best consequences (since we typically can’t determine that). What is relevant are the likely consequences we have some reason to be confident about after a reasonable amount of time and effort aimed at identifying the expected results of our behavior. If, after such consideration, a particular course of action seems clearly to maximize the good (or minimize the bad) among the consequences we’re able to identify and we non-culpably and reasonably take ourselves to have no overriding consequence-independent obligation to refrain from that action, then that action is a morally appropriate one for us to perform (p. 392). Now, Bergmann’s proposal here strikes me as admirable; skeptical theists, and others, who follow this prescription will be in a good position for making practical moral decisions. In the present context, however, an important question presents itself: Why are “the likely consequences we have some reason to be confident about after a reasonable amount of time and effort aimed at identifying the expected results of our behavior” relevant to moral decision-making? What is the moral significance of the fact that “a particular course of action seems clearly to maximize the good (or minimize the bad) among the consequences we’re able to identify”? To be sure, the answer to these questions may seem obvious. And for most of us, I believe, the obvious answer is the correct one. However, this obvious answer cannot apply in the case of the skeptical theist. For most of us, the course of action suggested by Bergmann is appropriate because it represents the best we can do in order to make things better

13

28


rather than worse overall—as we sometimes say, to “make the world a better place.” For the skeptical theist, however, this reason does not apply. This is because the skeptical theist sees no reason whatever to think concerning any particular action that it will make the world a better place—or, for that matter, a worse place. So far as he can see, the effect of any of one’s actions on the overall goodness or badness of the world is completely random—that is, we don’t know that it is in fact random, but any assumption to the contrary would be altogether lacking any warrant or justification. Why, then, should it matter whether the foreseeable consequences of an action are good, bad, or indifferent? There simply is no reason to think that the apparent goodness or badness of the foreseeable results of an action have any particular relation to the all-things-considered goodness or badness of the action and its consequences.17 Given all this, it seems evident that the decision to perform the action whose foreseeable consequences are prima facie best represents for the skeptical theist an arbitrary preference—a choice which, while certainly not reprehensible, is not motivated by any considerations that can claim moral significance. And it is here, I claim, that we can find a certain incoherence in the Bergmannian skeptical theist’s approach to morality: In his moral decision-making, he gives a central role to a procedure which, given his assumptions, is lacking in moral significance, namely that the action should be chosen (deontological considerations aside) that has the foreseeable consequences that are prima facie best.18 The rest of us may very well do what the skeptical theist recommends, by following his procedure for moral decision-making. But our position in doing this varies greatly from his own. Most of us—including, I’ll wager, skeptical theists in their off-duty moments—assume that the results of our actions we are cognizant of, after sufficient investigation and reflection, are likely to be typical, with respect to their moral value, of the total results of those actions. And if those actions pass muster as being prima facie good, we assume that they are likely to be good-all-things-considered as well. Feeding a hungry child is more likely than not—in fact is much more likely than not— to make the world a better place rather than a worse place. There is no certainty here, of course; surprises are always possible. But in general, we think, this relation between known consequences and total consequences holds with a fair degree of reliability.

17 One might be tempted to reason like this: “Well, I know (or have good reason to believe) that the foreseeable consequences of my action will be good – so we are at least that much ahead, even if I have no idea about the goodness or badness of the unforeseen consequences.” This would be a mistake. If the foreseeable consequences are, as it were, “money in the bank,” and the contribution of other, unforeseen consequences is entirely unknown, then we do have some reason to suppose that the goodness or badness of the action all-things-considered will be aligned with its prima facie goodness or badness. But the skeptical theist is committed to denying this, so he must maintain that the prima facie goodness or badness of the foreseeable consequences is in no way relevant to what we should think about the all-things-considered goodness or badness of the total consequences. 18 When asked (in correspondence) about the point of guiding our actions by the value of their foreseeable consequences, Bergmann replied: “I don’t have a long answer. The point or objective is just that this is what we morally ought to do – namely, perform actions which have significantly better reasonably foreseeable consequences than the reasonably foreseeable consequences of alternatives we know of (after a reasonable amount of consideration). This is what we ought to do even though we have no idea what the actual or likely all-things-considered consequences of the contemplated actions would be.”

13


29

The skeptical theist, however, believes precisely the opposite, so he has no moral justification for relying on the value of known consequences as a guide to action. It is here, I believe, that we finally see the full extent of the skeptical theist’s moral skepticism. If he is to remain consistent with his skeptical principles he must abandon the aim of maximizing the good and minimizing the bad. He must do this because, in his judgment, no information is available concerning the all-things-considered goodness or badness of any state of affairs whatsoever. It really does not matter how much reliable information may be available concerning the empirically observable consequences of a given action. Whatever those consequences may be, and however accurate one’s information concerning them, it remains the case that we are completely unable to make even a reasonable guess concerning their goodness or badness all-thingsconsidered. This crucially important aspect of ethical reasoning simply drops out entirely. Where moral reasoning is concerned, skeptical theism is All Too Skeptical. References Bergmann, M. (2001). Skeptical theism and Rowe’s new evidential argument from evil. Nous, ˆ 35(2), 228–296. Bergmann, M. (2009). Skeptical theism and the problem of evil. In T. P. Thomas & M. Rea (Eds.), The oxford handbook of philosophical theology (pp. 374–399). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Chisholm, R. M. (1990). The defeat of good and evil. In M. M. Adams & R. M. Adams (Eds.), The problem of evil (pp. 53–68). New York: Oxford University Press. Howard-Snyder, D. (2010). Epistemic humility, arguments from evil, and moral skepticism. In J. Kvanvig (Ed.), Oxford Studies in the Philosophy of Religion. (pp. 17–57). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Rowe, W. L. (1979). The problem of evil and some varieties of atheism. American Philosophical Quarterly, 16, 335–341 (Reprinted in D. Howard-Snyder (Ed.), The evidential argument from evil. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Rowe, W. L. (1988). Evil and theodicy. Philosophical Topics, 16, 119–132. Rowe, W. L. (1991). Ruminations about evil. Philosophical Perspectives, 5, 69–88. Rowe, W. L. (1996). The evidential argument from evil: a second look. In D. Howard-Snyder (Ed.), The evidential argument from evil. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Rowe, W. L. (1986). The empirical argument from evil. In R. Audi & W. Wainwright (Eds.), Rationality, religious belief, and moral commitment. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Swinburne, R. (1998). Providence and the problem of evil. Oxford: The Clarendon Press.

13


Easy to remember?: genocide and the philosophy of religion John K. Roth

Received: 10 May 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 9 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract Philosophers of religion have written a great deal about “the problem of evil.” Their reflections, however, have not concentrated, at least not extensively or sufficiently, on the particularities of evil that manifest themselves in genocide. Concentrating on some of those particularities, this essay reflects on genocide, which has sometimes been called the crime of crimes, to raise questions such as: how should genocide affect the philosophy of religion and what might philosophers of religion contribute to help check that crime against humanity? Keywords Roméo Dallaire · Darfur · Catherine Filloux · Effects · Genocide · Raphael Lemkin · Murder · Philosophy of religion · Religion · The Sixth Commandment · United Nations “Genocide,” short; easy to remember. The day it got into Webster’s was the happiest day of my life. Raphael Lemkin in Catherine Filloux’s The G Word

Philosophers of religion have written a great deal about “the problem of evil.” Their reflections, however, have not concentrated, at least not extensively or sufficiently, on the particularities of evil that manifest themselves in genocide. Concentrating on some of those particularities, this essay reflects on genocide, which has sometimes been called the crime of crimes, to raise questions such as: how should genocide affect the philosophy of religion and what might philosophers of religion contribute to help check that crime against humanity?

J. K. Roth (B) Claremont McKenna College, 500 East 9th St., Claremont, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

32


The G word Persistently protesting against genocide, Catherine Filloux is a gifted contemporary dramatist whose works include a short play called The G Word. It creates an encounter between a thinly disguised General Roméo Dallaire—his heroic efforts to stop genocide were thwarted by international inaction that included reluctance even to use the G word to identify the genocide that engulfed Rwanda in 1994—and Raphael Lemkin, who had coined that fateful G word fifty years earlier. In Filloux’s exchange between the two men, Lemkin reflects on his word creation as follows: “‘Genocide,’ short; easy to remember. The day it got into Webster’s was the happiest day of my life.”1 This purported moment of happiness came after another event that, arguably, gave Lemkin much more satisfaction. On December 9, 1948, the United Nations took a corrective action to identify a crime that not long before had been nameless and lacking recognized existence in international criminal codes. With its approval of the 1948 Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, the United Nations not only defined the concept to include a variety of acts “committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial, or religious group, as such” but also officially criminalized genocide in international law. It took some time for dictionaries to catch up with Lemkin and the United Nations. According to Steven L. Jacobs, who has studied Lemkin’s papers extensively, on or about February 13, 1950, Lemkin received a letter from the G. and C. Merriam Company of Springfield, Massachusetts. It said that the word genocide would appear in the 1950 Addenda Section of the second edition of Webster’s New International Dictionary. The correspondence further stated that Webster’s definition of the term, not written explicitly by Lemkin himself but basically according with his broad understanding of the term’s meaning, would be as follows: “The use of deliberate, systematic measures such as killing, bodily or mental injury, unlivable conditions, prevention of births calculated to bring about the extermination of a racial, political, or cultural group or to destroy the language, religion, or culture of a group.” Still further, the correspondence from the dictionary company noted that genocide “is also entered and defined in Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, although the definition is, of necessity, a shorter one.”2 1 I quote from the typescript that Catherine Filloux generously shared with me in the spring of 2006. The

performance of The G Word takes about fifteen minutes. The scene is a subway car. A ghostly Lemkin confronts the general, convincing the post-traumatically stressed officer not to take his own life but to honor the courageous dead by turning his haunting memory of them into ongoing resistance. Samantha Power states that “Lemkin proudly brandished the letter from the Webster’s New International Dictionary that informed him that ‘genocide’ had been admitted.” She does not give the letter’s date, nor does she indicate when the word first appeared in Merriam-Webster’s. Power does note the following: “Genocide was incorporated into the French Encylopédie Larousse in 1953 after approval from the French Academy. The Oxford English Dictionary first listed ‘genocide’ as an entry in the “Addenda and Corrigenda” section of the 1955 update to the third edition.” While Lemkin’s term was gradually incorporated into other languages and dictionaries without much modification, this practice was scarcely uniform, and his word was often translated in ways that did not capture his intended meanings. According to Power, the typical German rendering of the term, for example, is Völkermord, or “murder of a nation.” See Power (2002, pp. 44, 525 n. 44). 2 My account is indebted to Jacobs (2002, p. 99).

13


33

My search to find the date that Filloux’s play calls the happiest of Lemkin’s life produced some additional results of interest. For example, Merriam-Webster maintains an Internet newsletter called Word.Com. Genocide, the term and the reality, got attention in its posting for May 2006. “The ongoing conflict in the Darfur region of Sudan,” said Word.Com, “has led to the deaths of hundreds of thousands and has left another two million people homeless. In September 2004, then-Secretary of State Colin Powell labeled the killings genocide; last month’s protests over the conflict moved that word to the 77th position on the most-looked-up list.”3 Curiosity aroused, I clicked on the link for the April 2006 “top twenty” list of words that had been looked up at Web sites for the collegiate and unabridged editions of the Merriam-Webster dictionaries. The top two words for that month were quite ordinary but frequently confused and confusing. The first was effect, a word that usually functions as a noun, referring to an outcome or a result, but which can also be a verb, meaning “to make happen, produce.” The second was affect, a word that usually functions as a verb, meaning “to influence, have an effect on.”4 As I thought about these meanings and the distinctions among them, questions began to form. They have helped me to identify at least some of the points that need to be made in response to a topic that requires philosophers of religion to bite off more than we can chew: namely, genocide and the philosophy of religion. Here are three clusters of those questions: (1) What has been the effect of genocide, what happens when genocide goes into effect, what takes place when genocide is effected? (2) How has genocide affected humanity, and how should it affect men and women today? (3) How should genocide affect the philosophy of religion and what might philosophers of religion contribute to help check that crime against humanity? While no single inquiry can cover all of the facets and implications of these three question-clusters, perhaps my brief and idiosyncratic take on them can make a start. Some effects of genocide Books are among the effects of genocide. One example is a volume called Century of Genocide, which I have used in my teaching and research.5 It is not the only book of its kind, but like the term genocide itself, the existence and proliferation of such studies are fairly recent. Something else, however, may be even more striking: studies of genocide, in books or other formats, have to be updated. The updating is necessary not only because research about the past uncovers instances of and details about genocide that may not have been previously recognized but also because perpetrators find new places and occasions to effect genocide, to bring it about. Still other reasons why updating may be necessary for a book such as Century of Genocide may be found in the realm of politics. Not for the first time, the United States House of Representa3 For further information, see http://www.word.com/collegiate/archives/2006/05/beyond_the_dict_4.html.

Accessed May 7, 2010. 4 For further information, see http://www.word.com/collegiate/archives/2006/05/april_top_twent.html.

Accessed May 7, 2010. For the distinction between effect and affect, my inquiry included the “Glossary of Troublesome Expressions” in The Chicago Manual of Style (2003, p. 198). 5 See Totten et al. (2009).

13

34


tives Foreign Affairs Committee voted on March 4, 2010, to condemn as genocide the decimation of the Armenians by the Turks during World War I.6 Owing to political pressure from the Obama administration, as well as from Turkey, a key American ally, this initiative did not gain further traction. But if the United States, to say nothing of Turkey itself, were eventually and officially to recognize the Armenian genocide for what it was and is, then that advance would be a good reason for at least a chapter of Century of Genocide to be revised. Originally published in 1997, a second edition of Century of Genocide had to be published for a different reason in 2004, namely, the first edition had appeared before genocidal events erupted in Kosovo and the Darfur region of Sudan. A third edition appeared in 2009. Probably fourth and fifth editions will sooner or later be required. The effects of genocide have not stopped. To the contrary, genocide has gone on and on. It likely will continue to do so. The 2009 edition of Century of Genocide has chapters that discuss at least seventeen genocidal cases. Organized within the book more or less in chronological order, although some of the instances took place more or less concurrently, those cases of genocide include: (1) the obliteration of the Hereros in German South West Africa; (2) the Turkish onslaught against the Armenians; (3) the Soviet Union’s man-made famine in Ukraine; (4) the destruction of the European Jews; (5) the Third Reich’s decimation of Sinti and Roma (Gypsies); (6) the Nazi assault on disabled peoples; (7) anti-Communist massacres that took place in Indonesia in 1965–1966; (8) massive killing unleashed by Indonesian military forces in East Timor; (9) Pakistani atrocities in Bangladesh; (10) the 1972 bloodbath in Burundi; (11) the devastation carried out in Cambodia by Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge later in the 1970s; (12) the genocidal violence carried out by the Guatemalan government in the 1980s; (13) the physical and cultural genocide of indigenous peoples at various times and places before and during the twentieth century; (14) Saddam Hussein’s murderous operations against the Kurds; (15) the Hutu campaign against Tutsi in Rwanda; (16) the savagery that engulfed Bosnia Herzegovina and Kosovo in the 1990s; and (17) the twenty-first century genocide in Darfur. These cases are predominantly from the twentieth century, and when studies of them are collected under the title Century of Genocide, there is no ambiguity about which century is primarily intended. But where genocide is concerned, the title Century of Genocide is not without an ambiguity that is as dismal as it is instructive. Century of genocide? Which one, it could be asked. For sure, the twentieth century qualifies as a century of genocide, signifying—at least in part—that modern means and mentalities are needed to effect genocide, to unleash it on the scale and scope that genocide’s twentieth-century perpetrators made all-too-real. But as the book’s third edition suggests, the twenty-first century may be one of genocide as well, and arguably, centuries prior to the twentieth and twenty-first might qualify as genocidal too, even though 6 See Knowlton (2010). The prospect of using the G word to identify what the Ottoman Turks did the

Armenians has long outraged the Turkish government. For example, in response to the House Foreign Affairs Committee’s action on March 4, 2010, the Turks recalled their ambassador to the United States. On the presidential campaign trail, Barack Obama used the G word to identify the catastrophe that befell the Armenians, but following the practice of his predecessors in the White House, he bowed to the Turkish government and avoided using the word genocide in his presidential remarks on April 24, 2010, the Day of Remembrance that marked the 95th anniversary of the Armenian genocide. See Poirer (2010).

13


35

their scale and scope in that regard may have been smaller. Lemkin knew as much, for despite the fact that he coined the word genocide to refer to the “modern development” of intentional group elimination, he acknowledged that the term also denoted “an old practice.”7 The genocide scholar Kurt Jonassohn answers the question “how old?” by contending that “attempts to eliminate entire groups of people have probably been a part of human conflicts for the past 10,000 years.”8 No one, of course, knows for sure when the first genocide may have occurred, but allusions to early examples can be found in the Hebrew Bible, which highlights a factor that turns out to be persistent in genocide and a key issue for the philosophy of religion: namely, that whenever genocide takes place, religion is involved—before, during, and after—in one way or another.9 In some of the biblical narratives, the elimination of a group even appears to be commanded by God. That prospect should make philosophers of religion wonder. Such wondering can include asking about the motivations that play important parts in putting genocide into effect. Jonassohn and his colleague Frank Chalk have argued persuasively that genocide—ancient or modern—typically involves one or more of at least four motivational drives. They contend that perpetrators commit genocide (1) “to eliminate a real or potential threat”; (2) “to spread terror among real or potential enemies”; (3) “to acquire economic wealth”; or (4) “to implement a belief, a theory, or an ideology.”10 To those claims it should be added that religion can be, and often is, an agitating factor, if not a central one, in any and all of those motivations. Precisely how religion may be a factor in those ways requires, of course, careful study of the particularities of each genocidal situation. There is no one-size-fits-all where the relationship between genocide and religion is concerned, which should alert philosophers of religion that the devil is always in the details where “the problem of evil” is concerned. Meanwhile, no effect of genocide is more pronounced than death itself. So the following question looms large: How much death has genocide, ancient and modern, effected? The answer to that question is one that nobody—except God?—knows precisely. One reason is that genocide’s toll cannot be confined to numbers, even if the numbers of dead could be fully tabulated, which they will never be. Genocide targets groups; individuals die in genocide because they are identified in terms of and sentenced to death because of group membership. So when one tries to calculate genocide’s death toll, calculations of the incalculable are unavoidably involved. How much Armenian life did the Turks destroy? How vast was the destruction of the European Jews? How extensive was the damage to Tutsi existence as Hutu machetes did their

7 Lemkin (1944, p. 79). 8 Jonassohn (1999, p. 518). 9 Biblical references that point to cases that, arguably, could be considered instances of genocide—figu-

rative or literal—include the following: Deuteronomy 2:31–34, 3:1–7; Joshua 6:20–21, 8:1–29; 1 Samuel 30:1–19; and Judges 20. For an intriguing and philosophically problematic attempt to deal with such narratives and their implications, see Cowles et al. (2003). Also relevant in this context is Rittner et al. (2004). 10 Chalk and Jonassohn (1990, p. 29). Also relevant here are Goldhagen (2009) and Waller (2007).

13

36


worst? What losses are accumulating for tribes in Darfur as the catastrophe inflicted by Khartoum and the Janjaweed continues to unfold? Not only individual lives are taken by genocide but also cultures and traditions are imperiled if not destroyed. In one sense, genocides are rarely completely successful. They destroy not so much “in whole,” to use the language of the United Nations, but “in part.” In the latter regard, however, genocides are quite effective. Among their effects is the memory they leave in their wake, which can encompass unspeakable rape and sexual violence. Memory makes genocide survivors recall that their identity includes being a member of a group that was targeted for annihilation while too little was done to prevent or intervene against that lethal effect. Such memory, moreover, often involves the anguished presence of an absence that includes awareness of what might have been as one ponders the loss of family and friends and what their decimation means as far as a group’s future and vitality are concerned. A people’s resilience against those losses can be remarkable, but the losses and their aftereffects do not go away, at least not completely. At the end of every genocidal day, the losses do add up. Some number approximates, if not totals them, even if no one knows what it is. Millions?—without question. Tens of millions?—little doubt. Even more than that?—probably so. At the very least, the number is immense and growing. Whatever it will turn out to be, the figure signifies a stupendous human failure. It God exists, it is unlikely that such failure lacks divine dimensions too, “free will defenses” of God notwithstanding. The effects of genocide are immeasurable. No restitution, reparation, or legal proceeding can redeem them—can God?—although the modicum of justice that may be retrieved from the ruins of genocide demands commitment to pursue those efforts. Meanwhile, at least one more effect of genocide should be mentioned. Its point can be put as follows: Paradoxically, the crime of genocide, and of our naming of that crime with the word genocide in particular, creates puzzles, problems, and disagreements that can hinder efforts to prevent or to intervene against it. To illustrate aspects of this effect, note that Genocide: A Comprehensive Introduction, a book published by Adam Jones in 2006, contains more than fifteen definitions of genocide, a number that could be enlarged.11 Developed by creditable scholars between 1959 and 2003, the definitions compiled by Jones have much in common, for they all indicate that genocide entails group destruction. In detail, however, the definitions are not in agreement, and they often collide with the one propounded in the 1948 United Nations Convention. In Jones’s catalog, for example, Henry Huttenbach’s entry is perhaps the broadest in scope: “Genocide is any act that puts the very existence of a group in jeopardy.” Huttenbach’s statement minimizes intentionality, which is emphasized in other definitions that define genocidal destruction as deliberate, planned, organized, purposeful, and so on. The definitions that underscore variations on the theme of intentionality do not, however, pin down the meaning of their terms to everyone’s satisfaction. Significant differences also exist in the ways these definitions identify the targets of genocide. Some accounts refer to human collectivities or minority groups; others refer more

11 See Jones (2006, pp. 15–18).

13


37

specifically to national, racial, sexual, religious, tribal, economic, or political groups, but the definitions’ categories are not identical. Other differences, too numerous and complex for elucidation here, exist as well.12 Suffice it to say, as Scott Straus points out, that the concept of genocide does not have a one-size-fits-all function. “From its inception,” he observes correctly, “genocide has been an empirical, moral, legal, and political concept.”13 The effects of that development are multiple, but two of them are (1) that genocide is a contested concept and (2) that debate about its meaning and application may even hamper efforts to intervene against the harm that perpetrators inflict. For related reasons, Benjamin Valentino argues that it may make sense to find ways to dispense with the term genocide and to replace it with another. His suggested substitute is mass killing, which he defines as “the intentional killing of

12 For a reliable source of additional information in this area, see Straus (2001). Also helpful is Shaw (2007b). In addition, see Martin Shaw’s article (Shaw 2007b) “Genocide: Rethinking the Concept,” which is available at http://www.opendemocracy.net/globalization-vision_reflections/genocide_4309.jsp. Accessed May 7, 2010. The analysis in Shaw’s article cuts in two directions. First, while acknowledging that labeling atrocities genocide is insufficient to ensure intervention against and punishment for the crime, the use of other terms—including “humanitarian crisis,” “civil war,” or “ethnic cleansing”—to identify situations that are genocidal, can also “confuse and defuse effective international responses.” These terms, Shaw thinks, are often employed because of a “longstanding trend to narrow the definition of genocide itself,” a trend that (1) rejected Lemkin’s broad understanding of genocide as involving social destruction and (2) concentrated too exclusively on outright killing. Thus, while conditions that stop short of unrelenting killing are bad, they might not be considered that bad. In the recent past, the “logic” that circumstances are “only” those of a “humanitarian crisis” (Darfur), “civil war” (Rwanda), or “ethnic cleansing” (the Balkans) has given too much cover to perpetrators and bystanders alike. Second, contending that there is no substitute for calling events what they are, and that more events qualify as genocide than people would like to admit, Shaw also argues that the concept of genocide must be clarified. He contends that the following factors, at least, are among those that need attention: (1) Lemkin erred in assuming that types of groups—ethnic or national, for instance—are straightforwardly defined. In fact, group definition is much more a function of perpetrator decisions. Those decisions depend more on power interests than on classifications somehow rooted in the order of things. (2) Lemkin erred further by implying that physical attacks on targeted populations are only a single factor in genocide. In fact, extensive violence is central in genocide, even if its forms include “wounding and rape as well as murder.” (3) Important though it is, perpetrator intentionality is usually neither single-minded nor thoroughly consistent, and it will be misunderstood if viewed in those ways. In Shaw’s view, intentionality evolves in response to events, and it usually begins to effect genocide only after other controlling initiatives have failed. In particular, the intention to commit genocide tends to emerge out of political and armed conflict. At this point, Shaw underscores that, prior to and during genocide, targeted populations are not passive victims. They usually do their best to frustrate their enemies by resistance of one kind or another, including armed force. In genocidal situations, the violence is often and largely one-sided, but Shaw recommends a revised outlook that emphasizes what he calls “uneven conflict.” This point is important because it helps to clarify that genocide can be taking place even in circumstances where a targeted population is doing everything in its power to resist and even having significant impact in that direction. Shaw concludes that “a broader, more coherent sociological approach to genocide . . . must develop to help us meet the challenges of our times.” He acknowledges that his structural approach to genocide entails a sociological outlook more than a legal one. His article does not indicate how his perspective might become operational in a legal sense. His 2007 book makes some progress in that direction, but obviously more work in this area is needed. 13 Straus (2001, p. 359).

13

38


a massive number of noncombatants.”14 Valentino tries to elude the problem of determining intentionality by broadening that concept to include reasonable expectation that enacted policies would result in widespread death.15 Unfortunately, that move scarcely puts ambiguity to rest. As for his “massive number” category, which is intended to circumvent the idea that genocide has to target an entire group or some percentage of it, Valentino thinks that “a massive number [can be] defined simply as at least fifty thousand intentional deaths over the course of five or fewer years.” When Valentino adds that “these specific numerical criteria are to some extent arbitrary,” his understatement does little to convince that his substitution of mass killing for genocide is likely to fulfill the promise he offers for it. A perplexing effect of genocide, then, is that there may never be a fully adequate definition of the term, at least not if we expect universal agreement about its meaning and about how to apply its meaning to the particularities of political circumstances.16 The struggle to prevent genocide, to intervene against it, to prosecute its perpetrators may have to go on without the luxury of settled definitions. Such work will be daunting, for those who commit genocide will take advantage of the ambiguities that always give genocide room to hide. No doubt work will continue to refine genocide’s definition, but it would be folly to be hesitant to act while genocide’s toll rises. Facing the question, “What is genocide?” we are apparently left to say that we cannot define it to everyone’s satisfaction. Nevertheless, enough has been effected, enough has been seen, to make clear that genocide refers to a reality that deserves no more victories. Philosophers of religion need to do their part for that cause. Again, no one-size-fitsall exists here, but in the teaching and writing that philosophers of religion do, each philosopher has contributions to make if the will to act on them is mustered.17 Like so much else in human experience, more than half the battle depends on the force of will to say, in spite of imperfect definitions, that genocide is taking place there and it must be stopped, or that genocide is likely to take place here and it must be prevented. Failing such determination, yet another effect of genocide may be in store, namely, that the answer to the question “What is genocide?” is likely to be, in a word, unending. Will genocide ever end? Genocide’s effects affect people in various ways. Its effects lead perpetrators to deny that they are producing them, to evade responsibility for them, and to try to escape punishment when the tide turns against them. Meanwhile, women, children, and men who are targeted by those who commit genocide are definitely affected as they lose life in all sorts of ways. Rescuers and relief workers engage in dangerous and sacrificial 14 Valentino (2004, p. 10). Goldhagen (2009) argues in a related vein, favoring eliminationism as his term

of choice. 15 Valentino (2004, p. 11). 16 For more detail on this point and those that follow, see Roth (2002). 17 For good examples of how some philosophers, including philosophers of religion, have responded to

this challenge, see Patterson and Roth (2004, 2005), Roth (2005), and Brudholm and Cushman (2009).

13


39

efforts to reduce suffering, save lives, and to keep at least glimmers of hope alive as well. At the very least, genocide fatigue affects them. Genocide affects political leaders, too, but they deplore genocide rhetorically, often without using the G word, more than they prevent and resist it effectively. At least in post-Holocaust times, scholars are moved to hold conferences about genocide, to write and publish about it, often at great length, and to provide “early warnings” about where genocide may next erupt. Professors like me feel compelled to teach and write about genocide. At the time of this writing in 2010, genocide affects people in still other ways: students rally, marches are held, television announcements appear, anti-genocide organizations are formed and sustained—all of them determined to curb genocide if not to bring that scourge to an end. Thus far, those efforts have not overcome the inertia and indifference that help to make genocide continue. That fact should arouse the attention of philosophers of religion. In many cases, genocide affects people by causing depression and despair along with death. How could it not? That question, however, ought to be taken as more than a rhetorical flourish that underscores how devastating genocide’s effects turn out to be. To turn the question “How could it not?” in that way, I want to concentrate on a basic point about religion. It is true that religion can be a key part of the problem where genocide is concerned. Religion can separate people; it can legitimate violence that is genocidal. Yet it is also true that religion could be a powerful and persuasive force in genocide prevention, and if the quality of religious life improved by becoming less exclusive and more inclusive, then the odds in favor of prevention and intervention against genocide would improve as well. These points are ones, I believe, that philosophers of religion do well to emphasize. One way in which religion can exert influence in this direction involves renewed emphasis on a basic ethical teaching, although what I am pointing toward is easier said than done. “You shall not murder”—in one way or another, implicitly if not explicitly, all religions have a version of the injunction that is found in the Ten Commandments as they are recorded in the Hebrew Bible’s Book of Exodus.18 No ethical conviction is more fundamental than murder is wrong, which is the most necessary, although not sufficient, condition for human civilization. The Sixth Commandment, as Jews and Christians often call it, is unequivocal and absolute. Allowing no exceptions, it does not say, “Murder is wrong in situation X, but it may be permissible in situation Y.” Murder, the commandment entails, is wrong—period. The United Nations’ definition indicates that genocide can take place without direct murder, but typically genocide is no less an occasion for murder than is the case with homicide. If human beings obeyed the Sixth Commandment, it is unlikely that what we commonly identify as genocide would exist, let alone continue. The Sixth Commandment, of course, has neither functioned nor fared nearly as well as humankind and God should desire. It has had some normative effect; probably the Sixth Commandment has to some extent put a braking effect on humankind’s propensity for violence. Arguably, however, an honest historical appraisal leads to the conclusion that the most distinctive quality about the Sixth Commandment is the extent to which 18 In the paragraphs that follow in this section, I draw upon my essay “What Have You Done? Wrestling with the Sixth Commandment.” See Roth (2007).

13

40


it has been violated—disregarded, dismissed, and disrespected. Coupled with those characteristics, one must add that the Sixth Commandment has never been backed sufficiently by credible sanctions, divine or human, that would ensure full respect for and obedience to it. Genocide can affect people by making them think that religion’s injunctions against murder, and therefore against genocide, are scarcely credible. Yet, and this turning is of vital importance, the apparent weakness of religion’s imperatives against murder means that checking, if not ending, genocide depends on letting genocide affect us in ways—religious ones among them—that bring about a more robust and international commitment to the quintessential ethical truth that murder is wrong. The Sixth Commandment, or versions of it, will continue to be the imperative that is the most necessary, although not sufficient, condition for human civilization. No less clear is the fact that this commandment will continue to be violated, often immensely and with a large measure of impunity. Furthermore, if there is a God or divinity that prohibits murder, it also seems clear that this source can or will do relatively little, if anything, to stop human beings from committing genocide. The philosophy of religion needs to take that realization with the utmost seriousness. The Jewish philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, who lost much of his family in the Holocaust, insisted that “You shall not murder” means nothing less than “you shall defend the life of the other.”19 The Sixth Commandment and the task that Levinas rightly identifies as following from it show that nothing human, natural, or divine guarantees respect for either of those imperatives, but nothing is more important than making them our key responsibility, for they remain as fundamental as they are in jeopardy, as vitally important as they are threatened by humankind’s genocidal destructiveness and indifference. A postscript In 1935, several years prior to Raphael Lemkin’s invention of the term genocide and long before Catherine Filloux’s script for The G Word had him say, “‘Genocide,’ short; easy to remember,” Nazi Germany’s Nuremberg Laws stripped German Jews of citizenship, established race as the fundamental legal principle in German life, and eventually helped to pave the way toward the Holocaust, the genocide that annihilated most of Lemkin’s family and ravaged Emmanuel Levinas’s as well. While those steps were taken in 1935, American movie-goers could see a now-forgotten film called Mississippi. If that film remains noteworthy at all, it because the song-writing team, Richard Rogers and Lorenz Hart, composed music for its soundtrack, including a ballad, made popular by Bing Crosby, that is still a kind of American “standard.” The song was called “It’s Easy to Remember,” a theme coupled with the line that follows, “But so hard to forget.” “It’s easy to remember”—Lemkin did want his word genocide to be like that.20 Perhaps the compact commandment “You shall not murder” was intended to 19 Levinas (2001, p. 192). 20 See Power (2002, pp. 40–45).

13


41

have the same quality. In both cases, the theme “but so hard to forget” may fit as well. If so, the relationship is far more fraught than the one that Rogers and Hart grasped in their song about love lost and hope crushed. Lemkin’s word may be easy to remember, but it is a question—a good one for the philosophy of religion—whether remembering genocide, really remembering it, is easy at all. Put another way, it is not so hard to forget that genocide has happened and that it is happening as we speak. The Sixth Commandment is easy to remember, but it is also a question whether remembering that commandment, really remembering it, turns out to be easy after all. Put another way, it is not so hard to ignore those words or to forget that remembering them means little so long as genocide is permitted, which is another crucial dilemma for the philosophy of religion to consider again and again. And yet, the part about being so hard to forget still has its haunting impact, for in both cases—with the word genocide and the commandment that prohibits murder—forgetting is very hard indeed because it exacts a cost that no one should demand or have to pay. How should genocide affect humankind, including philosophers of religion? Genocide should be both so easy and so hard to remember that the impossibility of forgetting it compels the action needed to bring genocide at least closer to ending. Religion and the philosophy of religion have key parts to play in that process because they are sources—not the only sources but vital ones—for reminding and convincing us deep down that murder is wrong and encouraging us to live and act accordingly. References Brudholm, T. & Cushman, T. (Eds.). (2009). The religious in responses to mass atrocity: Interdisciplinary perspectives. New York: Cambridge University Press. Chalk, F., & Jonassohn, K. (1990). The history and sociology of genocide: Analyses and case studies. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Cowles, C. S., Merrill, E. H., Gard, D. L., & Longman, T. (2003). Show them no mercy: 4 views on God and Canaanite genocide. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan. Goldhagen, D. J. (2009). Worse than war: Genocide, eliminationism, and the ongoing assault on humanity. New York: Public Affairs. Jacobs, S. L. (2002). Genesis of the concept of genocide according to its author from the original sources. Human Rights Review, 3, 98–103. Jonassohn, K. (1999). The sociology of genocide. In I.W. Charny (Ed.), Encyclopedia of genocide (Vol. 2). Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO. Jones, A. (2006). Genocide: A comprehensive introduction. New York: Routledge. Knowlton, B. (2010). House panel says Armenian deaths were genocide. New York Times, March 4, 2010. Lemkin, R. (1944). Axis rule in occupied Europe: Laws of occupation, analysis of government, proposals for redress. Washington, DC: Carnegie Endowment for International Peace. Levinas, E. (2001). In the name of the other. In J. Robbins (Ed.), Is it righteous to be?: Interviews with Emmanuel Levinas (pp. 188–199) (M. V. Gedney, Trans.). Stanford CA: Stanford University Press. Patterson, D. & Roth, J. K. (Eds.). (2004). After-words: Post-Holocaust struggles with forgiveness, reconciliation, justice. Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Patterson, D. & Roth, J. K. (Eds.). (2005). Fire in the ashes: God, evil, and the Holocaust. Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press. Poirer, J. (2010). Obama calls 1915 Armenia massacre an atrocity. Washington Post, April 24, 2010. Power, S. (2002). “A problem from hell”: America and the age of genocide. New York: Basic Books. Rittner, C., Roth, J. K., & Whitworth, W. (2004). Genocide in Rwanda: Complicity of the churches. St. Paul, MN: Paragon House.

13

42


Roth, J. K. (2002). The politics of definition. In C. Rittner, J. K. Roth, & J. M. Smith (Eds.), Will genocide ever end? (pp. 23–29). St. Paul, MN: Paragon House. Roth, J. K. (Ed.). (2005). Genocide and human rights: A philosophical guide. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Roth, J. K. (2007). What have you done?: Wrestling with the sixth commandment. In R. Van Harn (Ed.), The ten commandments for Jews, Christians, and others. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Shaw, M. (2007a). Genocide: Rethinking the concept. Open Democracy, February 1, 2007. Shaw, M. (2007b). What is genocide?. Malden, MA: Polity Press. Straus, S. (2001). Contested meanings and conflicting imperatives: A conceptual analysis of genocide. Journal of Genocide Research, 3, 349–375. The Chicago manual of style (15th ed., 2003). Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Totten, S., Parsons, W. S., & Charny, I. (Eds.). (2009). Century of genocide: Critical essays and eyewitness accounts (3rd ed.). New York: Routledge. Valentino, B. A. (2004). Final solutions: Mass killing and genocide in the twentieth century. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press. Waller, J. (2007). Becoming evil: How ordinary people commit genocide and mass killing (2nd ed.). New York: Oxford University Press.

13


Philosophy of religion, fictionalism, and religious diversity Victoria S. Harrison

Received: 26 April 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 4 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract Until recently philosophy of religion has been almost exclusively focused upon the analysis of western religious ideas. The central concern of the discipline has been the concept “God”, as that concept has been understood within JudaeoChristianity. However, this narrow remit threatens to render philosophy of religion irrelevant today. To avoid this philosophy of religion should become a genuinely multicultural discipline. But how, if at all, can philosophy of religion rise to this challenge? The paper considers fictionalism about religious discourse as a possible methodological standpoint from which to practice a tradition-neutral form of philosophy of religion. However, after examining some of the problems incurred by fictionalism, the paper concludes that fictionalism and religious diversity are uneasy bedfellows; which implies that fictionalism is unlikely to be the best theory to shape the practice of philosophy of religion in a multicultural context. Keywords Fictionalism · Realism · Comparative philosophy of religion · Religious language · Religious diversity Introduction Philosophy of religion has attracted a resurgence of interest over the past few decades. Nevertheless, the discipline is currently afflicted by, what many would describe as, a state of crisis.1 Those working in the field enjoy little agreement over their answers to basic questions, such as: What is philosophy of religion? What are its goals? What is its legitimate scope? What constitutes good practice in philosophy of religion? After 1 For one account of this crisis see Trakakis (2008).

V. S. Harrison (B) Department of Philosophy, University of Glasgow, Glasgow, G12 8QQ Scotland, UK e-mail: [email protected]

13

44


considering what has engendered the current crisis, I will outline two rival approaches to philosophy of religion—John Schellenberg’s and Nancey Murphy’s—both of which provide very different answers to these basic questions about the nature of the discipline. After identifying the main points of disagreement between Schellenberg and Murphy, I consider a proposal which may satisfy some of the key concerns motivating both of their positions. The proposal in question is that fictionalism be adopted as the methodological standpoint with which to reshape philosophy of religion for service within the multicultural context in which it is practiced today.2 But before addressing this proposal, allow me first to explain what, in my view, has caused the current crisis in the discipline. Philosophy of religion as a distinct discipline within western philosophy traces its pedigree back to the philosophical critique of religious ideas which was a hallmark of the European Enlightenment, and which was exemplified by philosophers such as Immanuel Kant and David Hume. While philosophical thinking about religious ideas, beliefs, and practices certainly took place prior to this period, arguably, it is anachronistic to view that as philosophy of religion and more appropriate to describe it as philosophical theology. Philosophical theology, as the intellectual precursor to philosophy of religion, is exemplified in the work of Anselm of Canterbury and Thomas Aquinas.3 There is an obvious historical explanation of the fact that the scope of philosophy of religion, as the discipline came to be defined by the tradition originating in the European Enlightenment, encompassed almost exclusively Christian beliefs—notably, Christian beliefs concerning the existence and nature of God. A standard curriculum in an undergraduate philosophy of religion course during the twentieth century would include topics under the following broad headings: arguments for the existence of God; arguments about the attributes of God; problems generated by the concept of God (e.g., evil and the Euthyphro dilemma); and problems concerning faith and belief in God. All of this was no doubt appropriate to the academic and cultural contexts within which the discipline evolved. However, much has changed within academia over the last few decades. We can no longer assume that what was appropriate in the past will remain so today. Indeed, increasing levels of cross-cultural awareness now make the limited scope of, what I will call, the “old style” of philosophy of religion untenable; and changes in the standard university curriculum are beginning to reflect the changed context within which the discipline is taught and practiced today. Philosophy of religion is now practiced, and must be taught, in a globally aware, multicultural intellectual milieu. Consequently, a very rapid expansion of its scope has been and continues to be required; in responding to the needs of this changed context, philosophy of religion has become, in some important respects, almost unrecognizable when compared to the way it was just a few decades ago. What might be regarded as 2 The view I consider here is that fictionalism be adopted as a theoretical framework for the discipline of

philosophy of religion. This view of fictionalism should not be confused with the very different claim that fictionalism is the best theory to explain how religious language is actually used. 3 Admittedly, the line between philosophy of religion and philosophical theology is difficult to draw. One

suggestion might be that philosophy of religion is marked by a critical spirit in a way that philosophical theology is not. Philosophers of religion and philosophical theologians may thus be distinguished by the attitude they adopt to the objects of their philosophical inquiries, rather than by the objects themselves.

13


45

the gestalt switch the discipline is currently undergoing seems to be motivated by the growing realization that in the current intellectual climate it seems both anachronistic and arbitrary to regard philosophy of religion as exclusively concerned with the concept of God central to Abrahamic forms of theism. John Schellenberg has recently argued that philosophical “concern ought to be not only with theistic religion but with the central type of which it is an instance”.4 In other words, he argues that philosophers of religion should investigate religion; not just one particular form of religion—that form which, historically, happens to have been predominant in Western Europe. In Schellenberg’s view, philosophy of religion is just like any other branch of philosophy that is a “philosophy of X”. Just as a philosopher of science, for example, might need to start her inquiry by asking “What is science?”, so might a philosopher of religion need to begin with the question “What is religion?”5 Once a philosopher of religion focuses attention on what falls under the concept “religion”, obviously many new areas of potential philosophical inquiry will fall within her purview. What I will call, the “new style” of philosophy of religion is framed by the concept “religion”,6 whereas we might say that the old style of philosophy of religion is framed by the concept “God”. From the vantage point of this dramatically expanded horizon, the old style of philosophy of religion can seem almost irrelevant within today’s academy because of its presupposition that the philosopher of religion is only interested in a relatively limited range of questions arising from only one form of religion. Indeed, Schellenberg questions whether it ought to be regarded as philosophy of religion at all given that the inquiry lacks certain features which we would expect genuine philosophy to exhibit—principally, that of being motivated by curiosity on the part of a philosopher who is willing to seek out all available data relevant to a question.7 But it is precisely the expanded horizon of the field, and the multicultural environment which stimulated it, that has engendered the current crisis within the discipline. Disagreements about appropriate methodology, arising from the more basic tension between the old style and the new style of philosophy of religion, lie at the core of this crisis. 4 Schellenberg (2008, p. 24). 5 Schellenberg’s own answer to this question is couched in terms of, what he calls, “Ultimism”. See

Schellenberg (2008, pp. 23–25). For a more detailed treatment, see Schellenberg (2005). Evidence that Schellenberg’s view is widely shared is provided by the recent proliferation of articles and books on the subject of defining religion. See, for example, Harrison (2006a). 6 The new style of philosophy of religion will include within its scope arguments about traditional Abraha-

mic theism (i.e., the content of the old style of the discipline). However, it will also include arguments concerning non-theistic religions such as Theravada Buddhism and Daoism, as well as philosophical issues arising from traditions of Indian theism. Needless to say, this list is not exhaustive but merely indicates what the scope of the new style of philosophy of religion might be. The new style of philosophy of religion is, of course, already being practiced by some. See, for example, Griffith-Dickson (2000). One of the current challenges exercising those working within multicultural philosophy of religion is to chart the new terrain to be covered by the discipline. 7 Schellenberg makes this point with respect to Alvin Plantinga. His complaint is that Plantinga remains

doggedly focused on one very specific religious tradition (his own) and never looks outside this tradition in seeking to answer the questions on which he works. See Schellenberg (2008, p. 22). Ironically, Plantinga’s work is regarded by others as the epitome of current analytic philosophy of religion. See, for example, Trakakis (2008, Chap. 3).

13

46


Schellenberg argues that, despite its wider scope, the form and method of contemporary philosophy of religion remains (and should remain) the same as the form and method of, what I have called, the old style of philosophy of religion. The task of philosophers of religion is, in his view, simply to apply the general and universal methods of philosophy better to understand religion. The only difference between the old style of philosophy of religion and the new is one of scope. But, as we shall soon see, this characterization of what philosophers of religion do is highly contentious and it is one with which many philosophers of religion—Nancey Murphy being one example—would disagree.8 In contrast to Schellenberg, Murphy argues that philosophy of religion cannot simply broaden its scope and carry on as before; adding that, in the new multicultural context, philosophy of religion has become obsolete. Surely Schellenberg is correct that it is now appropriate to expand the scope of philosophy of religion. Nevertheless, there may also be a valuable insight behind Murphy’s intuition that philosophy of religion cannot simply broaden its scope and then go on exactly as before. Perhaps Schellenberg is insufficiently sensitive to the methodological issues raised by such an expansion of the field. However, to concede this much does not entail that one must agree with Murphy that philosophy of religion is now obsolete. Below I consider the possibility that key concerns of both Schellenberg and Murphy can be addressed by adopting fictionalism as the methodological standpoint with which to reshape philosophy of religion for service in a multicultural context. But before clarifying the disagreement between Schellenberg and Murphy, and looking at the alternative fictionalist proposal, I next briefly explain Murphy’s response to the question of how philosophy of religion should be practiced today.

Philosophy of religion is obsolete Murphy declares that philosophy of religion, as it was conceived and shaped by the tradition of the European Enlightenment, is no longer possible today because “[r]eligion is no longer seen as a topic to be studied within the field of philosophy; rather, philosophy should be seen as located within various traditions, some religious and some not”.9 In Murphy’s view, philosophy arises from and is practiced within religious traditions and therefore it cannot be applied to these traditions from without (as Schellenberg presumes that it can). She concludes from this that philosophy of religion cannot be transcultural. In other words, Murphy claims that there is no transcultural standpoint external to any particular religious tradition that a philosopher of religion could occupy to assess the beliefs of that tradition. Because philosophy of religion requires such an external standpoint from which the philosopher can critique and judge the beliefs located within specific religious traditions, the unattainability of such a standpoint entails that the practice of philosophy of religion is impossible. This is why Murphy claims that philosophy of religion is obsolete.10 8 See Murphy (2008). 9 Murphy (2008, p. 44). 10 See Murphy (2008, p. 32).

13


47

In Murphy’s view, then, philosophers of religion should be replaced by “[p]hilosophers with religious interests”.11 Such individuals can legitimately apply their philosophical abilities within a religious tradition. But this kind of philosophizing is inescapably and unashamedly internal to a religious belief system—in fact it is what, in the context of Christian thought, is known as philosophical theology. The content of the form of philosophical theology recommended by Murphy to replace philosophy of religion is co-extensive with the content of the old style of philosophy of religion, as that was described above, but with all the arguments concerning the existence of God subtracted.12 Murphy writes: For Christians the place of philosophy of religion is taken over in large part by what has been designated as philosophical theology. Philosophical theologians address nearly all of the same problems that philosophers of religion have, but without the pretence of being uncommitted to their point of view.13 According to Murphy’s proposal, then, a philosopher with religious interests will not be required to examine the basic presuppositions of her religious tradition. She will not, for example, be interested in the traditional arguments for the existence of God. Instead she will philosophize about the beliefs internal to her tradition.14 If such a philosopher does enter into debate with a philosopher from another tradition it can only, Murphy suggests, be with the aim of showing that her tradition is the superior one. In other words, what was formerly regarded as comparative or multicultural philosophy of religion should be rebranded as apologetics. As Murphy explains: Another successor discipline to philosophy of religion, one with a long history, is apologetics. If philosophical theology is scholarly work done within the tradition to overcome its internal crises, then apologetics is a closely related discipline that compares the Christian tradition to its competitors in the hope of showing one’s own tradition to be rationally superior.15 Murphy seems to have been led to hold this view on the obsolescence of philosophy of religion in large part by the observation that the discipline emerged from a specific intellectual tradition; namely, the western Christian philosophical tradition. Because philosophy of religion emerged from this tradition, she opines, it must remain tied to it and cannot legitimately be applied to the beliefs, ideas and practices of other religious traditions—as Schellenberg, and others, argue that it should. But herein seems to lie a key weakness in Murphy’s argument. Surely to assume that the origins of philosophy of religion should limit what is currently possible for the discipline is to commit 11 See Murphy (2008, p. 44). 12 Clearly philosophical theology, as Murphy conceives it, differs from philosophical theology as it was

practiced by earlier thinkers such as Anselm and Aquinas, both of whom did in fact advance and defend arguments for the existence of God. 13 Murphy (2008, p. 37). 14 Such a “philosopher with religious interests” might, for example, take a legitimate interest in the philo-

sophical puzzles generated by beliefs about God’s attributes. 15 Murphy (2008, p. 39).

13

48


the ontogenetic fallacy.16 Why should we assume that just because philosophy of religion evolved as a discipline focused on philosophical puzzles generated by western forms of theism, it cannot further evolve into a discipline capable of addressing the philosophical issues arising from other forms of religion? Before considering the alternative fictionalist proposal, the next section of this paper clarifies the disagreement between Schellenberg and Murphy. Two contrasting views I have claimed that there is little agreement among philosophers of religion about how to answer basic questions about the nature of their discipline. Such questions include: What is philosophy of religion? What are its goals? What is its scope? What constitutes good practice in philosophy of religion? The disagreement between Schellenberg and Murphy exemplifies two radically different stances on these basic questions. Schellenberg holds that philosophy is a potentially universal human activity, and that it is contrary to its nature to be tradition-specific. According to Schellenberg, one can acknowledge the obvious fact that the content of philosophical inquiry may differ according to what object the philosopher focuses on, without thereby being committed to the further idea that the form or method of philosophy also changes relative to the object to which it is applied. He takes it to follow from this that philosophy of religion, as a sub-branch of philosophy, is not tradition-specific; its content may well differ when it is applied to different religious traditions, but its form nevertheless will remain the same. Philosophy of religion is practiced, argues Schellenberg, when philosophical methods (the form of philosophy) are applied to different religious traditions. Philosophy is like the lens through which the philosopher of religion views Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and so on.17 The lens itself cannot be specific to any one of these religious traditions. Given this understanding, Schellenberg holds that a philosopher of religion who only focuses his attention on one religious tradition is working with a very limited amount of data, having selected only a small portion of that which is in principle available. He asserts that such narrowness of scope is inappropriate for someone genuinely seeking a deeper understanding— in other words, a philosophical understanding—of religion.18 Schellenberg further points out that restricting one’s focus in this way seems arbitrary and suggestive of intellectual timidity unbecoming of a genuine philosopher. Murphy disagrees with all of these claims. According to her, rationality, and hence philosophy, is unavoidably specific to some particular tradition.19 The Christian tradition, for example, comes with its own norms of rationality, and philosophy encapsulates these norms. Thus, she argues, philosophy cannot be applied to the Christian tradition 16 The mistake highlighted by this fallacy is the assumption that the origins of a thing determine what is possible in the future stages of its developmental trajectory and that normative claims can be made on the basis of the account given of its origins. 17 The image of philosophy as a lens is mine, not Schellenberg’s. 18 See Schellenberg (2008, p. 21). 19 In developing her view, Murphy is particularly indebted to MacIntyre (1988).

13


49

from a perspective outside that tradition. As we have seen, in her view tradition-independent philosophy of religion is impossible. Given this conviction, Murphy would reject the image of philosophy as the tradition-external lens which the philosopher of religion employs to study religious traditions. There cannot be any such lens, on her view. Murphy’s position begs the question though—What are philosophers of religion such as Schellenberg actually doing?20 What they think they are doing—applying the general methods of philosophy to a range of religious traditions—is not possible on Murphy’s view. If they are indeed doing what they claim to be doing, their work would seem to provide a reductio ad absurdum of Murphy’s position. It seems, then, that Schellenberg’s position is the stronger one. Philosophy of religion clearly can, and often does, take place from a standpoint external to any specific religious tradition. This is so notwithstanding the undeniable fact that many philosophers of religion do choose to focus their scholarly attention on philosophical issues generated by their own religious tradition. While choosing to specialize in a religious tradition that happens to be one’s own may be defensible on academic grounds, Schellenberg questions whether a philosopher of religion who merely seeks to defend the claims of his or her own religious tradition is genuinely practicing philosophy of religion at all. Such an activity seems more akin to philosophical theology, or even apologetics, than to a search for a deeper, philosophical understanding of religion. As such, it seems closer to the kind of philosophical activity Murphy prescribes—philosophy that is internal to some specific religious tradition. Consideration of the disagreement between Schellenberg and Murphy raises the following question. What is the difference between a philosopher of religion (if we assume, contra Murphy, that such exist) and a religiously-affiliated philosopher? Underlying this question is another: Can one just be a philosopher of religion, or does a philosopher of religion need to be, for example, a Christian philosopher of religion, an Islamic philosopher of religion,21 a Buddhist philosopher of religion,22 or even, perhaps, an atheist philosopher of religion? As we have seen, Murphy claims that only adopting a tradition-specific stance provides the philosopher with an intellectual foothold to philosophize about religion. Many others who write on this topic seem to agree. Discussions of, for example, Buddhist philosophy of religion seem easily to devolve into discussions of Buddhists practicing philosophy of religion. There is little clarity exhibited in many such discussions concerning the distinction between: Buddhist philosophy of religion; philosophy of religion focused on Buddhism; and a Buddhist practicing philosophy of religion.23 It seems likely that underlying this confusion is the often unstated conviction that one cannot just be a philosopher of religion, but that if one is to practice philosophy of 20 A steadily growing number of philosophers of religion have successfully adopted what, at least appears to be, a comparative or multicultural approach. Gwen Griffith-Dickson is one prominent example, see Griffith-Dickson (2005). Charles Taliaferro is another, see Taliaferro (1998, 2009). 21 On the possibility of philosophy of religion applied to Islam see Akhtar (2008). 22 On Buddhist philosophy of religion see Webster (2008). 23 I use the case of Buddhism here merely as an example. The same lack of clarity is evident in many

discussions concerning other religious traditions.

13

50


religion at all one must be a religiously-affiliated philosopher. In short, it seems that this aspect of Murphy’s position is taken to be the default view by many who contribute to the current debate about the nature, aims and scope of philosophy of religion. But Murphy’s argument points in what I regard as a dangerous and deeply unphilosophical direction. It promises yet more narrowness of scope and provincialism—legitimizing, as it seeks to do, the move towards philosophy of religion becoming even more exclusively focused upon the philosopher’s own religious tradition of choice. Much more attractive is Schellenberg’s broad and expansive vision of the discipline, which preserves the distinction between the philosopher of religion and the religious philosopher. But to facilitate the realization of this vision, philosophy of religion requires a methodology that will allow any philosopher—whatever his or her faith-tradition, if any—to focus his or her philosophical concern and curiosity on any area of any religion.24 In other words, a tradition-neutral theoretical framework for the discipline seems to be required; one that is sensitive to religious diversity and which does not presume in advance that only one tradition can be correct (and that the philosopher of religion knows which one it is!). This theoretical framework should allow, for example, a philosopher of religion who happens to be a Buddhist to direct his attention to philosophical problems generated by the Christian concept “God” without, because of his prior commitment to Buddhism, presupposing that such a God does not exist. Aware of the need for such a framework, and agreeing with Schellenberg that philosophers of religion should be concerned with a range of religious traditions, David Cheetham suggests that we need to rethink “the kind of philosophical disposition necessary” for philosophy of religion.25 He claims that philosophers of religion should engage in an “intentional forgetfulness” in which they “temporarily ignore” the real disagreements between their own convictions and those of the different systems of religious belief they wish to engage with philosophically.26 Although he doesn’t employ the term, Cheetham seems to be applying what could fairly be described as a fictionalist position to the religious domain.27 Fictionalism, like any philosophical position, comes in a number of varieties. Nevertheless, the core of the view is that claims made within some area of discourse are not to be viewed as literally true or false, but are to be regarded as contributing to a fiction.28 Cheetham’s proposal is particularly interesting and distinctive because, while, as we shall see, others have argued that fictionalism can be adopted by religious adherents 24 One might say that what is required if this is to be possible is meta-philosophical agreement on the rules of philosophical engagement. 25 Cheetham and King (2008, p. 115). 26 Cheetham and King (2008, p. 114). 27 This is further evident in his claim that “there is a constructive purpose in a certain disengagement” that allows the philosopher “to review, imagine and model the differences and commonalities between the various systems and objects of belief”. Cheetham and King (2008, p. 113). Although Cheetham recommends an identifiably fictionalist position, his endorsement of it is tempered by his commitment to a realist view which he thinks we should adopt when we are not engaged in comparative philosophy of religion. 28 For an introduction to fictionalism see Sainsbury (2010). See, also, Kalderon (2005). Fictionalism has been applied within a number of domains. For an example of its application to moral discourse see Kalderon (2007) and Joyce (2002); to mathematical discourse see Field (1980); and to scientific discourse see van Fraassen (1980).

13


51

with respect to their own first order religious discourse, he recommends its deployment as a methodological assumption required for the successful practice of comparative philosophy of religion. In the rest of this paper I explore the proposal that fictionalism be adopted by philosophers of religion as a device to facilitate comparative or inter-cultural work. A new theoretical framework for philosophy of religion Robin Le Poidevin has argued for an explicitly fictionalist interpretation of religious discourse.29 However, he only applies fictionalism to theistic discourse, thus his work falls under the heading of, what I have called, the old style of philosophy of religion. His view is that, with respect to the theistic hypothesis, the only two rational choices are atheism (which, as he rightly points out, presumes a realist stance towards the discourse) and fictionalism (which rejects a realist stance).30 It is significant that Cheetham’s proposal is much broader than that of Le Poidevin, in so far as Cheetham recommends that we apply fictionalism to a much wider domain—that of all religious discourse, not just theistic discourse. Whereas Le Poidevin argues for, what can be characterized as, “revisionary fictionalism”, Cheetham’s more far-reaching proposal is best described as “hermeneutical fictionalism”. In effect, Cheetham proposes that philosophers of religion adopt fictionalism as a hermeneutic principle with which to interpret their whole field of study.31 The core of this proposal is that philosophers of religion should interpret religious discourse in a non-descriptive, or non-realist way. Most, but by no means all, philosophers of religion in the analytic tradition have assumed some version of realism about the objects of religious discourse.32 Accordingly, they have assumed that the entities referred to by religious discourse (gods, angels, and so on) are to be taken at “face value”.33 In other words, the standard assumption is that if religious discourse appears to refer to entities, then it does—or at least it intends to. Religious discourse, on a realist view, is descriptive and hence truth-apt (although not necessarily true). The problem that the fictionalist proposal seeks to address is that the realist stance seems to stand in the way of reframing philosophy of religion for a multicultural 29 See Le Poidevin (1996, Chaps. 8, 9). Le Poidevin was not the first, however, to do so. Many regard Immanuel Kant as the first prominent religious fictionalist. More recently religious fictionalism has been explained and defended by Eshleman (2005). Peter Lipton has also recently defended fictionalism about first order religious discourse in an attempt to avoid the tension between scientific and religious claims. He argues that the religious person can avoid this tension by regarding scientific claims as fact stating and religious claims as part of a fiction. Lipton’s favoured version of fictionalism is an adaptation of Bas van Fraassen’s constructive empiricism—a position originally developed in the context of philosophy of science. See Lipton (2007). 30 To be precise, this was the view defended in Arguing for Atheism. Le Poidevin now appears to have renounced his earlier position. 31 For a comprehensive treatment of hermeneutical fictionalism see Stanley (2001). Although note that there are differences between Stanley’s use of the term and mine. 32 D. Z. Phillips constitutes a prominent exception. See, for example, Phillips (1986). 33 This is the phrase used by Bas van Fraassen and also employed Robin Le Poidevin. See van Fraassen

(1980) and Le Poidevin (1996, Chap. 8).

13

52


context. Why is this? It is because, due to the extensiveness of disagreement about religious claims, realism about religious discourse seems to entail that at most one religious tradition can be substantially correct, and thus it sets the philosopher’s task as finding out which tradition is the correct one.34 This task invites competitive comparison which, arguably, does not aid understanding and instead may encourage philosophers of religion to take an ideological stand as Christian philosophers of religion, or Muslim philosophers of religion, and so on. Interpreting all religious discourse as fictional would seem to avoid this problem. A fictionalist will view religious discourse as non-descriptive and hence as neither true nor false.35 Different religious discourses no longer need to be perceived as competitors for truth; but can instead be regarded as different fictions. Just as the discourses of Oliver Twist and Middlemarch are not competitors for truth but are merely different fictions, so are the discourses of Christianity and Islam, for example.36 On the fictionalist view, God is a fiction, as are heaven, hell and angels. Fictionalism is essentially an attitude towards such purported objects of religious discourse. But the fictionalist is not claiming (or, at least, need not be claiming) that these objects do not exist.37 Rather fictionalism has nothing to say about whether such objects exist or not—the fictionalist attitude can thus be characterized as one of ontological indifference.38 Should philosophers of religion adopt hermeneutical fictionalism then as the theoretical framework for the new style of philosophy of religion?39 At first sight it does seem that fictionalism as a second order theory about all first order religious discourse would be likely to promote comparative or multicultural philosophy of religion. Fictionalism, as Cheetham claims, would allow philosophers of religion genuinely to 34 Keith Yandell (1999) takes this approach, arguing that the core ontological commitments of several major religious traditions contradict each other, and concluding that at most one of these traditions can be correct. He then seeks to establish which of these traditions is in possession of the exclusively true ontological claims. 35 In this paper I am only concerned with forms of fictionalism that regard statements made within religious discourse as neither true nor false (in other words, as non truth-apt). Further complications arise in forms of fictionalism holding that statements can be “true” or “false” within the fiction. 36 If fictionalism about religious discourse is accepted, why not admit that such discourse is redundant? A fictionalist might say that, despite religious discourse’s lack of truth-aptitude, it is worth retaining because of its pragmatic value to transform lives for the better. Fictionalism is not a version of eliminativism with respect to the discourses to which it is applied. 37 Here fictionalism distinguishes itself from both error theory and positivism about religious discourse. Positivism holds that religious discourse, which seems to be about specifically religious objects, is really about something else (moral experience, perhaps). Error theory holds that religious discourse is about what it claims to be about, but that all of its claims are false because the objects they purport to refer to do not exist. 38 Some forms of fictionalism are at least in part motivated by the conviction that the objects featuring in some discourse or other do not exist. Nonetheless, there is no incompatibility between endorsing fictionalism about some area of discourse while being agnostic about the ontological claims made by that discourse. On the fictionalist’s attitude of ontological indifference see Yablo (2000) and Eklund (2005). 39 It might be objected that the proposal to use just one theory as the framework for philosophy of religion is guilty of methodological imperialism. But this objection can also be directed the other way. If philosophers of religion do not explicitly choose a single meta-theory they are likely merely to take one for granted; and the overwhelming presumption evident within the discipline is towards realism. If we cannot avoid adopting some meta-theory or other then surely we should choose the theory with the least ontological baggage. In this respect, the lightest theory would seem to be fictionalism.

13


53

engage imaginatively with a range of different traditions. Such engagement, as Cheetham argues, is surely necessary for successful comparative philosophy of religion. But the great advantage of this approach, in Cheetham’s view, is that it will allow religious ideas and arguments to be understood and evaluated within their native contexts without requiring, as Murphy’s position does, that the philosopher actually belongs to the relevant tradition. Cheetham, echoing Schellenberg, claims that “the philosopher’s duty is not so much to provide definitive answers or solutions, but to instil a spirit of enquiry and on-going critical dialogue….[T]he philosopher of religion is someone who helps to articulate, understand, explain and critique the beliefs that are held up by religions for our acceptance”.40 The point is that while religions are in the business of putting forward claims for our acceptance, philosophers of religion are not, or at least should not be. Fictionalism seems to be uniquely well positioned to allow philosophers of religion to draw a firm line between critical analysis of the claims made by religious believers and acceptance of those claims. We can make a helpful but non-exhaustive distinction here between two meanings of “acceptance”: (1) “acceptance” in the usual sense as the act of believing a claim, and (2) “acceptance” as entertaining a claim. A hallmark of fictionalism is its reliance on (2), which comes to the fore in the fictionalist’s conviction that it is possible to accept a proposition without believing it. Belief and acceptance, according to fictionalism, are two possible attitudes towards a proposition.41 In the context of discussions about religious claims it would seem rather disingenuous use the term “accept” when what we really mean is “entertain” (where entertaining a claim is roughly equivalent to accepting it for the sake of an argument). It would be preposterous to expect a comparative philosopher of religion to “accept”, in the sense of believe, all the first order claims made within a range of different religious discourses. Nonetheless it would not seem unreasonable for her to entertain them for the sake of arriving at an accurate understanding of the claims under scrutiny. Indeed, it may be impossible to arrive, as Cheetham suggests, at an accurate understanding of someone else’s philosophical or religious view unless one entertains the claims made within it. Mark Sainsbury gives the example of the atheist anthropologists who “in some sense presuppose a pantheon in their disputes about Mayan and Aztec gods; they accept that there are such gods for the purposes of their work, without believing this”.42 In the same way a Buddhist philosopher who wishes to engage philosophically with colleagues on, say, some aspect of the problem of evil would have to accept, for the sake of the debate, certain assumptions embedded within the religious worldview which gives rise to that specific problem. Clearly, at the heuristic meta-level accepting some claim within a particular discourse is not equivalent to accepting that claim as part of one’s own first order discourse. One of the virtues of this approach which makes it particularly attractive for deployment within the religious domain is that it does not require reinterpretation of the first order religious language that religious adherents actually use. In this respect

40 Cheetham and King (2008, p. 103). 41 See, for example, van Fraassen (1980) and Field (1980). 42 Sainsbury (2010, p. 208).

13

54


it is not vulnerable to a key criticism plaguing most other versions of non-realism, namely, that they seem to entail a normative claim about the way religious people ought to be using religious language.43 Another potential benefit of adopting hermeneutical fictionalism instead of realism is that it seems better able to accommodate the idea that people within different religious traditions (and philosophical systems) disagree about both what counts as a reason and what particular reasons are thought to entail. Mark Eli Kalderon introduced the notion of “disagreement about reasons” to motivate fictionalism about moral discourse, but it seems to be equally salient to the religious domain.44 The kinds of disagreements highlighted by Kalderon arise when two parties agree about some sentence D, but disagree about what D entails. In other words, they disagree about what D is a reason for. This kind of disagreement about reasons would seem likely to be prevalent in the religious domain in which there is substantial agreement on certain claims across religious families (the Semitic and the Vedic, for example), yet divergent claims are derived from this common base. Fictionalism can thus avoid many of the problems raised by realism in the religious domain (particularly those problems that arise from disagreement), without resorting to eliminativism about the objects of religious discourse or to revisionary semantics. It preserves the ordinary meaning of religious discourse as fact-stating, merely stipulating that our attitude to the sentences used in the discourse not be one of belief—but rather one of ontological indifference. The philosopher of religion’s use of a particular religious discourse (e.g., a Mayan or Aztec discourse) does not commit her to the view that there are (or are not) any actual facts underlying it. Fictionalism as a meta-level theory in the religious domain need not be motivated by the belief that all religious claims are false, but merely by the more modest claim that they cannot be known to be true. But, the critic may object, why should we assert that religious claims cannot be known to be true? The fictionalist has a ready response to this objection: he can simply point to the long history of disagreement about religious matters. The intractability of religious disagreement is difficult to explain if one holds that religious claims can be known to be true. Fictionalism, then, does seem well placed to promote greater inter-cultural understanding in so far as it seems to secure the distinction between the practice of philosophy as a particular form of argumentative engagement and mere ideological confrontation. Not having to assume that error is present in every case of disagreement about religious claims would seem to be a significant advantage, as this assumption often stands in the way of genuine inter-cultural understanding. Another important advantage of both hermeneutical and revisionary fictionalism is that they seem to have the potential to satisfy thinkers such as Murphy—because fictionalism certainly allows, what we might call, “insider work”45 to be done—while also satisfying thinkers such as Schellenberg, because fictionalism does not artificially limit the range of data accessible to the philosopher of religion.

43 Although see Harrison (2006b). 44 See Kalderon (2005, pp. 9–16). 45 That is, philosophical work that takes for granted the defining beliefs of a religious belief-system.

13


55

Problems faced by fictionalism However, if fictionalism is to serve as the theoretical framework for the new style of multicultural and tradition-neutral philosophy of religion, it must respond to several serious objections. The first set of problems—which I call problems of plausibility— arise internally within fictionalism when it is applied to the religious domain. They include the following: (i) If religious discourse concerns purely fictional entities, how can it exert an influence on people’s lives—which it clearly does? (ii) How can a fictionalist provide a plausible explanation of the force of religious requirements? Why should anyone feel compelled to respond to the commands of a fictional being? Yet such commands play a central role within many religious traditions. (iii) A fictionalist cannot seem to make sense of many religious activities, such as worship of a fictional being and prayer directed towards a fictional being. Le Poidevin has addressed each of these problems.46 He argues that convincing responses to them can be developed if one adopts a sufficiently nuanced theory of how fictions interact with our emotions. After considering several alternatives,47 Le Poidevin opts for Kendall Walton’s account of this interaction, which is characterized by Walton’s notion of “quasi emotions”.48 These “quasi emotions” can, Le Poidevin argues, be deployed to explain the real influence of religious discourse on people’s lives, the force of religious commands, as well as to provide a fictionalist account of what is going on in religious activities such as worship and prayer. Supposing, for the sake of the argument, that Le Poidevin is correct that the internal problems of plausibility outlined above can be surmounted by a sufficiently nuanced theory of how fictions interact with our emotions, adopting fictionalism about some particular religious discourse—such as theistic discourse, as Le Poidevin recommends—may then be warranted. Such a defense might work for the kind of revisionary fictionalism which Le Poidevin advocates. However, it is a further question whether or not fictionalism can be successfully defended as a heuristic meta-theory framing the whole field of philosophy of religion, as David Cheetham has proposed. Indeed, the problems of plausibility outlined above only seem relevant to fictionalism as a revisionary proposal about how first order religious language is, should, or could be used by members of a religious tradition. Such problems do not concern the proposal to use fictionalism at a higher level of analysis to underwrite the whole discipline of comparative or multicultural philosophy of religion. Nevertheless, a different set of problems face the latter proposal. These problems can be categorized as external to the theory and they include the following: (iv) A fictionalist about religious discourse may have little incentive to use philosophy to criticize religious ideas. Fictionalism may encourage the view that 46 See Le Poidevin (1996, Chap. 8). See also the criticisms of fictionalism in Cordry (2010) and the responses provided by Eshleman (2010). 47 See Le Poidevin (1996, pp. 114–118). 48 See Walton (1978a) and Walton (1978b).

13

56


(v)

(vi)

(vii)

(viii)

the task of the philosopher of religion is merely to give a phenomenological account of the fictions that religious believers actually entertain, rather than to criticize and, perhaps, correct these fictions.49 To treat religious discourse as fictional is insensitive to its original purpose (except, of course, in cases where some religious discourse is explicitly intended to be fictional). Regarding religious discourse as fictional is to give an account of it that is radically at odds with any account that would be given by those who actually use the discourse. Fictionalists would thus be guilty of distorting the phenomena which they claim to seek to understand. Adopting fictionalism at the heuristic level might not leave very much work for philosophers of religion to do. A philosopher of religion might explore the conceptual structure of a particular tradition, but commitment to the claim that religious discourse is not truth-apt may rule out serious probing of religious traditions for true or false claims.50 How could a fictionalist account for historical claims made within religious discourse? It would seem odd to be a fictionalist about claims relating to historically verifiable facts.51

Satisfactory responses to these external problems confronting fictionalism about religious discourse have not yet been provided. Although it seems likely that a hermeneutical fictionalist could develop convincing responses to problems (iv) to (vii), problem (viii) may prove more intractable. Nevertheless, in addition to these problems, an even more serious obstacle confronts the proposal to employ hermeneutical fictionalism as the meta-theory framing the practice of philosophy of religion in a multicultural context. Namely that, as Le Poidevin’s deployment of fictionalism illustrates, there is nothing within fictionalism to guarantee that a philosopher of religion who adopts it will ever look outside their chosen fiction. The source of this problem is that fictionalism, in either its revisionary or its hermeneutical form, has not developed to take plurality into account.52 Fictionalism about religious discourse is entirely consistent with a very narrow view of the scope of philosophy of religion. There is nothing intrinsic to fictionalism that requires a fictionalist about religious discourse to be tradition-neutral in the sense required to underwrite comparative or multicultural philosophy of religion. A fictionalist philosopher of religion may well 49 “Correct” in the sense of making sure the fictions conform to the appropriate rules of the discourse in which they are embedded. 50 Of course, there is a sense in which a fictionalist philosopher of religion might in fact do exactly the same work as her non-fictionalist counterpart. The fictionalist might decide to treat religious discourses as if they were making claims that could be true or false. 51 This is just as much a problem in attempting to provide an account of the status of historical claims within literary works of fiction (such as Oliver Twist). Perhaps the fictionalist just has to bite the bullet and say that when historical claims consort with fictional claims the result is necessarily fiction. However, this proposed solution seems less compelling when one considers the problems raised by claims that seem to mix empirical and fictional statements in mathematics. How could a fictionalist about mathematical discourse account for claims such as “there are three green bottles”? 52 This is as much a problem for fictionalism in the philosophy of mathematics as it is within the philosophy

of religion.

13


57

simply decide to judge other religious traditions from the perspective offered by her own fiction of choice—thus, in the end, adopting an approach more akin to Murphy’s than to Schellenberg’s.53 Conclusion I have briefly outlined the contours of, what many regard as, the current crisis afflicting philosophy of religion. I have suggested that one way out of this crisis is to look for an appropriate meta-theory to underwrite the practice of philosophy of religion in a multicultural context. What is needed is a theory that is genuinely sensitive to religious diversity and that can make sense of the philosopher of religion’s task within the current culturally and religiously diverse context. The proposal that fictionalism, as a heuristic meta-theory, could serve this purpose has been examined and found to be promising although ultimately uncompelling. The main difficulty is that a philosopher of religion could adopt hermeneutical fictionalism while remaining firmly within the domain of the old style of philosophy of religion. This would not represent a significant advance for the development of the kind of comparative or multicultural philosophy of religion that is required today. The most we could say is that fictionalism leaves open the option for comparative intercultural philosophical work. The conclusion, then, is that a better theory is required. The better theory should secure the broad scope of the new style of the discipline by providing a neutral framework of understanding within which to philosophize about religious ideas, beliefs and practices, while also allowing for detailed philosophical work to be undertaken within the conceptual structures of particular religious traditions. Acknowledgments I am grateful to Alan Weir, Adam Rieger, David Bain, Michael Brady, Stephan Leuenberger, and Sue Lock for their comments on an earlier draft of this paper.

References Akhtar, S. (2008). The revival of philosophy among Muslims. In D. Cheetham & R. King (Eds.), Contemporary practice and method in the philosophy of religion: New essays (pp. 59–73). London & New York: Continuum. Cheetham, D. (2008). Comparative philosophy of religion. In D. Cheetham & R. King (Eds.), Contemporary practice and method in the philosophy of religion: New essays (pp. 101–116). London & New York: Continuum. Cheetham, D. & King, R. (Eds.). (2008). Contemporary practice and method in the philosophy of religion: New essays. London & New York: Continuum. Cordry, B.S. (2010). A critique of religious fictionalism. Religious Studies, 46, 77–89. Eklund, M. (2005). Fiction, indifference, and ontology. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, 71, 557–579. Eshleman, A. (2005). Can an atheist believe in God?. Religious Studies, 41, 183–199. Eshleman, A. (2010). Religious fictionalism defended: Reply to Cordry. Religious Studies, 46, 91–96. Field, H. (1980). Science without numbers. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Griffith-Dickson, G. (2000). Human and divine: An introduction to the philosophy of religious experience. London: Duckworth. 53 See, also, Mark Sainsbury’s final assessment of moral fictionalism, in Sainsbury (2010, pp. 200–204).

13

58


Griffith-Dickson, G. (2005). The philosophy of religion. London: SCM Press. Harrison, V.S. (2006a). The pragmatics of defining religion in a multi-cultural world. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 59, 133–152. Harrison, V.S. (2006b). Internal realism and the problem of religious diversity. Philosophia, 34, 287–301. Joyce, R. (2002). The myth of morality. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kalderon, M.E. (Ed.). (2005). Fictionalism in metaphysics. Oxford: Clarendon. Kalderon, M.E. (2007). Moral fictionalism. Oxford: Clarendon. Le Poidevin, R. (1996). Arguing for atheism: An introduction to the philosophy of religion. London: Routledge. Lipton, P. (2007). Science and religion: The immersion solution. In A. Moore & M. Scott (Eds.), Realism and religion: Philosophical and theological perspectives (pp. 31–46). Aldershot: Ashgate. MacIntyre, I. (1988). Whose justice? Which rationality?. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Murphy, N. (2008). MacIntyre, tradition-dependent rationality and the end of philosophy of religion. In D. Cheetham & R. King (Eds.), Contemporary practice and method in the philosophy of religion: New essays (pp. 32–44). London & New York: Continuum. Phillips D.Z. (1986) Belief, change and forms of life. London: Macmillan. Sainsbury, R.M. (2010). Fiction and fictionalism. Oxford & New York: Routledge. Schellenberg, J.L. (2005). Prolegomena to a philosophy of religion. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Schellenberg, J.L. (2008). Imagining the future: How scepticism can renew philosophy of religion. In D. Cheetham & R. King (Eds.), Contemporary practice and method in the philosophy of religion: New essays (pp. 15–31). London: Continuum. Stanley, J. (2001). Hermeneutic fictionalism. Midwest Studies in Philosophy, XXV, 36–71. Taliaferro, C. (1998). Contemporary philosophy of religion. Oxford: Blackwell. Taliaferro, C. (2009). Philosophy of religion: A beginner’s guide. Oxford: Oneworld. Trakakis, N. (2008). The end of philosophy of religion. London & New York: Continuum. van Fraassen, B. (1980). The scientific image. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Walton, K. (1978a). Fearing fictions. Journal of Philosophy, 65, 5–27. Walton, K. (1978b). How close are fictional worlds to the real world?. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 37, 11–23. Webster, D. (2008). Buddhist approaches—not “what?” but “how?”. In D. Cheetham & R. King (Eds.), Contemporary practice and method in the philosophy of religion: New essays (pp. 87–100). London & New York: Continuum. Yablo, S. (2000). Apriority and existence. In P. Boghossian & C. Peacocke (Eds.), New essays on the a priori (pp. 197–228). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Yandell, K. (1999). Philosophy of religion: A contemporary introduction. London & New York: Routledge.

13


Loving without understanding: Raimon Panikkar’s ontological pluralism Anselm K. Min


Abstract Raimon Panikkar is one of the most sophisticated and most profound among contemporary pluralists of religion. His pluralism is radical because it is rooted in the very nature of things, in the pluralism of being itself, beyond all perspectivalism and indeed beyond truth and falsity taken as intellectual categories. I discuss several issues regarding his position. Is he indeed a pluralist or a monist in disguise? Does he do justice to the uniqueness of each religion? Is he not prematurely introducing the eschatological ideal of the harmony of opposites into the historical world where opposites often produce bloody conflicts? Keywords Hick · Intellectualism · Interreligious dialogue · Panikkar · Philosophy of religion · Pluralism · Postmodernism In one of his most recent statements on the challenge of the plurality of world religions, Raimon Panikkar has this to say: Pluralism is inherent to the human condition and prevents us from speaking of God by starting from a single perspective or a unique principle of intelligibility. … Every claim to reduce the symbol God to what we understand by that symbol not only would destroy the symbol but also would cut our links with all those peoples and cultures that do not feel the necessity of that symbol. The pretension of offering a unified scheme of intelligibility on the universal level is a remnant of cultural colonialism. To universalize our own perspective is an unjustified extrapolation. The very possibility of a ‘global perspective’ is surely a contradiction in itself. Philosophers and theologians certainly would be able to nuance the two preceding affirmations, but perhaps the solution would emerge

A. K. Min (B) The School of Religion, Claremont Graduate University, Claremont, CA 91711, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

60


more easily if we cut the Gordian knot of a universal theory about God and rediscovered the divine as a dimension of, or pluralism (not plurality) within, an aspect of reality itself (2006, p. 19). In this paper I propose to present a systematic elaboration and a commentary on Raimon Panikkar’s position on pluralism so well summarized in the preceding quotation, which I call “ontological pluralism,” as distinct from other varieties of pluralism. We hear so much talk about pluralism today, and it seems as though there were a single meaning to the term. Usually, pluralism is equated with that of John Hick, and it is not always remembered that pluralism is itself pluralistic. There are different kinds of pluralism, some are more truly pluralist, others are perhaps not really pluralist at all but monism or inclusivism in disguise. Common to all pluralism is respect for other religions in their plurality, and depending on the reasons for that respect we may distinguish different kinds of pluralism. The best known in this regard is that of John Hick and Paul Knitter—which I would call “phenomenalist pluralism”—who regard different religions as different phenomenal and more or less equally inadequate and finite responses to the same transcendent ultimate reality. There is also the “universalist pluralism” of Leonard Swidler, Wilfred Cantwell Smith, Ninian Smart, Keith Ward, and David Krieger, who insist on the necessity of transcending the limited perspective of a particular religion towards a new universal theology based on insights from the history of religions. The “ethical or soteriocentric pluralism” of Rosemary Ruether, Tom Driver, and Paul Knitter evaluates all religions by the ethical criteria of justice and liberation and rejects claims of any one religion to moral absoluteness and superiority. There is the “confessionalist pluralism” of John Cobb, Hans Kung, Jurgen Moltmann, John Milbank, and Mark Heim, who take each religion as a particular confessional community and refuse to reduce it to an abstract common religious essence. I have recently added “dialectical pluralism” to this typology by arguing that we have to leave both the particularity of religions and their mutual relations to the dialectic of history itself, neither reducing nor reifying the particularity of religions, and always paying attention to the tasks and challenges inherent in the encounter of religions under particular historical conditions, and today to the demand of justice and solidarity in the context of a globalizing world (Min 1997, 2004, pp. 173–197). Common to most types of pluralism is the acceptance of some version of perspectivism. Reality is seen from a plurality of different perspectives, which results in a plurality of different perceptions of truth. All argue, therefore, for complementing and broadening one’s perspective with insights of others through dialogue. The hidden assumption is that it would have been much better if we could have achieved a truly comprehensive vision of reality with no otherness and plurality to contend with at all. One accepts pluralism with a grudge, with a regret about the inevitable limitation of the human perspective. Pluralism is a necessary evil. However, what if pluralism is ultimately not a matter of our perceptions of truth or our perspectives but a requirement of reality itself? What if reality is irreducibly plural not only “in relation to us” (quoad nos) but also “in itself” (quoad se)? What if reality itself contains such an irreducible multiplicity of dimensions that the intellectual dimension of truth, although important, is only one among other dimensions of reality? What if the other is irreducible not only to my or our thought but to thought as

13


61

such? What if we have to go beyond the category of truth and perspective altogether and think in terms of an intrinsic pluralism of being itself? Would it not be possible, then, to accept pluralism with a whole-hearted welcome and enjoy religious diversity without the intellectual discomfort that we always feel whenever we encounter the religious Other? In what is perhaps the most radical and most profound discussion of pluralism, Raimon Panikkar argues for radical, ontological pluralism and tries to spell out its implications for the relations among religions, including the traditional claims of Christianity. He considers a defense of pluralism “my best service to our time” (1993, p. 85) with its monocultural, technocratic civilization. In this essay I shall present, first, Panikkar’s diagnosis of the radical character of the challenge posed by the plurality of world religions today; secondly, his solution, ontological pluralism; and thirdly, some provisional reflections on his position.

The radical challenge of pluralism For Panikkar pluralism is no ordinary problem. It is not a theoretical problem with a theoretical solution. It is a practical, existential problem, beyond the limits of all theory, of living together with others “with mutually exclusive and respectively contradictory ultimate systems” (1987a, p. 125). The difficulty of pluralism as a problem is seen in the very difficulty with which it can even be stated. How do you define pluralism itself without reducing all other views to the definition and its often hidden assumptions and thereby contradicting yourself (Min 2004, p. 180)? Genuine pluralism does not arise when individuals are as yet submerged in the tribal community with no differentiated individual self-consciousness. Nor does it arise when there emerges mere differentiation or plurality as long as it is taken for granted without raising the issue of mutual incompatibility and without challenging the unity of the community. Nor yet does it arise when there emerge a variety of different opinions, parties, and sects in a community without as yet challenging the unifying myth and horizon of the group. Living within such a single horizon and myth, philosophers often fall into the illusion that their views are universal (1979a, pp. 204–205). Genuine pluralism arises only when inevitable interaction in common space confront mutually incompatible ultimate systems with one another, like German nationalism and U.S. imperialism, and generate the dilemma of unity and diversity because one cannot do without either. It is the experience of disorientation and chaos born of the helplessness either to find a unifying principle that transcends the diverse incompatible ultimate systems because these are themselves “ultimate” systems that cannot be transcended or to live with sheer unmediated ultimate diversities. This dilemma is posed today very concretely because technology brings these systems together into common space and forces them to contend with one another in the very process of seeking survival. There would be no problem of pluralism even if these systems were mutually incompatible if they existed in mutual isolation in separate space. Pluralism is not plurality. There are, however, no ghettos to withdraw into today. The problem of pluralism is the very practical problem of finding a way of living together precisely when all

13

62


togetherness seems ruled out by “an insoluble conflict of ultimate values” (1979a, p. 208). When values are different indeed but still reducible to some higher unity or synthesis, we have mere plurality and no genuine pluralism yet, which is possible only when “ultimate” values or systems “confront” one another precisely in their “irreducible” difference. As such, the problem of pluralism is a limit problem, a problem that arises at the limit of all historical attempts. It cannot be settled by the democratic procedure of the majority vote, as no problem of ultimate values can be. Nor can it be settled by rational argument, calling into question the very foundation of such an argument; our ultimate convictions are more deeply rooted than reason itself. Nor yet can it be settled by violence or power (1979a, pp. 210–212). Just as the problem of pluralism is no ordinary problem, so it defies all ordinary solutions. First of all, the solution cannot be a “super-system,” a system that is comprehensive and synthetic enough to find room for everyone and every system, like John Hick’s and all inclusivist theories. There cannot be a system of incompatible ultimate systems, and if there were, it would be just another system, not a super-system. A pluralist super-system or worldview is a contradiction in terms; there are only incompatible worldviews. It is also guilty of the hubris of subordinating other traditions to one’s own. At best, pluralism is only a formal concept. Second, perspectivism is not an answer either. For all its recognition of the necessary plurality of perspectives, perspectivism still believes and hopes in the oneness of truth which it seeks to approximate through mutual dialogue, enlightenment, and transformation. Nor can it avoid hierarchizing other perspectives according to some third point of view. It does not appreciate the radical incompatibility of ultimate views characteristic of the pluralist situation (1979b, p. 102). Third, parallelism will not do either. Parallelism neither dismisses the other like exclusivism nor assmilates the other like inclusivism, but sees different traditions as parallel paths without mutual interference meeting only in the eschaton. It is not interested, therefore, in converting others but only in deepening one’s appreciation of one’s own tradition. Hindus are left alone and only encouraged to become better Hindus, as Christians are left alone and only encouraged to become better Christians. Parallelism, however, ignores the actual history of mutual interferences, influences, and fertilizations among different religions, assumes the self-sufficiency of each tradition, and accepts the religious division of the human family as permanent (1978, pp. xviii–xix). There are three other solutions, equally inadequate. Political tolerance accepts diversity or dissent as a necessary evil, a practical alternative to the impossibility of total assimilation. Philosophical tolerance pleads the limitations of the human perspective and argues for acceptance of diversity as complement of that limitation, the ideal still remaining that of total agreement. Theological tolerance accommodates diversity as a temporary phenomenon in this world due to original sin but hopes in the eschatological confirmation of one truth. In all cases diversity is regarded as an anomaly we have to accept if we are going to avoid the greater evil of social conflict. It is a limited, provisional pluralism that does not welcome diversity as a value in itself (1979b, pp. 22–23). For Panikkar, these varieties of pluralism are inadequate to the challenge of the contemporary world, which is to radically overcome the practical expression of Western monism such as colonialism and imperialism and the theoretical expression of that

13


63

monism such as the pursuit of universal theory and universal truth. For him, as for many Western postmodernists, the drive towards unity inherent in Western culture, in its traditional pursuit of one truth, one reality, one God, one Empire, one Church, is in fact an expression of an underlying will to power, the will to reduce, dominate, and exclude the Other, temporarily willing to accept diversity as a necessary evil but only temporarily. It is symbolized by the Tower of Babel, the symbol of human arrogance that wholly forgets the basic limitation and contingency of human existence. Peace in the world today where ultimate systems confront one another in their irreducible diversity requires more than limited, provisional pluralism. It requires something much more radical, something that can truly welcome diversity as a value in its own right. It requires “cultural,” not only “military,” disarmament, the fundamental renunciation of the drive towards unity, universality, and totality with its thinly disguised imperialist will to reduce the Other to the same (1993, pp. 19–25). What kind of pluralism will enable us to move from the de facto pluralism we are willy-nilly accepting today to the de jure pluralism that does not merely tolerate but positively welcomes difference as such?

Ontological pluralism For Panikkar, such a pluralism must meet two conditions. (1) It must not ignore but take seriously the irreconcilable character of the conflicts of ultimate systems, and (2) it must also enable us precisely in our irreconcilable diversity to nevertheless love one another. It must empower the harmony or solidarity of those who are irreducibly different. Ontological pluralism is that kind of pluralism. As such, it entails transcending, without trivializing, the intellectualist level of reason, knowledge, and truth, towards a joyful acceptance of the intrinsic diversity of being or reality itself with a cosmic trust in the ultimate harmony of opposites in the aesthetic realm of the heart. The goal is no longer universal agreement among diverse peoples but the “convergence of hearts” without being able to either love the same thing or understand one another (1979b, p. 9; 1987a, pp. 142–148). The most compelling imperative in this regard, for Panikkar, as for much French postmodernism, is to overcome rationalism or intellectualism, the reduction of everything to the rule of the intellect, knowledge, and truth. At this level, we are necessarily confined to all the dilemmas of dualism. Things are either true or false. Things are also reduced to their intellectual, cognitive, rational content, where they can be judged as either true or false. The question always arises: Is there one truth or are there many truths? If one truth, it seeks to reduce all others to that truth. If many truths, they will be contradictory and cancel one another. At the level of truth, knowledge, concept, and ideology the ideal is always that of unity, universality, and totality, with no room for contradiction and compromise. We are always thrown into the dilemma of “true or false,” “right or wrong,” with no third possibility. Truths cannot contradict themselves. Truth necessarily excludes falsity. The intellectual drive toward truth, therefore, is essentially intolerant and exclusivistic, allowing no common ground on which different views can stand and make compromises. Intellectualism is imperialism (1987a, pp. 120–122).

13

64


Given the exclusivistic, dualistic character of the intellect, then, peace and tolerance require that we transcend the realm of ideologies into a realm both other and higher than the intellectual, where different rules apply, and that is the realm of myth. Myth is higher and deeper than ideology. Myth is not an object of knowledge but the very horizon of all knowledge and intelligibility. It is in the depth of myth, beyond the level of ideology and truth, that we can find communion with one another and love one another without understanding one another (1979b, p. 32). Genuine pluralism too is itself possible only as myth, not as another conceptual system (1979b, pp. 101–102). (I will return to the question of the content of this myth.) The intellect, for Panikkar, is not only divisive and dichotomous; it is also reductionistic, reducing all reality to the cognitive and intellectual and ignoring all other dimensions of life. Overcoming this “dictatorship of reason” or intellect, therefore, also means putting the intellect in its place in the larger scheme of things without denigrating its legitimate function. It means acknowledging the reality of dimensions not reducible to the intellectual. In this regard, Panikkar points out that the correspondence of being and thought, one of the most important postulates of Western culture, is not universalizable; Buddhism, for example, does not accept that correspondence. First of all, reasoning reason is not the whole of reason or logos, which has other functions, just as the logos is not the whole of being or reality, which has other dimensions. As the Medieval theory of transcendentals has it, being is not only true but also good and beautiful. Or, as the Trinitarian theology has it, there is not only the truth of the Logos or Son but also the abyss of the Father and the freedom and vitality of the Holy Spirit. In Hindu terminology, being is not only sat but also chit and ananda. Being is not reducible to truth because it cannot be exhaustively identified with truth. Being is not totally transparent to itself. There is a certain depth, interiority, opacity, and otherness to being which cannot be grasped from outside, is irreducible and resistant to knowledge and which is the source of the freedom, originality, and movement of being. Intellectualism that absolutizes the cognitive dimension of reality is guilty of the monism of the Logos and the subordinationism of the Spirit (1987a, pp. 121–124; 1984, pp. 101–114). In this sense, then, being transcends the dimension of reason with its penchant for dichotomous thinking and therefore the whole plane of the one and the many. Being is neither one nor many, which are intellectual categories, but pluralistic in the sense that it is not reducible to the intellectual, where counting—monism and dualism—makes sense, and comprises many mutually irreducible dimensions, where therefore counting does not make sense. This also means that being is unique and pluralistic in itself. It is not pluralistic only in relation to our necessarily historically conditioned multiple opinions, ideologies, and perspectives; it is pluralistic intrinsically, in itself. There is no such thing as absolute truth or absolute knowledge either, not only because the intellect is limited in us, but more fundamentally because it is limited in itself. In itself being transcends the level of the categorizing intellect and remains irreducible and other to the intellect. For example, the reality of God and the idea of God remain irreducibly different. This resistance to thought constitutes the criterion of reality itself. It is this intrinsic pluralism of being that prohibits all reduction of being to the intelligible and therefore to all intellectual manipulations in function of the will to reduce and dominate. For Panikkar, it is the highest function of the intellect to recognize this its own

13


65

limit, transcend itself, and ready itself for “acceptance without understanding” (1987a, pp. 124, 148). It is imperative to emancipate being from the dominance of logic or thought. Thought is and must be bound to being, but being is not bound to thinking but transcends it because being is free and divine. This is the ultimate, ontological basis of pluralism, in which all realities, including human beings, cultures, and religions, participate. In this sense, Panikkar insists that truth itself is neither one nor many but pluralistic. It is not one because it is essentially relational to the intellect and its historical contingencies in its multiplicity. It is arrogance to claim absolute truth for one’s own historically contingent view and try to subordinate all others to one’s own. It is not many either because it implies the contradiction of many incompatible views. Rather, truth is pluralistic, neither one nor many, for two reasons, because it is relational to the irreducibly unique context of each person, each culture, and each religion, and because it is not totally identifiable with the fullness of being itself but requires complementation by other dimensions of being such as goodness, beauty, materiality, and spirituality. The human person embodies this ontological pluralism in that she is a unique synthesis of a plurality of dimensions, irreducible to a sum of purely objectifiable properties and therefore incommensurable with any other being. The person is not a passive object of knowledge but a source or a subject of initiative and self-understanding. Human beings are more than reason or mind, and human existence is more than rationality. I cannot and should not try to reduce the Other not only to my consciousness and my judgment but also to thought and knowledge as such. Religions are likewise more than doctrines, although doctrines are important. The diversity of doctrines about ultimate issues is just as universal as any other phenomenon. While most differences among religions are indeed complementary, there are also differences among them that remain irreducible to the differences of contexts and perspectives. Different religions reveal different dimensions of reality itself, not just different contexts and perspectives. Whereas, for John Hick, different religions are historically conditioned and therefore phenomenally different responses to the same noumenal ultimate reality, for Panikkar, they are different aspects of that ultimate reality itself. As expressions of the pluralism of being itself in its freedom and spontaneity, religions manifest different facets of reality, which, however, cannot be brought together into a single system of thought not only because the mystery of being transcends our thoughts but also because it transcends thinking as such. Like the many colors of nature, the variety of incompatible ultimate religions reveals the pluralism of being itself, which we should try to nurture and garden, not to remove or reduce (1984, p. 115; 1987a, pp. 127–132). How does this pluralism differentiate itself from other related epistemological views? For Panikkar, it is not individualistic subjectivism, which justifies everything and condemns nothing, because pluralism is ontological and rooted in the structure of being itself, in fact in “the deepest nature of things” (1979a, p. 203), not simply in the contingent desires of individuals. It is not impersonal objectivism, which condemns every view except one’s own, because it is ontologically pluralistic, not tied to the level of the intelligible, as is objectivism. Pluralism is not relativism either, which makes truth dependent on the arbitrary contingencies of subjects, objects, and contexts. It

13

66


treats being as constituted by relations and regards truth as constituted by the totality of relations. Treating truth as ontologically relational is not to make it “relative” in the sense of “private.” Truth can be relational to me without being private to me. Truth is not something given and fixed for all time independently of time, space, culture, and people. Each person is also a source of understanding and self-understanding, which enters into the constitution of truth. In this ontologically relational view of truth, error means isolation from the total relationship, the refusal of relation, dialogue, intercourse, and communion. This also means that no one is totally in error unless he is totally cut off from all relationships. This relational view of truth is sensitive to the contingencies of history as a constitutive element of truth and dethrones all monism and monotheism. Panikkar’s ontological pluralism, then, means passing beyond absolutism without falling into relativism with its agnostic tendencies. It does presuppose radical relativity or relationality at the bottom of reality. Refusing to believe that any single group can embrace the totality of human experience, it is ready to trust in the Other without understanding the Other. It does not absolutize either truth or error. Rather than deny the genuine differences among religions and cultures or treat them as necessary evils, pluralism welcomes such differences and allows them to say their distinctive words and dance their different dances, contemplating the world as a “symphony” of different voices. In doing this, ontological pluralism renounces one of the foundations of Western culture, the rationalist belief in the correspondence of being and thought. Pluralism is no longer ruled by the primacy of thinking. Different religions are expressions of the very creativity of being itself in its novelty and adventure. Each religion is respected as unique and incommensurable, with its own contextual criteria for authenticity, validity, and truth (1979a, pp. 216–217; 1984, p. 101). A truly pluralist society can only be based on the confidence and hope that our ultimate differences are ultimately not mutually exclusive although they appear such at the level of our cognition and truth but mutually harmonious at the deepest level of being like “so many colorful beams of unfathomable light.” For Panikkar, there are five presuppositions for the possibility of a truly pluralist society. (1) It must recognize a center that transcends the plane of understanding by its members, an un-understandable realm that transcends the intellectual level of either right or wrong, where we can hold different views without being either right or wrong in such a way that the Other must be excluded, as, for example, through capital punishment. (2) This center must be recognized as something given, not produced, a gift, not a product, as a myth beyond the level of reason. (3) Conflicts must be handled not through the attempt to convince and conquer those who disagree but through dialogical dialogue which requires opening up to each other on the basis of a supraintellectual loyalty to a spirit common yet superior to both parties. (4) Such a dialogue occurs not only at the relatively superficial level of discussion but also through prayer and silence. (5) The passage from plurality to pluralism must be recognized as belonging to the growing pain of creation, to “the very dynamism of the universe.” It is this hope in the ultimate harmony of opposites in the eschatological depth of being itself that underlies pluralism’s approach to pacifism and social conflicts (1979a, pp. 219–226). Let me dwell a little on the three stages of interreligious dialogue according to ontological pluralism. The first stage is the internal dialogue with one’s own tradition where

13


67

one seeks to attain what the Thomist tradition calls “connatural” familiarity with it. Here we must try to achieve, from our own point of view, of course, as comprehensive a vision of the whole as possible. Panikkar is not opposed to the theoretical attempt to achieve a vision of the whole, although he is opposed to absolutizing theory and reducing everything to the level of theory and truth. We cannot be satisfied with mere partialities. On the other hand, we must admit that the whole we see is at best a whole seen through a part. We indeed see the totum but do so not totaliter but only through a part. There is no question of a universal theory based on a global perspective, but this is not a question of pure subjectivism either because we do try to see the whole. We must go beyond the dualism of subjectivism and objectivism. The second stage is engagement in genuine dialogue with other traditions (although not with all traditions, which is not always feasible). Here we search together from different vantage points and try to learn from and be transformed by each other. Our goal is not the production of a universal theory from a neutral perspective, which is the impossible goal of “comparative” method, but the deepening awareness of both our own and the other tradition aimed at the convergence of hearts, the goal of “imperative” method. This is not an encounter of minds alone but also that of concrete totalities hoping to achieve mutual fecundation, not an attempt to reduce everything to intelligibility or to a single source of intelligibility. A diversity of views is allowed but also sublated into a convergence of hearts beyond the level of the intellect. The third stage is collaboration in praxis, which is based on cosmic trust, not agreement on an ultimate view of the ultimate reality. We must recognize that we do not and perhaps cannot know one another in any ultimate sense, yet we also know that we cannot live in mutual isolation either. Living together in common space, we do face many common political challenges and the compelling urgency of practical collaboration. This collaboration does not require intellectual unity or total mutual understanding, but it does require a common sharing of the primordial human aspiration to dignified existence and the common trust at the supra-intellectual level that life is worth living and worth improving, that reality is ultimately divine and therefore good, beautiful, and true. It requires confidence in the goodness of the ultimate ordering principle of the universe variously called rita, tao, and ordo (1987a, pp. 138–144). Finally, ontological pluralism requires a twofold shift, the shift from the intellectual to the aesthetic, and the shift from the intellectual realm of objects and concepts to the aesthetic level of their horizon and myth. It was earlier pointed out that we have to pass from the conceptual level of ideology and truth to the aesthetic level of symbols and myths as the very horizon of such ideology and truth. For Panikkar, the symbol most adequate to pluralism is the aesthetic symbol of concord and harmony, not the intellectual categories of unity and multiplicity. As an aesthetic category concord means the harmony and reconciliation of opposites, the dynamism or movement of the many toward the one without ceasing to be different and without, therefore, ever achieving a higher synthesis that would eliminate differences. True harmony does not entail a unity of views because it is of an order different from and higher than the intellect. This shift from the intellectual to the aesthetic also means a shift in the paradigm: the paradigm is no longer that of geometry or the eye but that of music and the ear. Concord means the harmony resulting from constitutive, not provisional, polarity. As the harmony of opposites, concord does entail struggle among the opposites, without,

13

68


however, tearing the whole apart. It is a discordant concord and a friendly enmity. It means con-sensus and sym-pathy, a feeling of togetherness at the level higher than the intellect, the joy of being together without eliminating differences at the level of the heart and beauty, beyond the crippling dichotomies of the mind and truth. This radical shift to the aesthetic, supra-intellectual level of symbols and myths also entails a shift in our attitudes towards differences. At this level intellectual differences, anathema and scandal to rationalism, are not suppressed or merely tolerated but welcomed as a positive contribution to the harmony of the whole. The harmony of the whole, then, is more like the symphony of different voices in an orchestra than the recital of a common creed in a religious assembly. No one tradition should arrogate to itself the role of the conductor of the human and cosmic orchestra. For Panikkar, the universe is held together as a whole not because all human beings have the same opinion, same language, or same religion but because of the primordial cosmic dharma with which human beings can only cooperate as secondary agents. The Trinity is a symbol of such harmony insofar as it means the reconciliation of opposites, not their unification. While the Tower of Babel is a symbol of the imperialism of the monistic, universalizing intellect, the Pentecost stands as a symbol of this harmony of opposites where each speaks and hears in one’s own tongue what others say in theirs. The Holy Spirit allows people to understand one another without necessarily speaking the same tongue, without loving the same things, in a fellowship of life beyond individualistic isolation and collectivistic agglomeration, a communion of life in interdependent wholes (1987a, pp. 145–148). In order to see how Panikkar’s ontological pluralism applies to specific cases, one may ask what ontological pluralism makes of Christianity as a religion and of Christ in particular. For Panikkar, ontological pluralism is neither relativism, which would reduce Christianity simply to one among other religions and Christ to one savior among others, nor absolutism, which would absolutize Christianity and seek to convert all others to the Christian faith. The principle represented by Christ or what he calls the Christic principle—the theandric union of the divine and the human—is neither particular nor universal but a concrete universal, concretely embodied in the particularity of the Christian faith but also universal with a claim to represent the whole. As such, it is not an absolutely universal vision but a universal vision from the particular vantage point of Christians. Christianity, like every other religion, is a unique vision of the whole, entering into the harmony of the opposites in its uniqueness; there is no transcendent unity of all religions at the intellectual level, as there is no possibility of comparative philosophy and theology from a purely neutral point of view. As Christianness or Christic principle, Christianity is a concrete universal or pars pro toto, neither particular as opposed to the universal nor general as an abstraction from the particular but a universal incarnated in the particular. As such, it is concrete and limited, yet also represents totality. As each being or entity is a microcosm that reflects and mirrors the entire reality of the universe, Christ as the Second Adam also represents the whole of humanity, as does every other culture, that also represents the whole of humanity although from its limited perspective. The Atman in every one of us is Brahman, just as the Buddha nature lies at the bottom of every being, and just as we are all called to share in the divine nature. This means going beyond both exclusivism and inclusivism. No single religion can represent the whole

13


69

of reality wholly or even include all other religions in itself because each religion is only a partial vision of the whole, never a whole vision of the whole. Each religion, for Panikkar, has and is its own center; there is no absolute center for all religions. In Panikkar’s cosmotheandric vision there is a unity of the divine, the human, and the cosmic, in which everything is involved in everything else and where each thing, person, and religion reflects, corrects, complements, and challenges the other, but there is no absolute center for the totality. As the embodiment of cosmotheandrism Christ is indeed the alpha and omega, the light that enlightens every creature, but every being is also a Christophany. Christ is the way to the Mystery for the Christians, but for others he is one way among others, in his own unique way (1964/1981, pp. 22–30; 1987b, pp. 91–92; 2004, pp. 151, 156–189).

Reflections on Panikkar’s ontological pluralism What do we make of Panikkar’s ontological pluralism? I am inclined to say that his pluralism is one of the most profound, most sophisticated, and most fascinating pluralisms that exist. One way of appreciating the transforming impact of Panikkar’s ontological pluralism would be to compare his position with those of other pluralists. Pannikar accepts perspectivism along with Leonard Swidler, Wilfred Cantwell Smith, John Cobb, and Hans Kung, rejects the possibility of a universal theology along with Cobb and Kung, but Panikkar also tries to demythologize and relativize the intellectualism and the primacy of truth, still the ruling categories in all of them as in most contemporary discussions of pluralism. However, unlike Cobb, Kung, and many other pluralists, he does not consider the differences between Christianity and other religions a scandal yet to be resolved but a positive reality and good news to be welcomed in virtue of a cosmic trust in the ultimate harmony of opposites. Dialogue in theory and collaboration in praxis are both possible and necessary at the relative level, and in fact can be carried out all the more effectively because radical pluralism at the ultimate level frees both theory and praxis from the typically rationalistic preoccupation with intellectual differences as well as from the pervasive disabling suspicion of intellectual imperialism. One no longer needs be obsessed with the unity of truth, which still remains an intellectualist category, not even with an eschatological hope in it, because what counts ultimately is not unity and truth at the level of the intellect but harmony and beauty at the level of the heart. Pannikar’s radical pluralism thus transcends the prevailing dichotomies—still operative, at least implicitly, in Swidler, Smith, Cobb, and Kung—of relativism and absolutism, inclusivism and exclusivism, particularism and universalism. Relativism, absolutism, and even perspectivism assume the ultimacy and unity of truth, relativism by denying them, absolutism by affirming them independently of all knowers, and perspectivism by presupposing and hoping in them, whereas, for Pannikar, neither truth nor unity is ultimate. Inclusivism and exclusivism assume the same, inclusivism by extending the privilege of possessing the truth to as many as possible, exclusivism by limiting it. From the ultimate pluralist point of view, both are barking up the wrong tree: the point is neither to include nor to exclude from truth but to respect the

13

70


collective identities of different cultures and religions in their mutual difference with a cosmic, ontological confidence in the ultimate harmony of opposites. The same thing could be said of the dichotomy of particularism and universalism. The point is neither to be particular nor to be universal but to reject both particularism and universalism as self-absolutizing positions and accept the ultimate irreducibility of the particular and the hope in their ultimate harmony (not unity). Without the hope in harmony, irreducibility by itself would revert to particularism; without the irreducibility, the hope by itself would lead to universalism. Panikkar’s ontological pluralism is radical in overcoming the many traditional dichotomies and rendering them simply irrelevant, and it does so by deconstructing the primacy of reason, knowledge, and truth always obsessed with the idea of unity, totality, and universality. In this deconstruction of the will to unity inherent in the movement of the intellect Panikkar shares the general postmodern critique of logocentrism and totality typified by Levinas, Derrida, Lyotard, and Deleuze. Except that, of course, Panikkar does not indulge in the celebration of difference for its own sake, as is often the case with many postmodernists. His concern is not preservation of differences as such but rather their harmony and concordance, not simply the deconstructive negation of identity and totality, which still remains intellectual, but the very transcendence of the category of the intellect into the translogical realm of the heart. In order to overcome the imperialism of the same, Panikkar does not concentrate so much on the destruction of identity as on sublating such identities into the harmony and solidarity of others at the ultimate level, where different cultures and religions can embrace one another for all their differences at the level of truth, knowledge, and ideology. Whereas French postmodernism tends to make human action impossible because it cannot accept the determinate and must always deconstruct the determinate for its hidden imperialism, Panikkar can fully accept the determinate with the hope in the ultimate harmony of the different. Compared with French postmodernism, then, Panikkar’s ontological pluralism is far more constructive and optimistic (Min 2004, pp. 47–88). I locate the greatest contribution of Panikkar’s ontological pluralism in making it possible for us to love one another without necessarily loving the same thing or understanding one another. In radically relativizing and transcending the category of the intellect to the irreducible pluralism of being itself, ontological pluralism frees us from the obsession with intellectual agreement or lack of agreement, and allows us to love one another despite our intellectual differences, even despite our inability to understand one another, and even when we do not love the same things. With the confidence in the cosmic harmony of opposites we can embrace one another in our hearts even when we are different and even opposed in the intellectual contents of our beliefs. In shifting from the intellectual to the aesthetic, Panikkar is inviting us to appreciate the irreducible uniqueness of each person, each culture, each religion, and indeed each being itself. Freed from the obsession with the common measure of things, we can enjoy the incommensurability of being itself. We no longer suffer the compulsion to know, understand, judge, and reduce everything to a common measure. Instead, we can accept and enjoy the beauty of things in all their unique multiplicity. We are invited to feel in our hearts, not just know things in our heads. By relativizing the significance of intellectual differences at the level of truth, ideology, doctrine, and

13


71

perspective that normally pit us against one another, and making it possible for us to appreciate one another in our hearts even when we disagree in our minds, Panikkar’s ontological pluralism makes a crucial contribution to peace and dialogue among religions and cultures. It provides an important philosophical basis for what I call “the solidarity of Others” so necessary in today’s globalizing world (Min 2004). For all its profundity and insightfulness Panikkar’s ontological pluralism also raises a number of controversial issues. Let me discuss four of them. The first question that naturally comes to mind is whether Panikkar’s pluralism is truly pluralistic or inclusivist in disguise. I am raising here the same question that has been raised in relation to John Hick’s pluralism. John Hick has been known for regarding the different religions of the world as historically conditioned and phenomenally different responses to what is noumenally the same ultimate reality and accused of postulating a common essence of religion and reducing all the diversities of religions to that essence. He is in fact a monist, not a pluralist (Heim 1995, pp. 13–45). Panikkar does not seem to postulate a common essence of religion; for him, religions remain irreducibly unique. Nevertheless, for him such uniqueness is itself an expression of the very structure of being itself in its irreducible multiplicity of dimensions. If so, can we not say that all the diversities of religion are really reducible to the structure of being itself that is intrinsically differentiated indeed but also common to all beings precisely in that differentiation, in much the same way that for Hick, religious diversity is reducible to the essence of religion as an historically differentiated response to the same ultimate reality? Or would it be more accurate and fair to say that different religions are different responses not so much to the “same” ultimate reality as in Hick’s case as precisely to the “different” aspects of that ultimate reality because it is the ultimate reality itself which is internally differentiated, not identical? Panikkar, of course, has insisted that pluralism is not possible as a theory or a system. A supersystem or super or meta theory is in fact one particular theory among others, while also trying to subordinate all other systems to its own imperialism. At the level of theory, genuine pluralism, that is, the belief in the irreducible difference of ultimate worldviews, cannot even be stated coherently without implicitly subordinating all other views. For him, genuine pluralism is possible only beyond the realm of theory, in the realm of myth that constitutes the horizon of all theories and ideologies, only as an existential attitude, the attitude of cosmic confidence in the ultimate harmony of opposites and the patience to “face intolerance without being broken” (1979a, p. 222) with that confidence. And yet, even while insisting that pluralism is not possible at the level of theory, he does argue, that is, theorize by providing anthropological, theological, and ultimately ontological grounds for transcending theory. His theory is indeed theory critical of itself and transcending itself, and in that sense, we can say that it performs the noble role of the intellect at its highest, which is to transcend itself and recognize the reality of the non-intellectual. Is this, however, really that different from that of John Hick? Hick insists on the ineffability of the ultimate reality to which diverse religions point and transcend themselves. One might say that Panikkar’s intellect transcends itself not only to the divine but also to the non-intellectual dimensions of reality, while Hick’s intellect talks only about transcending itself to the ineffable reality of the ultimate.

13

72


Be this as it may, it is not easy to say exactly where the difference might lie between Panikkar’s ontological approach to pluralism and other theoretical arguments for pluralism insofar as the form of reason is concerned. In this regard, it remains valid to ask whether Panikkar leaves the irreducibly different reality of other religions in their irreducible difference or whether by explaining the ontological necessity of such difference he has not also explained and subordinated them to his own theory and included them all as variants of his own belief. His theory does sound like a supertheory, which he himself rejects. Panikkar may perhaps ask us to maintain a tension between the theoretical approach to pluralism, which we cannot avoid, and the mythical level of cosmic trust to which his theory is trying to transcend itself. Perhaps we can say that at the level of theory he is an inclusivist or monist but that he is a pluralist at the level of myth?1 This problem of whether Panikkar is a genuine pluralist or a disguised inclusivist becomes both evident and relevant in the second issue I am trying to raise. The second issue is whether he can truly preserve the uniqueness of each religion precisely in its uniqueness. Let me try this out in relation to the Christian claim to be the “absolute” religion for all humanity. Can Panikkar’s ontological pluralism do justice to this unique claim, or does it in fact relativize that claim and thereby reduce its uniqueness as an example of his own general theory of ontological pluralism? For Panikkar, the Christian vision of the world in terms of its Trinitarian and Christological theology is only an example of the pars pro toto effect, that is, a partial embodiment of the whole, a partial view of totality. Every religion, including Christianity, is such a partial view of the whole, with no religion being able to ever claim to view the whole wholly (totum totaliter). Every religion is a concrete universal, a particular embodiment of the universal. To look upon Christ as the Logos in whom, for whom, and through whom the world is created is the Christian way of looking at the whole and as such still a partial vision of totality, a particular but limited embodiment of the universal, neither a total vision of totality nor a universal embodiment of the universal. What Panikkar fails to consider is whether some religions may be more effective as such a universal than some other religions, whether in fact some religion may be a limited yet definitive embodiment of the universal, definitive and therefore significant for all humanity in a way different from all other religions. Certainly Christianity has been claiming that by virtue of the hypostatic union Jesus is the definitive incarnation or embodiment of the divine will to save all humanity and therefore the “absolute savior” of all (Rahner). As someone historical, Jesus too is limited by the culture and religion of his time. As someone personally united with the divine Logos, however, he is not just another man but the definitive embodiment of the divine for all humanity. 1 Gerald James Larson argues that Panikkar is guilty of equivocation by insisting on the one hand that

different religions are neither true nor false in the sense of some conformity to objective reality, but on the other hand that truth is pluralistic, ultimately equating “true” with “neither true nor false.” In trying to transcend the level of knowledge and truth (neither true nor false) Panikkar seems to be affirming such transcendence as truth (1996, pp. 85–87). I think Larson’s critique is quite valid as a matter of formal logic, but it also fails to appreciate Panikkar’s deeper point: the vocation of the intellect is to recognize something as higher than itself. This is a paradox inherent in any attempt of the intellect to recognize anything as transcending itself, as in the quite traditional statement that the divine transcends the human intellect, a statement itself made by the human intellect.

13


73

To say that this view is itself only one among many partial views of the whole is to disregard the specific difference of the Christian claim and thereby to relativize its uniqueness. I am not certain that Panikkar’s ontological pluralism can do justice to this unique claim to definitiveness. Christianity is claiming that between the partiality of all views with regard to the whole, which seems to apply to all finite claims, and the totality of the whole, which is the prerogative of the divine, there is also a third option, a partial yet definitive view of the whole, partial because historically limited but definitive because personally united with the divine Word and therefore endowed with the universal or “absolute” significance of the divine itself. This is precisely what Christians claim with regard to the Incarnation of the Word or the union of the divine and the human in the person of the Logos, where, therefore, “what is most historical is what is most essential” (Rahner 1978, p. 177). I am not certain that Panikkar can do justice to this (Rahner 1978, pp. 178–202). The third issue I wish to raise is the tendency to idealism in Panikkar’s pluralism. By idealism I mean the philosophy that stresses the change of our interiority, thought or ideas as opposed to the materialism that stresses the change of the external, material, historical conditions of life. I do not want to imply that Panikkar is indifferent to the imperative of praxis, the activity of changing our historical conditions of life. He is not indifferent. And yet his heart is clearly in the imperative of changing our ways of thinking, of thinking beyond logocentrism, rationalism, ideology, and all monistic and dualistic ways of thinking, thinking that is advaitic or non-dualistic, thinking in terms of a cosmic trust and confidence in the ultimate harmony of the different. He is clearly more interested in the ideal conditions of harmony and concord than in the material conditions that will actualize such harmony and concord in concrete history. His pacifism is an expression of this idealism. To resort to violence, even as an act of self-defense, is to be internally affected by the karma of that violence and therefore to be evil. He is not fully aware that a world often violently divided between oppressors and oppressed, between imperialist conquerors and their helpless victims, makes love and dialogue between them extremely difficult if not simply impossible. Social contradictions, such as those between rich and poor, do not arise because we think dualistically in terms of rich and poor. We think dualistically because of the reality of social contradictions, of the all too objective reality of excessive wealth and excessive poverty. Human thinking is not so independent from the pressures of reality; thinking largely reflects that reality. Oppressive reality, therefore, requires appropriate political praxis to transform that reality, which of course involves thinking and analysis appropriate to that praxis, but thinking alone, no matter how appropriate, will not transform that reality. Dualism of thinking will not go away as long as reality itself embodies such dualism, and any attempt to transcend epistemological dualism will not only not remove, at least not by itself, the reality of social contradictions but remain hampered by that reality, in fact often serving the justification of the oppressive status quo. Panikkar’s ontological pluralism raises a fourth issue and the last one for this essay: Are all differences among religions to be accepted with a cosmic trust in their ultimate harmony, or should we distinguish differences as some of them are rooted in the ontologically more ultimate or eternal aspects of being while others are rooted in the historically contingent aspects of being? Presumably, the irreducible differences

13

74


among the abyss of the Father, the truth of the Logos, and the dynamics of the Spirit that Panikkar so often refers to are not just historical or phenomenal differences that will go away in the eschaton but eternal features of being itself, as are the identity of Brahman and Atman, the Buddha nature of all things, and the cosmotheandric character of all reality. On the other hand, there are differences among religions that are plainly historically conditioned and therefore historically changing, coming into being and then passing away at different times, like rituals, languages, ethnic characteristics, and political attitudes. I do not think Panikkar is necessarily saying that we have to accept all these differences in their very incompatibility as inevitable, eternal features of being itself. We may have to further distinguish between those historical differences that are politically harmless, e.g., linguistic and liturgical differences, and those historical differences that are not so politically innocuous, e.g., beliefs and practices that contain attitudes towards the Other in gender, class, ethnicity, religion, etc. One might argue, persuasively and credibly, at least up to a point, that there are no purely innocuous historical differences, and that there is also a close, contaminating interaction between the ultimate and the relative, between the eternal and the historical aspects of religious beliefs. The doctrines mentioned earlier that bear on the more ultimate aspects of being have all been used at one time or another to breed certain attitudes towards the Other under certain historical conditions, justifying colonialism, imperialism, oppression of women, slavery of Blacks, degradation of dalits, indifference to this world, and many other horrendous evils. Concrete history is the realm of the hopelessly impossible mixing of the theological and the political, of ideas of the ultimate nature of things and those of concrete historical practices, in which the ultimate and the relative condition and contaminate each other. Under these circumstances it seems clear that we need more clarity than Panikkar allows us with regard to the kind of differences we have to learn to accept as the inevitable features of reality or being itself. Especially today, when globalization brings so many religions, ethnic groups, and nations together into common space and compel them to struggle for their survival, generating conflicts and violences that are often neither purely religious nor purely political but always tempted to bring religions into the fray to justify themselves, it is clear that the idea of accepting religious differences in the name of harmony and beauty could be very dangerous, even disastrous. It would be a premature equation of the eschatological where all the ultimate differences of religions may indeed be seen to be in mutual harmony with the historical where their historical practices may often generate horrendous mutual destructions. At the historical level we do need more enlightenment on what to do with differences that generate political violences, on the criteria and by whose criteria these differences are to be evaluated, criticized, and even condemned. One thing we cannot really do is to leave each religion alone to decide on its own. Like it or not, today, for all our differences we have to learn to live together in common space and to decide through legitimate common political processes, national or international, whether we should, for example, accept theocracy, the immigration of religious and ethnic Others, the separation of church and state, the treatment of dalits and other minorities, the political and economic domination of the community by elite families, and indifference to

13


75

the common welfare of the community, all of which can be and have been religiously inspired. Not all religious differences are acceptable.2 References Heim, S. M. (1995). Salvations: Truth and difference in religion. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Larson, G. J. (1996). Contra pluralism. In J. Prabhu (Ed.), The intercultural challenge of Raimon Panikkar (pp. 71–87). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Min, A. K. (1997). Dialectical pluralism and solidarity of others: Towards a new paradigm. Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 65(3), 587–604. Min, A. K. (2004). The solidarity of others in a divided world: A postmodern theology after postmodernism. New York: T & T Clark International. Panikkar, R. (1964/1981). The unknown Christ of Hinduism: Towards an ecumenical Christophany. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Panikkar, R. (1978). The intra-religious dialogue. Mahwah, NJ: Paulist. Panikkar, R. (1979a). The myth of pluralism: The tower of Babel—A meditation on non-violence. Cross Currents, 29(2), 197–230. Panikkar, R. (1979b). Myth, faith, and hermeneutics. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Panikkar, R. (1984). Religious pluralism. In L. Rouner (Ed.), Religious pluralism (pp. 97–115). Notre, IN: University of Notre Dame Press. Panikkar, R. (1987a). The invisible harmony: A universal theory of religion or a cosmic confidence in reality?. In L. Swidler (Ed.), Toward a universal theology of religions (pp. 118–153). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Panikkar, R. (1987b). The Jordan, the Tiber, and the Ganges: Three kairological moments of Christic self-consciousness. In J. Hick & P. Knitter (Eds.), The myth of Christian uniqueness (pp. 89–116). Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Pannikar, R. (1993). A dwelling place for wisdom. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox. Panikkar, R. (2004). Christophany: The fullness of man. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis. Panikkar, R. (2006). The experience of God: Icons of the mystery. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress. Rahner, K. (1978). Foundations of Christian faith. New York: Seabury.

2 There are three other issues that can be raised in critique of Panikkar’s ontological pluralism. Briefly

stated, the first issue has to do with the function of reason as such. He tends to emphasize only the dichotomizing and reductionist functions of reason, and fails to reflect on the self-critical and liberating functions of reason, which he is himself utilizing in critiquing intellectualism and arguing for its transcendence towards ontological pluralism. The second issue is whether he is fully aware of the historically conditioned character of ontological pluralism itself; the idea that being is intrinsically pluralistic with emphasis on difference is a thoroughly postmodern idea. The third issue is whether “hearts” are any less divisive than “minds”; the answer would depend on the nature of their mutual interaction, on whether and how hearts are informed by minds and whether and how minds are inclined by hearts.

13


Self-sacrifice From the act of violence to the passion of love I. U. Dalferth

Received: 18 March 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 3 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract The paper discusses the problem of self-sacrifice as posed by Derrida in Foi et Savior and by Schiller in the Theosophie des Julius. Whereas Derrida understands self-sacrifice as an act of violence against oneself in order not to subject others to violence, Schiller rightly insists that one must distinguish between egotistical and altruistic self-sacrifice. But even this doesn’t go far enough: Altruistic self-sacrifice is different from suffering death as the consequence of an entirely unselfish love. Whoever loses his life out of love does not give it up for others, whether selfishly or unselfishly. He loves the other—to death. Such a death is not a (self-)sacrifice. It results from a passion of love, not an act of violence against oneself. Keywords Sacrifice · Egoism · Altruism · Love · Passion · Violence · Derrida · Schiller · Akeda

I. U. Dalferth School of Religion, Claremont Graduate University, 831 N. Dartmouth Avenue, Claremont, CA 91711, USA I. U. Dalferth (B) Institut für Hermeneutik und Religions philosophie Theologische Fakultät, Universitat Zurich, Kirchgasse 9, 8001 Zurich, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected]

13

78


The ambivalence of self-sacrifice The threefold paradox of sacrifice “Is a religion imaginable without sacrifice and without prayer?” Derrida asks in “Foi et Savior,”1 and he answers this question in his usual paradoxical manner.2 Since religion demands both—an absolute “respect of life” and a universal willingness to sacrifice or “sacrificial vocation”3 — it “both requires and excludes sacrifice.”4 In order to retain the inviolability of life, life must be violated. And in order not to need sacrifice any longer, one must perform sacrifice. Only in “the sacrifice of the sacrifice,” so Derrida, does religion come into its own. The conditions of its possibility are at the same time the conditions of its impossibility. This paradox of sacrifice manifests itself in three concrete respects. On the one hand, sacrifice is according to Derrida, “the price to pay for not injuring or wronging the absolute other.”5 On the other hand, the use of violence “in the name of nonviolence” is preposterous.6 This is the first paradox of sacrifice: one must use violence in the name of non-violence in order to avoid doing violence to the non-violent other. But there is more to it. Even if the violence of sacrifice is unavoidable in order not to violate the absolute other, it is unacceptable to subject other life to this kind of violence. “Absolute respect” therefore “enjoins first and foremost sacrifice of self,” namely giving up “one’s most precious interest”: one’s own life. Only those who sacrifice themselves are truly sacrificing. “Self-sacrifice thus sacrifices the most proper

1 Derrida (1996, 1998), pp. 1–78, 52. 2 Derrida’s remarks on (self-)sacrifice in “Foi et Savoir”/”Faith and Knowledge” must be understood in the

context of his other writings on giving, gift, and sacrifice at the time, in particular Derrida (1991, 1992a,b, 1995). Considering the so-called ‘return of the gods’ and in view of the ambiguity of religions, which manifest the worst and the best in humankind, Derrida asks whether there is a future for religion and if so, in what form. In order to answer this question he asks, from a hermeneutical point of view, what the question is to which religion is the answer. His answer refers to two sources of ‘religion’, faith and knowledge, both of which are ambiguous. Thus, faith or lived religion appears to be both a reaction to violence and based on violence. There is no religion without sacrifice, but sacrifice is deeply paradoxical. Since in sacrificing religions use violence to overcome violence, they can overcome violence only by using violence against themselves, i.e. by sacrificing themselves. This amounts to saying that the future of religion is to make religion superfluous, which can only be achieved by overcoming the violence to which religions react by sacrificing by sacrificing religion itself. 3 Ibid. p. 50. 4 Ibid. p. 52. 5 This decisive premise of Derrida’s argument is assumed without being argued for. 6 This criticism is old and often repeated. Cf. Herakleitos DK 22 B 5 (Aristocritus Theosophia 681): “They

vainly purify themselves by defiling themselves with blood, just as if one who had stepped into the mud were to wash his feet in mud. And they pray to these images, as if one were to talk with a man’s house, knowing not what gods or heroes are.” Montaigne (1962, p. 502) restates the argument in a Christian context by pointing out that a corrupted creation cannot be corrected by sacrifices which are themselves a corruption of creation. And Nietzsche (The Antichrist, 41) uses it as the most obvious self-contradiction of the Christian gospel: “God gave his son as a sacrifice for the forgiveness of sins. At once there was an end of the gospels! Sacrifice for sin, and in its most obnoxious and barbarous form: sacrifice of the innocent for the sins of the guilty! What appalling paganism!”

13


79

in the service of the most proper.” This is the second paradox of sacrifice: one must use violence against oneself in order not to subject others to violence. But yet a third point follows. Whoever sacrifices him or herself, has sacrificed once and for all. His sacrifice becomes—for him! —“the sacrifice of sacrifice.” This is, if at all, the only “pure” sacrifice—and it is at the same time the exposure of its fundamental ambiguity: to demand what is strictly excluded is to demand self-annihilation in order to preserve the inviolability of the other. Whoever does not sacrifice himself does violence to the other and whoever sacrifices himself avoids doing violence to others by doing violence to himself. This is the third paradox of sacrifice: by sacrificing oneself, the sacrifice is abolished. Others need not fear from me any further violence, the avoidance of which would give occasion for sacrifice. Self-sacrifice ends the occasion and necessity of sacrifice: it is the end of sacrifice. Derrida hence grounds sacrifice within self-sacrifice and proves this to be paradoxical. His (implicit) argument unfolds in three steps: (1) from the supposed necessity of sacrifice as a means of avoiding violence against the other to (2) the unavoidability of self-sacrifice and at the same time, the impossibility of avoiding violence against oneself to (3) the abolition or “Aufhebung” of sacrifice in self-sacrifice, which does away with the need for sacrifice by bringing about the needlessness of sacrifice in that violence against oneself excludes and ends violence against others. The basis of this entire argument rests on situating the theme of sacrifice in the paradigm of violence: it is always a question of avoiding violence against the Other through violence either against others (sacrifice) or against oneself (self-sacrifice). That sacrifice could also be something other than acts of violence is never considered. This constitutes the fundamental weakness of the analysis: it reduces sacrifice to the act of a violent killing. However, the majority of sacrifices in religions are not blood sacrifices but food-offerings, and in blood sacrifices killing is the least important feature of the symbolical universe of the sacrifice and does not stand at its center. For example, the symbolic action of the expiatory sacrifice in ancient Israel is carried out as a consecration (i.e. the identification of the master of the sacrifice with the sacrificial animal, which then becomes a symbol for the master of the sacrifice) and as an incorporation into the holy (which “through the offering of the blood of the sacrificial animal” effects “the symbolic giving of the life of the master of the sacrifice”),7 while the killing of the sacrificial animal plays only a subordinate role in the procurement of blood for effecting the symbolic incorporation. The religious element that matters here is not the act of killing but, on the one hand, the transfer of identity in the consecration and, on the other, the symbolic incorporation into the holy of the sacrificer through the offering of the blood of the sacrificial animal.8 But even within Derrida’s myopic view, a key point retains a significant ambivalence: Does self-sacrifice that “sacrifices the most proper in the service of the most proper” sacrifice the most proper in the service of one’s own self or in the service of the other? Or does this difference play no role because both converge in self-sacrifice towards the avoidance of violence against others? Since Derrida leaves this in the dark,

7 Gese (1977, pp. 85–106, 98). 8 Cf. Dalferth (1994b, pp. 237–315).

13

80


his argument exposes a weak spot at its most important juncture: it is blind against the difference between egotistical and altruistic self-sacrifice, between self-sacrifice in the service of one’s own well-being and self-sacrifice in the service of the well-being of others. Both may be described as the end of sacrifice, but only the latter and not the former gives occasion for speaking of an act of love. However, to understand the phenomenon under consideration as an act of love, “explodes” (in Blumenberg’s sense9 ) the reductive paradigm of violence and opens up a new and different perspective. To put it succinctly, and this is the thesis for which I shall argue: If the altruistic loss of one’s own life for the sake of the other is an avoidable act of violence against oneself—that is, an act of violence that one commits against oneself without having necessarily had to commit it—then it is a self-sacrifice, but not an act of love. Is it, on the other hand, an act of love, then one’s own avoidable death—that is, the death that one could have avoided—is no act of violence against oneself and as such no self-sacrifice but the result of a passion of unselfish love that will allow nothing, not even one’s own impending death, to stop it to live its love of others indeed for the sake of others rather than for one’s own sake. The decisive difference is not between sacrifice and self-sacrifice, but between egotistic and altruistic self-sacrifice, on the one hand, and between an act of violence and an act of love on the other. For only the difference between egotistic and altruistic self-sacrifice opens the perspective for understanding the avoidable loss of one’s own life for the sake of others not in the paradigm of violence, but in the paradigm of love; however, to understand it as an act of love it is to understand it not as an act of violence and hence not even as altruistic self-sacrifice but in a different category altogether. For love exists only where love is lived and practiced, and the practice of love overcomes both sacrifice and self-sacrifice by reacting to violence not by violence but by non-violent love even at the cost of loosing one’s life. To show this, I shall first argue for the need to distinguish between egotistic and altruistic self-sacrifice, and then for understanding the avoidable loss of one’s own life for the sake of others not as an act of violence against oneself but as an act of love for the other.

Egotistical and altruistic self-sacrifice One of the most compelling expositions of the difference between egotistic and altruistic self-sacrifice can be found in Schiller’s Theosophie des Julius in which precisely this difference is identified as the crucial point in the problematic of sacrifice.10 Schiller’s argument does not, however, begin with the sacrifice but with the reality of love. As Julius, Schiller’s alter ego, impresses upon his friend Raphael: “I admit it 9 Cf. H. Blumenberg’s term “Sprengmetaphorik” in Blumenberg (1960, pp. 7–142): “What we would

call ‘explosive metaphorics’… draws concretization into a process, in which it it at first able to follow along (e.g., conceiving a circle’s radius doubled and ever further increased), but finally reaches a point (e.g., conceiving the greatest possible, that is, infinite, radius of a circle) where it has to give up—and this is understood as ‘giving itself up’ as well.” (132, translation) 10 Fr. Schiller (1975, pp.344–358).

13


81

frankly; I believe in the reality of a non-selfish love.”11 “But love has brought forth effects which seem to contradict its nature. It is conceivable that I increase my own happiness through a sacrifice, which I offer for the happiness of others—but is that also the case when this sacrifice is my own life?… How is it possible that we could regard our own death as a means to increase the sum of our pleasure? How can the termination of my existence agree with the enrichment of my being?”12 What appears conceivable with sacrifice becomes paradoxical with self-sacrifice: the one for whom it could and should bring an improvement of life no longer lives. A possible answer may be found in the reference to immortality: “The assumption of an immortality lifts this contradiction.”13 But Julius sees correctly that love is thereby also lifted. “Consideration for a rewarding future excludes love.”14 “It is indeed ennobling to the human soul to sacrifice the present advantages for the eternal— it is the noblest degree of egoism—but egoism and love separate humankind into two highly dissimilar races, whose boundaries never flow into one another. Egoism erects its center in itself; love plants it outside of itself in the axis of the eternal whole. Love aims at unity, egoism at solitude. Love is the co-governing citizen of a blossoming free state, egoism a despot in a ravaged creation. Egoism sows for gratitude, love for ingratitude. Love gives away, egoism lends out—no matter before the throne of the judging truth whether this is done for the enjoyment of the next-following moment, or with the prospect of a martyr’s crown—no matter, whether the interest is achieved in this life or in the other!”15 Hence an egotism nurtured by the hope for immortality is also the opposite of love. The question raised must therefore be answered another way: “Imagine a truth, my Raphael, that does all humankind good for distant centuries to come—add to this that this truth condemns the one who professes it to death, that this truth can only be proven, can only be believed if the one who professes it dies.”16 Then imagine a man who wants to realize this very truth: “does this man need the directive of a future life?”17 The answer, which Julius suggests, is clearly no. Only he who acts in this way does not act egotistically when he sacrifices himself. Schiller thus distinguishes between an egotistical self-sacrifice, which is carried out in hope of an eternal remuneration18 and an altruistic self-sacrifice, which is carried out for the sake of others—of all others and therefore for the sake of the whole of humankind—and which alone deserves to be called a sacrifice of love. Only the latter is a “virtue … which can do without a belief in immortality, which effects the sacrifice

11 Ibid. p. 351. 12 Ibid. 13 Ibid. 14 Ibid. 15 Ibid. pp. 351–352. 16 Ibid. 352. 17 Ibid. 18 Cf. the explanation of early Christian martyrdom in terms of rational choice theory in Starke (1996);

Janowski (2007), 9ff.

13

82


in question even at the risk of annihilation.”19 Only someone who sacrifices him or herself solely for the sake others—all others!—acts truly out of unselfish love. Altruistic self-sacrifice in Schiller’s sense of unselfish love therefore distinguishes itself in two ways. On the one hand, it is not motivated by an attitude of egotistical value maximization beyond the boundary of death: it is fundamentally altruistic, not egotistic. On the other hand, it is not restricted, particular or abstract, but unrestricted, universal and concrete. It is based neither in family relations, which privilege genetic closeness i.e. blood or kinship ties and thus do not include all20 ; nor is it based in friendship bonds, which do not exist without local proximity or personal acquaintance and which are therefore also restricted21 ; nor is it based in an abstract moral maxim that one must under certain circumstances sacrifice oneself for all those who fall under a specific rule. Unconditional, unselfish and thus universally inclusive is but a concrete form of neighbor love, which is not a version of the rule of sagacity, to do unto others what one expects from others or (in its negative form) not to do unto others as you would not do unto yourself. In this case one would treat others as a neighbor because one expects the same from them. Concrete neighbor love is precisely not attached to that kind of expectation but sees and treats the other also as a neighbor when those expectations are unrealistic or thwarted. It is not founded in the reciprocity of the like for like but in the experience of having become God’s freely chosen neighbor without having a right or entitlement to it; and since God also relates to all others as his freely chosen neighbors, one can rely on God in every situation, for people do not choose God but God chooses people. Without this a question of choice on their part could not even arise. Everyone therefore has a right to be seen and treated as God’s neighbor just as much as oneself. Seen in this light, neighbor love becomes a reorientation of a human life by the insight into the prior love of God. It does not result from a moral self-determination of one’s own conduct towards others, but rather manifests the fact that one has become the neighbor of the one who has made all other people to his neighbors as well so that everyone under all circumstances and without exception is to be seen and to be treated as God’s neighbor. However, if altruistic self-sacrifice is understood from this perspective, then one cannot stop with Schiller either. If neighbor love leads to death, then this is not a substitutional self-sacrifice by which someone goes to his or her death in the place of another in order to save him or her or avoid this other person’s death; on the contrary, 19 Ibid. p. 351. 20 In this sense the pelican which provides her own blood to her young when no other food is available

became a symbol of self-sacrificing love in medieval Europe. 21 Jonas (1979, p. 5) criticizes traditional moral maxims such as principle of Christian neighbor love “Love thy neighbor as thyself” or the Golden Rule “Do unto others as you would wish them to do unto you” because “in all these maxims the agent and the ‘other’ of his action are sharers of a common present…. The ethical universe is composed of contemporaries, and its horizon to the future is confined by the foreseeable span of their lives.” (5) This he believes to be utterly insufficient in view of the ecological crisis that faces humanity today. In order to cope with today’s challenges we need to change from neighbor love to the love of the most distant ones as expressed in the ecological imperative: “‘Act so that the effects of your action are compatible with the permanence of genuine human life’; or expressed negatively: ‘Act so that the effects of your action are not destructive of the future possibility of such life”’ (11). But it is a mistake to think neighbor love to be restricted to contemporaries and contrast it to the love of distant ones or of enemies. Rightly understood it includes those and is not opposed to them.

13


83

it is a question of stepping in for another at the cost of one’s own self-preservation, of being present to the other in her needs even at the cost of one’s own life. Furthermore, such a death is not a sacrifice due to pity or compassion, in which one gives up one’s own life in solidarity with the suffering of another, but rather an expression of unfailing neighbor love that is lived unto death. Something is done for others (and not in place of others or in solidarity with others) which leads to the loss of one’s own life; and it is not only done for them, but would be done for all others in a similar situation in a similar fashion because not doing so would be incompatible with how one is supposed to conduct oneself towards those who are God’s freely chosen neighbors. In such a case it is a question of living and dying for the sake of others and for others. One does not intentionally seek out one’s own death even if it leads to it but accepts even death because anything else would stand in a fundamental contradiction to the orientation of one’s own life in terms of love and hence amount to an existential self-contradiction: whoever dies out of neighbor love does not kill oneself but rather loves the one whom God loves, even if it results in losing one’s life. To sum up; for Derrida, the paradox in the basic structure of sacrifice is most obvious in the phenomenon of self-sacrifice. According to Schiller, this needs to be differentiated: as an act of violence against oneself (egotistical self-sacrifice) or as an act of love (altruistic self-sacrifice). To distinguish between these two kinds of sacrifice is correct and important but does not go far enough. As soon as one understands altruistic self-sacrifice as an act of love, then an idea is introduced that breaks the paradigm of sacrifice apart and involves a shift to a different frame of thought for understanding the phenomenon in question: a death resulting from unconditional, unselfish love does not have to be self-sacrifice; it can also be the consequence of a passion of unremitting love. Altruistic self-sacrifice and unselfish love Self-sacrifice is a certain kind of sacrifice—namely its paradoxical limit case: one doesn’t give up another but one’s own life. This renunciation of life can result from egotistical or altruistic motives. However, and this is what Schiller makes clear, a self-giving of one’s life is not a means of securing one’s self-preservation across the boundary of death. Moreover, whoever gives one’s own life for the profit of others uses it as a means to an end and therefore remains caught in the paradigm of egotistical self-sacrifice by using one’s own life as a means to reach an extrinsic goal. By surrendering one’s own life as a means to an end, one chooses death, but in doing so one stays master of one’s own self insofar as one chooses for oneself one’s own death and sees its meaning precisely in this self-made decision. Surrendering one’s life for the sake of others can thus be a subtle expression of an egotistical attitude towards life, which subjects even one’s own suffering and death to one’s own power of action and one’s own endowment of something with meaning: one gives oneself death in order to be the one who gives one’s own death an altruistic meaning. Even in death one is thus still the master of one’s own life. The sacrifice of one’s own life becomes a vehicle to reach an extrinsic end. Death as a result of unconditional, unselfish love is something else. In this case one gives up neither another nor one’s own life, but nothing at all: one suffers death (and does not give oneself death) in loving advocacy for others. One’s own death is

13

84


in this sense not a gift to anyone, not an act of violence against oneself and therefore not a sacrifice in the sense outlined: one does not give up on life but lives it in such a way that it exhausts itself in the love of others. One loves so unconditionally and so unrestrictedly that even one’s own self-preservation does not present itself as an obstacle or limit to this love. It is thus not self-sacrifice and as such sacrifice itself, but neighbor love and as such love itself, which constitutes the horizon in which the sense of one’s own death is disclosed. Hence death as a result of neighbor love is distinct from altruistic self-sacrifice in that it is not an act of violence against oneself but a suffering of the consequences of an entirely unselfish love. Such a death is no sacrifice in that one gives up something or even one’s own life in order to reach an external goal or avoid a consequence. Acts of unselfish love are carried out without a ‘because’ or a ‘why.’ They orient themselves entirely along others and use one’s own life not even as a means. Their point is to do something completely out of love for others even if one loses one’s life in the process. When Maximilian Kolbe voluntarily took the place of Franciszek Gajowniczek in Auschwitz-Birkenau, it would be a mistake to think that he sacrificed himself by using his life as a means to save others; rather, he acted out of neighbor love in such a way that he accepted death, because practicing unconditional love was a higher goal for him than saving his own life. His death was not the end or means of his love but its consequence. In practicing love he was not concerned about his own death but about the life of the other; and since an action is defined by the intention or motive that governs it, what he did was not an act of self-sacrifice but of unrestricted love. In cases such as these, one’s own death is neither the end nor a means of what one does, but is rather taken as an unavoidable collateral damage, so to speak, in abiding under all circumstances by the love of one’s neighbor. It would not be an unrestricted, unselfish love if one were dissuaded by one’s own impending death. Whoever loses her life in acting for the other does not commit an act of violence against herself, but suffers death as a result of unconditional neighbor love. This is why such acts are not sacrifices. Where life is lost out of love, sacrifice ends. No one is giving anything to anybody, whether the life of others or one’s own life, in order to reach a goal. If others reach or receive anything by it, then it is not in any intentional sense given to them by the one who lost his (or her) life, even if they do not—or could not—reach that goal without this person’s death. Understood in this sense, ‘sacrifices of love’ are not sacrifices but acts of love. As acts of love they are directed towards the other, but they do not intend the death of the one who loves, in particular not as a means to an end. Rather, if the loving one suffers death, then because he (or she) cannot be dissuaded from living one’s life for the love of others. The death of the one who loves is not the end or a means of his or her action but a consequence of living a life that is exclusively and totally oriented and informed by the well-being of the other.

The passion of love For precisely this reason, one must hold against Derrida, a religion can neither expect nor exclude the willingness to die for love. Loss of life out of unselfish love also reaches

13


85

beyond Schiller’s altruistic self-sacrifice. It is not an act of violence, neither against oneself nor against others. It is not an act of any kind that the one who dies would carry out in order to end his (or her) life; it is, rather, the suffered loss of life—and not the sought or intended loss—be it in the conscious risk of one’s life for others, be it with factual consequences for others that may not even have been intended. Loss of life out of love does not constitute a gift for others in that it results from an intentional activity. Whoever loses his life out of love does not give it up for others, whether selfishly or unselfishly. He loves the other—to death. But the motive and goal of his love is life, not death, and that his love leads to death is not the result of an act of violence against himself but a consequence of the actual situation in which he practices his love, which makes his love suffer and turns it into passion. The decisive difference between sacrifice and self-sacrifice is therefore not that sacrifice relinquishes another’s life while self-sacrifice relinquishes one’s own: in the case of the former, the identity of the master of the sacrifice is symbolically transferred to the sacrificial animal, which suffers death in place of the sacrificer in order to retain his life; by contrast, self-sacrifice involves giving up one’s own life in order to retain the lives of others. The crucial point is rather that one’s own death becomes an expression and execution of unselfish love only when it is no longer the limit case of sacrifice in which not someone else’s life but one’s own life is sacrificed, but where nothing, not even one’s own suffering or impending death keeps someone from pursuing relentlessly what is good for others. When acts of love lead to one’s own suffering or death, then one has not actively aspired to this but rather suffers it as a passion of love, which under no circumstances and on no condition gives up on its commitment to others. It is not self-evident that such an unselfish love exists—a love that does not let itself be kept from living for the sake of others, be it for the price of one’s own suffering and death. The reality of such a love, in human life as much as with respect to God, had to be discovered in religions through a long and complicated process. Biblical tradition documents this impressively, especially where it shows, within the very paradigm of sacrifice, the change from understanding something as an act of violence to understanding it as an act of love. It thereby makes the discovery that sacrifice has no future, but an end: the crucial insight about sacrifice is not that it is religiously necessary, even if impossible to realize, but that it is possible, but no longer necessary. One can sacrifice, even oneself, but one does not need to because what one is trying to accomplish cannot be reached through sacrifice and has long since been reached through the reality of unselfish love. Important strands in the Biblical tradition substantiate this transition from the paradigm of sacrifice to the paradigm of a completely different form of life and thought, most impressively the stories of Abraham’s trial and Jesus’ crucifixion. The former demonstrates that God’s promises are infallibly trustworthy; the latter, that God’s power does not reside in violence but in love.22 Taken together they prove through 22 This changes the meaning and point of the notion of divine power from a first order predicate or attribute of God to a second order predicate or attribute of the nature of God, i.e. of divine love: The meaning of God’s power is misconstrued if understood as mere divine omnipotence rather than as the omnipotence of divine love.

13

86


exemplary stories of real-life experiments that God is love—a love that does not want sacrifice but a life lived in unconditional commitment to others. Abraham’s experiment with God: the discovery of God’s trustworthiness The story of Abraham’s trial in Gen 22 is found in the cycle of Abraham narratives that stretch from Gen 11:27 through Gen 22 to the account of Abraham’s death in Gen 25.23 This cycle has its central theological motive in God’s twofold promise of the land and of blessing Abraham’s name and making him the father of a great nation (Gen. 12: 1–3). The fact that these promises are emphasized in this way indicates how seriously they had been put into question in Israel’s experience of exile since 587/586, the most probable time of the origin of this cycle. Abraham’s silence: the ambivalence of God If we read Gen 22 not in isolation but as part of the cycle of Abraham narratives as it has been handed down, then it does not deal with a drama between Abraham and Isaac, but between Israel, for whom Abraham functions as the progenitor, and God.24 The dynamic of the narrative unfolds in the framework of the programmatic promise and blessing given to Abraham at the beginning of the cycle: “I will make of you a great nation, and I will bless you, and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing” (Gen 12: 1–3); this is then explicitly geared at Isaac at the beginning of the Aqeda-narrative in Gen 21: 12: not through Ismael but “through Isaac shall your descendants be named,” as God assures Abraham. Against the backdrop of this promise the critical conflict in the narrative of Gen 22 is therefore not between Abraham and Isaac but between a God who promises Abraham great things in and through Isaac, and the same God, who instructs Abraham to perform 23 Cf. for a more extensive account of the following Dalferth (2008, pp. 456–500). 24 It is remarkable what the story does not narrate: Abraham does not speak to God, Isaac does not protest,

Sarah does not occur at all, Ishmael is not mentioned, Abraham shows no ambiguous feelings towards Isaac, and Isaac does not comment on anything that goes on. He remains a very shadowy figure in the narrative and disappears completely from the scene after the ram has been sacrificed and Abraham returns to Beersheba. All this has again and again given rise to multiple interpretations and fanciful elaborations. Abraham’s silence was extensively explained, Sarah’s death was depicted as being caused by the shock of hearing about the intended killing of Isaac, Isaac’s role in the story was extensively enlarged and changed by presenting him not as a silent sufferer but as a victim who explicitly pleads for his binding and besieges his father to kill him in order to fulfill God’s will etc. Many of these redactions, updates, and adjustments go back to pre-Christian times and show how unfixed and versatile the textual history of this narrative was for a long time. But they have little or no basis in the biblical version of the story: They fill in what readers experienced as missing because it is not told in the biblical narrative. But if one sticks to the actual narrative in Gen 22, then one may doubt whether it really is a story about Abraham and Isaac rather than about Abraham in which also Isaac occurs—just as the Swiss legend of Wilhelm Tell in which Tell is ordered to shoot an apple off his son’s head with his crossbow is not a story about Tell’s son, or about the relationship between father and son, but about the Swiss struggle for independence from the Habsburg empire. The figurative inventory of the story and the imaginatively possible relations between the characters in the narrative are not a sufficient key to a proper understanding of the story. This will only be possible by sticking to the actual narrative and by interpreting its point in the context of the dynamics of the actual story as told.

13


87

a deed directed at Isaac whose realization would make this promise completely impossible. The tension between God’s promise and its impossibility through God himself by his order to kill determines the narrative: does God give Israel with one hand while taking it back with the other? Can one rely on a God who retracts everything promised any time and without reason? Can one still count on God’s fidelity—can one count on God at all? Both the promise and the directive making this promise impossible are attributed to the same God so that there is no way out by grounding the promise in God and the questioning of this promise in anyone else but God, as it has been tried by versions of the Aqeda story in the wake of the prologue of Job.25 Rather, Abraham is placed into a dilemma, in which there is virtually nothing else for him to say since God seems to have fallen into a contradiction. To speak with others about God will not lead him any farther, and to speak to God is impossible because God has become so contradictory that he can no longer be addressed in a determinative way (“my God”). Abraham’s action: the trial of God Where nothing more can be said, life will decide. This conflict cannot be decided by argument because God has become incomprehensible and inaccessible as a dialogue partner; the conflict can only be carried out in that Abraham takes the one side of God’s paradoxical and self-contradictory will at his word and acts upon it to the point where the question of God takes care of itself or where God himself—so the solution of the tale—repeals the ambivalence in his Abraham/Israel relationship and owns up to his promises. In brief, it is not Abraham who is put to the test by God, but rather Abraham, who no longer speaks but acts, puts God to the test. Abraham virtually compels God either to take leave from his people as God or to prove himself as God and to stand by his promises to his people. He dares to challenge God and he wins—not only clarity (this he would have won even in the case of a negative outcome of the trial) but certainty that God stands by his promises. Why is this testing of God—this carrying out of the conflict in Israel’s relationship to God and understanding of God—theologically depicted through the very story of Abraham’s offering of his beloved son? Because it lends itself excellently to demonstrating the conflict in Abraham’s/Israel’s relationship to and trust in God. The decisive point of the story is not that Abraham should kill his beloved son but that his beloved son is the only reliable pledge of God’s promise. The existentially extreme situation in which Israel in exile finds itself vis-a-vis God is made apparent here in that Abraham is prepared, upon God’s order, to destroy the very pledge of God’s promise: either this is the end of all dealings of Israel with God or God must surrender his ambivalence with respect to Israel. It is precisely for the depiction of this trial of God that the ancient cult legend regarding the replacement of child sacrifice by animal sacrifice is taken up and told anew with the protagonists God, Abraham and Isaac. The story does not serve to make 25 Cf. the versions of the story that were found in Qumran in which prince Mastemah and his evil angels machinate against Abraham before God (4Q225 2 i and ii; 4QPs-Juba 2 i 7-14, 2 ii 1-14).

13

88


claims about the arbitrary will of God, or about the violence intrinsic even to the most moral religion, or about the religious monstrosity of a blind faith in God who demands obedience all the way to the moral degradation of the believer. It is not about any of this, but only about disambiguating a God who in his unpredictable turning to and turning away is experienced as a pure paradox and hence cannot serve as giving direction to one’s life.26 One cannot trust such a God. He becomes superfluous as a point of reference or orientation. The narrative clarification in Gen 22 results in a more precise understanding of God and of Israel’s relationship to God. God is not to be found invariably in everything, but only in certain experiences, and only certain ways of life and action correspond to God’s will while others do not. This is the basic insight both of Jewish ethics as culminating in the Torah and of Christian ethics as concentrated in the commandment of love: one can now say with certainty that nothing can be attributed to God or God’s will that contradicts God’s promises or that would bring human beings in contradiction to God’s will as expressed in his promises. This is not self-evident, for why should a promise given freely not also be taken back freely? Exactly this possibility is excluded in the Aqeda-story, in that its realization is depicted as resulting in a self-contradiction and self-repeal of God and is thereby declared a factual impossibility. God’s promises are certain, even if one cannot fathom from one’s own experiences how one stands with God. God is trustworthy, even if the evidence of one’s life is ambiguous—this is how one could summarize the practical point of this story. If God can no longer be distinguished from his promises nor be thought of as an arbitrary free will completely independent of them, then he can also no longer be utilized for everything indiscriminately but only for certain things and in specific respects. Seen in this way, Gen 22 recounts by way of an old legend (the replacement of child sacrifice with animal sacrifice) a new and extremely consequential story for the religious life and thought of Israel: the story of ascertaining the trustworthiness of God’s promises through Abraham’s trial of God. By taking God, whom Israel no longer understands, at his word and by acting out what cannot be argued out, Abraham creates a decisive situation in which God proves himself to be either entirely superfluous or the one who cannot revoke his promises without self-contradiction that amounts to self-annihilation. There is nothing impossible about revoking a promise as such, and the evidence of Israel’s experience seemed to show that this had indeed happened in the case of God. Contrary to this Gen 22 affirms that God strictly excludes any revocation of his promises as impossible for himself so that human experience cannot serve as a reliable judge in matters of faith: either there is no God, or God’s promises cannot be revoked even by God himself. Tertium non datur —so the story emphasizes. With the conclusion of Abraham’s God-experiment, the promise is reliably inscribed into the very idea of God, i.e., there is no longer any way to distinguish 26 This is clearly expressed in the twin parables of BerR 56,11 which interpret Gen 22:15–16. It is Abraham whose strength of faith saves God from getting involved in a deadly self-contradiction by undoing himself his own promise. And in the second parable it is again Abraham who makes God swear never to do something like this again. By divine oath God is now tied to his promise and hence forthwith a God who can be trusted. Cf. Thoma and Lauer (1991, pp. 308–310).

13


89

God meaningfully from what he has promised Israel. God can no longer be played off against his promises. Whoever says “God,” speaks of the one who stands by his promises. The life-experiment of Jesus: the discovery of God’s love The same can be said in the Christian case. Christian faith in God is intrinsically related to the life, teaching, suffering, and death of Jesus. However, that God’s will for humankind is manifested in Jesus is not readily apparent. According to the gospels, Jesus directly connected the beginning of God’s benevolent kingdom with his own person (Mt 11:5f) in his teachings and acts of healing, and during his brief active life he was able to convince a few disciples of this. But at the end his life he was not even sure of this connection himself. According to the oldest gospels Mark and Matthew, Jesus died on the cross with a cry—a cry of God-forsakenness: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mk, 15:34; Mt 27:47) The citation from Ps 22 is not a disguised sign of hope in God, but rather an expression of despair. It is a lamentation and an accusation of someone who finds himself unjustly and against all fairness abandoned by God, whom God has not stood by or assisted in his need, who dies deserted by God and the world—without the trust in God that Luke has him articulate (Lk 23:46) and without the confidence that John gives him for having fulfilled God’s duty (John 19:30). God’s silence: Jesus’ unsuccessful test of God According to the gospel of Mark, God himself has become the reason for Jesus’ despair on the cross. There is no question that God is still the one to whom Jesus addresses his lament. He is not plagued by modernity’s intellectual doubt about God’s existence, but by the practical despair about the seclusion and withdrawal of God who fails to act in the hour of his greatest need. God, who had been the most intimate center of his life (“my father”), offers him neither help nor direction. This contradicts everything the New Testament tells us about Jesus’ gospel message of the imminent coming of God’s kingdom that he promulgated through his teachings, life, parabolic actions and narratives.27 God’s time of salvation is at hand and ends the suffering of all those who change their lives and believe in the gospel (Mk 1:15). For all we know Jesus lived in the conviction that through his acting and teaching he was actually enacting God’s will. This is the very reason why God’s silence on the cross is for Jesus a breaking of his word, unjust and merciless towards the very one who has placed all of his hope in God’s compassion and righteousness; a willful default of God to render assistance to one of his creatures; the failure of a father to be true to his son; a complete contradiction to everything he had preached and acted out as God’s good will for humankind in the parables of the prodigal son, of the good Samaritan, in the healing of the sick, and in the symbolic actions of forgiving of sins. It seems that on 27 Stanton (2004, Chap. 1) grounds even the term ‘gospel’ by reference to Jes 61, Lk 4 and the Q-passage Lk 7:19–13 resp. Mt 11:2–6 in Jesus’ own teaching.

13

90


the cross, the God proclaimed by Jesus has become untrue to himself, and it is in this despair, according to the oldest testimony of the gospels, that Jesus died. The story of Abraham in Gen 22 and the story of Jesus in Mark’s gospel thus both present a God-experiment by their respective protagonists that concerns God’s trustworthiness and the reliability of his promises. But both do so with a strikingly different narrative trajectory and outcome. In the Aqeda-story Abraham tests God when he no longer knows, as a result of God’s contradictory promises and directions, what his relationship to God is. In the end, God has proven himself to be inseparable from his promises because he has committed himself to them: God is the God of promises, and because God can and will not be otherwise, his promises for Israel are reliable even where this isn’t recognizable in a real-life circumstance. Jesus, on the other hand, dedicated his entire “career” to God’s promise and counted on his faithfulness and support all the way to the cross, but in the end he was disappointed by God and died in despair. On a narrative level the first story ends positively, the second negatively. The narrative logic of the Aqeda-story focuses on the repeal of God’s ambivalence, and does so for Abraham himself, who through his action brings God into a situation in which he must decide for or against himself and is thus forced to commit himself to what he wants to be as God for Israel: the question about God’s godhead is decided in the narrative of the story for Abraham himself and is also presented as such. In Mark’s gospel, however, the ambivalence is driven to the extreme of presenting Jesus on the cross as dying convinced of having been deserted by God and this is not corrected or put straight for Jesus himself within the narrative. The narrative logic of the gospel lets Jesus end on the cross in contradistinction to everything that is, according to Mark 1:15, contained in the gospel and unfolded in the gospel narrative of Jesus’ life and activity. The one story results hence in a clarified idea of God, the other leads to the point where the meaning of term “God” has become completely unclear. While the narrative trajectory in the Abraham story leads from uncertainty to certainty about God, the narrative trajectory of the gospel narrative leads from the certainty about God to the loss of God.

The third view: autobiographical and biographical perspective But this is only the case if one reads these stories in isolation and ignores their wider contexts. In the story of Abraham, everything that needs to be said is said in the story. In Mark’s story of Jesus, on the other hand, a dramatic conflict is built up between Jesus’ understanding of God as proclaimed in the gospel and the loss of God by the proclaimer of that gospel as he dies on the cross. This conflict is not resolved in the gospel narrative of his life, but—the account of the empty grave (Mk 16:1–8) and the secondary ending of Mark (Mk 16:9–20) substantiate this—finds resolution only in the life of those to whom this story is told and who experience the crucified as the resurrected one. The darkness into which the understanding of God falls on the cross is lifted and repealed not in the life story of Jesus, and therefore for Jesus himself, but in the life story of those who believe in him as Christ, and therefore for others. The other gospels corroborate this too in that they do not conclude the story of Jesus’ life

13


91

experiment with the cross but continue it with their accounts of the Easter discovery of his resurrection, the appearances of the resurrected one, and his ascension to God in heaven. God’s saving activity that is seen in this story and confessed by recounting it is not presented as occurring in the life, suffering, and death of Jesus but rather in the lives of those who believe in him as Christ. The theological point of the gospel story of Jesus does not lie in his story itself but in the life of those who recognize him as Christ, and only by including this point of view of others in the story of Jesus himself can his story be properly represented. If we follow the logic of Mark’s gospel, then from the autobiographical perspective of Jesus himself his life story with God ends with his cry of God’s abandonment. It is only with the biographical perspective of others on the Jesus’ story that it becomes apparent that this is not the whole story or the last word about God and God’s godhead. For them, the ambivalence of God on the cross is undone and overcome by using Jesus’ own understanding of God as loving father as a key to making sense of his whole story, including his death on the cross. To do so, they had to inscribe the inscrutable aporia between Jesus’ promulgation of God and the end of his life as a dialectic into the very idea of God, thereby creating a Christian understanding of God that in significant ways goes beyond Jesus’ own understanding.

God as love: from Jesus’ understanding to a Christian understanding of God As a result, certain traits of Jesus’ idea of God are intensified and deepened while new ones are added. Thus, it is God alone who lifts the ambivalence, which made Jesus despair on the cross, by moving people through the workings of the spirit to believe in Jesus as Christ, i.e. as the ultimate disclosure of God’s salvific will for all humankind. For precisely this reason the reference to Jesus’ story culminating on the cross, told as his life experiment with God, is inscribed as an indelible character into the Christian understanding of God. This happens discursively in the narrative unfolding of the metaphors of Jesus’ resurrection, his ascension to heaven and his seat on God’s right side, all of which establish in their own way that God is no longer to be understood apart from the life story of Jesus and the life story of those who believe and profess that Jesus is the Christ. In the trajectory of Mark’s gospel, the dramatic, theological point of the life experiment of Jesus is not to be found in his own story but in the life story of those who proclaim him to be Christ: They state the truth about his life (in a biographical perspective) that is inaccessible to Jesus himself from within his life (in an autobiographical perspective); and this truth is the creative presence of God’s love even where it isn’t perceived and experienced by the ones to whom God is present but only by others. The life story of Jesus is thus internally related to the life story of Christians, and vice versa (and there is nobody who could not in principle become a Christian): Just as the truth of their lives cannot be expressed without reference to Jesus, so the truth of his life cannot be stated without referring to their lives; and in each case the reference is mediated through ‘the third’ that is common to both of them: the presence of God’s creative love in their lives.

13

92


The internal connection between the life story of Jesus and the life stories of Christians thus becomes manifest in the continuous and ongoing determination of the idea of God in a process which Christians attribute not to their own power of interpretation but to the eye-opening working of the spirit of God. It runs, with many ups and downs, from the Jewish through the Jesusian to the Christian understanding of God.28 Thus what became the Christian idea of God originated with the Jewish tradition, became intensified in Jesus, ran into a decisive crisis at the cross, was continuously deepened and revised in the Christian interpretation of this crises in the light of Jesus’ own understanding of God as loving father, became critically marked off against the mythological, natural and political theologies of the ancient world in a way that resulted in the Trinitarian account of God, and has since been a continual challenge to reconfigure God not as a past reality but as a present and creative actuality. The creative power of love The condensation of this complex process in the Christian determination of God as love creates the idea of a creative, unlimited, and unselfish love that establishes in Israel’s understanding of God and in Jesus’ understanding of God as father the very precondition for recognizing a love to be at work in Jesus’ life and death that creates new life out of suffering and death. It is not God who sacrifices Jesus on the cross, nor does Jesus sacrifice himself, but out of love for those to whom he proclaims the advent of God’s benevolent reign he goes all the way to his death on the cross. Precisely this life of unconditional love that leads to Jesus’ death on the cross proves for Christians to be an irreversible sign that here God discloses himself as unselfish, unconditional love. This is why they confess Jesus as God’s love incarnate, and God’s love as his creative presence that creates good out of evil and new possibilities for his creatures even in death. Even where they themselves cannot realize this any more, 28 All of them are given only in a plural form. This is also true of Jesus’ understanding of God, which

for us is accessible only through the different versions of the different gospels. But even so it is clear that Jesus proclaimed not a new God but rather concentrated, emphasized and intensified the understanding of God in the prophetic and theological traditions of Israel in the light of his own experience, faith, and hope. The outcome was Jesus’ distinctive understanding of God as benevolent heavenly father whose reign of peace is imminent. This understanding of God, which Jesus lived and proclaimed, ran into a decisive crisis at the cross which could have been the end of Jesus’ intensification of the theological traditions of Israel. But in fact the reverse took place in that Jesus’ understanding of God, which appeared to have come to an end at the cross, became the hermeneutical key and theological frame for understanding this very end. By understanding the cross of Jesus in the light of Jesus’ own teaching about God as God’s resurrection of the crucified one, and by understanding this understanding of the cross not as their own interpretation but as the result of the eye-opening work of God’s spirit, the followers of Jesus learned to cope with the crises of Jesus’ understanding of God at the cross by understanding this crisis precisely in terms of Jesus’ understanding of God, thereby deepening it into the Christian understanding of God. Thus, just as Jesus intensified Israel’s understanding of God by interpreting his own life in and through it, and vice versa, so the Christians intensified Jesus’ understanding of God by interpreting Jesus’ death on the cross as well as their own experiences of the presence of his spirit in terms of Jesus’ understanding of God. They confessed the resurrection of the crucified one by the very God whom Jesus had proclaimed; they elaborated this confession in the light of their own experiences of the spirit and in critical dialogue with the theologies and philosophies of their time; and they thus intensified and deepened Jesus’ understanding of God into the Christian doctrine of the trinity. Cf. Dalferth (1994a; 1998, 379–409).

13


93

others will. This gives a counterfactual ring to the Christian confession of God’s creative love. But precisely this sets free the creative dynamics of Christian life. For on the one hand, God’s love experiences and suffers the suffering and dying of his creatures as his own passion, as the cross discloses. On the other, this divine passion transforms the suffering of others into the determination of God’s own life to create new life out of this suffering, as is shown in the resurrection. And as with Jesus, so with all others. Evil suffered is thereby not abolished or revoked, but overcome in such a way that something new and good comes out of it. This is the creative power of love. Sacrifice terminates violence through other violence, and self-sacrifice violence against others through violence against oneself; but this merely replaces one evil by another. The passion of divine love, on the other hand, does not overcome evil with evil but with good, by determining itself through its love for others to create new life out of suffering and death, thus giving the dead a future and the hopeless hope. Neither sacrifice nor self-sacrifice can do that. For the schism between old and new, between death and life cannot be bridged through violence, nor can it be bridged through violence against violence or sacrifice against sacrifice, but only through love that for no reason whatsoever creates inexhaustibly new life out of evil, destruction, and death. “Is a religion imaginable without sacrifice …?” asked Derrida. My answer is: Indeed, and it better should if religions are not to be taken merely as manifestations of human misery and despair but rather as rich and creative expressions of human fulfillment and hope for a human life at its best.

References Blumenberg, H. (1960). Paradigmen zu einer Metaphorologie. Archiv für Begriffsgeschichte, 6, 7–142. Dalferth, I. U. (1994a). Der auferweckte Gekreuzigte: Zur Grammatik der Christologie. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Dalferth, I. U. (1994b). Sühnopfer: Die Heilsbedeutung des Todes Jesu. In Der auferweckte Gekreuzigte. Zur Grammatik der Christologie (pp. 237–315). Tübingen. Dalferth, I. U. (1998). Volles Grab, leerer Glaube? In ZThK 95, pp. 379–409. Dalferth, I. U. (2008). Malum Theologische Hermeneutik des Bösen. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Derrida, J. (1991). Donner le Temps, 1: Fausse Monnai. Paris: Galilée. Derrida, J. (1992a). Given time: Counterfeit money. Chicago/London: Chicago University Press. Derrida, J. (1992b). Donner la mort. Paris: Galilée. Derrida, J. (1995). The gift of death. Chicago/London: University of Chicago Press. Derrida, J. (1996). Foi et Savoir: Les deuy source de la ‘religion’ aux limites de la simple raison. In: J. Derrida & G. Vattimo (Eds.), La Religion. Paris: Seuil/Faith and Knowledge. Derrida, J. (1998). The two sources of ‘religion’ at the limits of reason alone. In J. Derrida & G. Vattimo (Eds.), Religion: Cultural memory in the present (pp. 1–78). Stanford: Stanford University Press. de Montaigne, M. (1962). Essais, 2,12, In A. Thibaudet & M. Rat (Eds.), Œuvres compètes (p. 502). Paris: Bibliothèque de la Pléiade. Gese, H. (1977). Die Sühne. In Zur biblischen Theologie. Alttestamentliche Vorträge (pp. 85–106). München. Janowski, B. (2007). Ecce Homo. Stellvertretung und Lebenshingabe als Themen Biblischer Theologie. Neukirchen-Vluyn. Jonas, H. (1979). The imperative of responsibility: In search of ethics for the technological age. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Schiller, Fr. (1975). Philosophisch-Ästhetische Schriften, Theosophie des Julius. In Sämtliche Werke, Bd. 5 (pp. 344–358). München: Carl Hanser Verlag.

13

94


Starke, R. (1996). The rise of Christianity: A sociologist reconsiders history. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Stanton, G. N. (2004). Jesus and Gospel. Cambridge. Thoma, C., & Lauer, S. (1991). Die Gleichnisse der Rabbinen II, Bereschit Rabba (pp. 1–63). JudChr 13, Bern.

13


Pure reason and contemporary philosophy of religion: the rational striving in and for truth Pamela Sue Anderson


Abstract This essay urges contemporary philosophers of religion to rethink the role that Kant’s critical philosophy has played both in establishing the analytic nature of modern philosophy and in developing a critique of reason’s drive for the unconditioned. In particular, the essay demonstrates the contribution that Kant and other modern rationalists such as Spinoza can still make today to our rational striving in and for truth. This demonstration focuses on a recent group of analytic philosophers of religion who have labelled their own work ‘analytic theology’ and have generated new debates, including new arguments about Kant bridging philosophy and theology. Cultivation of a reflective critical openness is encouraged here; this is a practice for checking reason’s overly ambitious claims about God. Keywords Analytic · Boundaries · Conatus · Critique · Kant · Limits · Reason · Reflective critical openness · Spinoza

The scene for a critique of ‘pure reason’ It has always been astonishing to me (at least)—and perhaps to other analytic philosophers inspired by the critical philosophy of Immanuel Kant—that any twentiethcentury Anglo-American philosopher of religion could have dismissed Kant for his ‘big mistake’ in setting limits to human knowledge.1 If not the height of arrogance, then such a dismissal must be the result of a particular philosophical blind spot. One immediate challenge to blind arrogance would be to demonstrate that while Kant limits

1 For the ‘big mistake’ attributed to Kant, see Swinburne (2005, p. 39).

P. S. Anderson (B) Regent’s Park College, Pusey St., Oxford OX1 2LB, UK e-mail: [email protected]

13

96


our claims to knowledge of the world, he is clear that reason still strives to go beyond the conditions set for cognition. Relevant here is a salient distinction made by Kant between knowing and thinking. Although human freedom cannot be ‘known’, it can be ‘thought’ (Kant 1952, p. 29 [Bxxix]). We can extend this thought from Kant’s postulate of freedom to his postulates of God and of immortality (Anderson and Bell 2010, pp. 61–63). Kant also draws a less well-known, but equally significant and fine distinction between the ‘limits’ (Schranken) of our knowledge and the ‘boundaries’ (Grenzen) of our knowing, or ‘the bounds of sense’ (Kant 1952, pp. 605–608 [A758–762/B786–790]; cf. Strawson 1966, pp. 11–12).2 The limits can be pushed back as our knowledge of the sensible world (which would include what is new in ‘science’) increases, but what is beyond the bounds of sense cannot be known. Reason, nevertheless, will not be constrained; it inevitably pushes beyond the boundaries of our cognition of reality as it appears to us. The very structure of both the Critique of Pure Reason and the Critique of Practical Reason testifies to the significance in these critiques’ respective ‘doctrine of the elements’ with their divisions of an ‘analytic’ and of a ‘dialectic’, characterizing Kant’s critical philosophy. Whereas the analytic scrutinizes the role of truth in its principles by unpacking or deducing the central concepts of pure (practical) reason, the dialectic exposes the role of illusion by demonstrating how it is that human thinking continues to seek what it can never achieve, that is, ‘the totality of all conditions’, or ‘the unconditioned’. Studying the structures of Kant’s first and second Critiques will, of course, never show us that his philosophy is without difficulties, whether read as contradictions, problems or tensions. However, taking Kant’s texts seriously today would be good for those philosophers who have had a blind spot, as well as a resistance, to reading Kant for his groundbreaking contributions to epistemology, metaphysics (of morals) and philosophy of religion. In this essay I would like to use some of the tools of analytic philosophy in order to challenge every philosopher of religion, no matter her or his approach to the field, to reconsider the role of pure reason in Kant. Crucially, this includes the critical analysis of core concepts. Taking seriously the analytic tools of Kant’s critique of reason follows in the spirit of great twentieth-century philosophers such as P. F. Strawson who was in no doubt of Kant’s pivotal role in defining—for analytic philosophers 2 A. W. Moore explains how Kant proceeds to metaphysical claims in Part II of his Critique of Pure Reason

(A759–760/B787–790) by setting precise limits: [Kant] has a wonderful analogy to illustrate this. He likens the knowable world to a surface, which, like the surface of the earth, appears flat, so that, given our limited acquaintance with it, we cannot know how far it extends, though we know that it extends further than we have managed to travel: however, like the surface of the earth, it is in fact round, and once we have discovered this we can, even from our limited acquaintance with it, determine both its extent and its limits. But there is a problem with this. If we can only know how things are on the surface, then our knowledge is limited to two dimensions. This does not preclude our determining the extent of what we can know. But it does preclude our determining its limits, or even acknowledging that there are any. To do this we should need access to another dimension. (Moore 1997, pp. 250–251) In Making Sense of Things: The Evolution of Modern Metaphysics, Moore demonstrates the ‘cracks’ in Kant’s metaphysics of ‘limits’ where the distinction between ‘what we made sense of’ and ‘what we can make sense of’ is not so easily made (Moore, forthcoming).

13


97

themselves—the activity of concept-application and our conceptualisation of experience, in order to defend objective knowledge of the world (Strawson 1966, pp. 24–33). The analytic skills of unpacking and deducing concepts are in fact something philosophers of religion have embraced to achieve truth, while forgetting both Kant’s historical priority on achieving this and his insight on reason’s striving beyond the conditions of our empirical knowledge. The decisive problem with striving beyond the spatialtemporal conditions of human experience is the inevitability of reason leading us into transcendental illusion; or, in more everyday terms, the danger for philosophers of religion is falling into ‘idolatry’ to which I will return (see below, Crisp and Rea [Eds.] 2009, p. 25; Williams 2006, pp. 135–152; Zagzebski 2004, pp. 347–259). In other words, I am arguing that the great significance of Kant’s critique of pure reason and of pure practical reason should not be dismissed by either of the twentiethcentury approaches to so-called ‘Continental’ or ‘Anglo-American’ philosophy of religion. I also think that the significant, critical role for pure reason is what would distinguish philosophy from theology; or in the current parlance, analytic philosophy from ‘analytic theology’ (Crisp and Rea [Eds.] 2009, pp. 19–25, 54–69; Wood 2009, pp. 942–945, 950–954); but more on this distinction in a later section of this essay. Instead of inertia or impotence human reason guides both conceptual analysis and metaphysical conation; the dimension of reason to be unpacked and exposed here appears (most often) within the rationalist tradition of modern philosophy. Reason’s drive for the unconditioned: striving to persevere in one’s own being Similar to Kant, although perhaps thought even less significant to twentieth and twentyfirst century philosophy of religion, is the early modern rationalist Baruch Spinoza. Personally I have only come to read Spinoza in the past couple of years, but his conception of conatus as both a rational striving to persevere in ‘life’ and an infinite power has a critical affinity to Kant’s rational drive for infinitude (Anderson 2001, pp. 196–200, 2010, forthcoming). When reading Spinoza’s Ethics we would no doubt agree that it is a text not only on ethical life, but on metaphysics. Crucially Spinoza’s metaphysics describes our rational striving as an aspect of eternity; our being is part of ‘God’ or ‘Nature’ as an eternal, fully active and infinite power (Spinoza Pt I, P21–23; Lord 2010, pp. 153–157). The power by which we strive is our essence, as well as a degree of God’s power. In other words, our essence is a striving to persevere in our own being; this power is life; and the goal of this life is ‘the intellectual love of God’ (Spinoza P32C–33). In an extenuated sense, Spinoza’s metaphysics is his ‘religion’ (Lord 2010, pp. 8–10, 44–48, 126–127). Kant himself does not engage directly with Spinoza. Nevertheless, Kant’s critique of reason applies to Spinoza’s effort rationally to increase in power as an aspect of eternity. In ‘Spinoza’s Legacy’, Roger Scruton concludes that Kant’s first Critique exposes the contradictory nature of Spinoza’s account of active being and the perspective from eternity (2002, pp. 111–112). In Scruton’s words, A century after Spinoza’s death, Kant published his Critique of Pure Reason arguing that no description of the world can free itself from the reference to

13

98


human experience. … the world … cannot be known except from the point of view that is ours. All attempts to break through the limits imposed by experience, and to know the world ‘as it is in itself’, from the absolute perspective of ‘pure reason’, end in contradiction. (Scruton 2002, p. 111) … Kant argued … [i]t is part of our nature as rational beings that we should seek to extend our reason indefinitely, so aspiring towards the ‘transcendental’ perspective which Spinoza called the ‘aspect of eternity’. This yearning of reason towards the eternal is the source of all the speculative errors of metaphysics. But it is also the root of morality. Transformed into practical imperatives, the Ideas of Reason provide the moral law which guides us. (Scruton 2002, p. 112) In the above, Scruton captures the essential issue for the Enlightenment rationalist who confronts contradiction not with despair, but with a determination to turn what are the ‘errors’ of metaphysics into the ‘truths’ of moral religion. There is a rather crude parallel which could be drawn between Spinoza’s conception of eternity and Kant’s postulate of immortality: each of the latter, respectively, Spinozist and Kantian concepts of (eternal) life is required for reason’s persistence in being. Crucially, however, Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason tries to reign in the hubris, or arrogance, of the philosopher who claims too much on the grounds of his or her own reasoning. In my own writings on feminist philosophy of religion I have both coined the term, ‘yearning’, in order to express the human longing ‘for infinitude’, and drawn upon A. W. Moore’s critique of a human drive ‘to be infinite’ (Anderson 1998, p. 22, 2001, pp. 196–203, 2006, p. 43). Building on Moore’s post-Kantian critique I have also attempted to limit the claims to the divine made by both feminist and non-feminist philosophers of religion as the hubris, or idolatry, in becoming, or in taking up the standpoint of, the divine (Anderson 2005, pp. 93, 98–99, 2009, pp. 33, 42–44). With this last connection made between reason and its self-reflexive critique, I now turn to the current scene in contemporary philosophy of religion.

Kant and ‘analytic theology’: philosophy of religion and/or philosophical theology A decade into the twenty-first century and the field of philosophy of religion continues to expand across the Anglo-American world, Eastern, Western and Northern Europe, South America, Australia, New Zealand, Asia. In fact, the range of philosophers of religion has spread across the globe. Within the past 12 months alone, publications in the field have added to the list of already existing labels of Continental, Anglo-American analytic, post-colonial and feminist philosophies of religion, the new and fast-becoming prominent description of Christian philosophy of religion as ‘analytic theology’; this re-labelling is claimed to identify a distinctive brand of ‘philosophical theology’ (Wood 2009, pp. 943–945). The self-proclaimed philosophical theologians who employ analytic methods to do theology have generated lively debates over what is, and who writes, philosophical theology. One of the significant, but contentious claims of analytic theology is that the philosophers who write it are in Anglo-American Philosophy Departments, but they should be read by those who

13


99

teach and write in Theology Departments. What is most relevant for this essay about the claims of these analytic philosophers of religion who have renamed their work as analytic theology is a renewed discussion of Kant’s conceptions of belief, reason, metaphysics and moral religion (Anderson and Bell 2010, pp. 13–18, 27–46). It is not surprising that review essays on the recently published handbooks and anthologies in philosophical theology have generated fresh debates about analytic philosophers and their contributions to both philosophy and theology (O’Connor 2010, pp. 106–108). The claim of philosophers of religion to do analytic theology is bold and provocative for theologians who are being expected to engage with analytic philosophers. It is noteworthy therefore that Kant comes into the centre of these conversations. Dare I propose that this is an indication of Kant’s implicit shaping of the ‘critical’ intention of any seriously analytic theology? But of course, non-philosophical theologians may well have other views of the significance of the ‘new’ analytic writings in philosophical theology. Notwithstanding these differences, the significance of a newly emerging ground for critical readings of Kant being shared by both philosophers and theologians rests in the possibility that his philosophy—and perhaps other Continental rationalist philosophies—will be re-assessed in both more accurate and more constructive ways. After Kant developed ground-breaking skills for analytic thinking, it is odd that philosophers who describe themselves as analytic are not more aware of Kant’s analytic of concepts, but also his dialectics of pure and of practical reason. As faithful readers of Kant would agree, he is never content to remain on his carefully mapped out ‘island’ of knowledge, but pushed out into ‘uncharted seas’ (Anderson and Bell 2010, pp. v, 20–22; cf. Kant 1952, pp. 102–255, 257–258). In Kant’s ‘Transcendental Doctrine of Elements’, the shift from the division, ‘Transcendental Analytic’, to another division, ‘Transcendental Dialectic’, is a move to metaphysics; this structure and the shift in Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason remain just as relevant, but often as forgotten, as Spinoza’s metaphysics—for philosophy of religion. To recall Kant’s impulse for speculative metaphysics, I quote from the first Critique, ‘… we shall always return to metaphysics as to a beloved one with whom we have had a quarrel’ (Kant 1952, p. 664). In the gaps: between approaches to philosophy of religion Kant himself seems to be the philosopher who first straddled the gaps between branches and schools of philosophy, including rationalism and empiricism, and the branch of philosophy of religion which crosses philosophy and theology. Oddly, as has been already suggested here, Kant has not been a positive figure in bridging two contemporary approaches to philosophy of religion, that is, Anglo-American analytic and Continental approaches, whether, theistic or non-theistic. I am not advocating either alternative in these pairs for describing the field here. Instead my concern is the critical methods and content within the field: in particular, whether it includes Kant and possibly Spinoza. Both of these rationalist philosophers are coming into focus again in mainstream Anglo-American and not only in Continental philosophies, after the demise of sweeping Enlightenment critiques (for example, after critiques by postmodern theorists).

13

100


So, the situation in philosophy generally is changing; and, gradually, change is taking place in philosophy of religion. For example, the shift from analytic philosophy of religion to analytic theology by a core group of analytic philosophers who strive to take up an authoritative role in contemporary theology includes a renewed interest in Kant (Chignell 2009, 116–135). My view should be clear by now: Kant is a significant philosopher in the history of analytic philosophy, but he has been devalued and, I would stress, unfairly dismissed in Anglo-American philosophical debates on reason and religion. Central in those debates is the question of theistic belief and its rational grounding. Kant’s writings rarely receive any positive and, even less, comprehensive discussion on the rationality of theistic belief in twentieth-century philosophy of religion; and yet, even this seems to be changing. Positive indications of change exist in the new thinking about Kant on rational belief with lively debates over ‘pure cognition’ (see Firestone and Jacobs 2008, pp. 105–1143 ; Chignell 2009, pp. 120–130; Wolterstorff 2009, pp. 160–161). But my point is that self-proclaimed analytic theologians, claiming to uphold the methods of analytic philosophy, are wittingly or not raising Kantian questions about the relationship between theoretical and practical reason, between science and (moral) religion, and between ‘belief that’ and ‘belief in’ (Anderson and Bell 2010, pp. 47–58). The highly distinguished Anglo-American analytic philosopher of religion Nicholas Wolterstorff boldly admits a change in his own thinking about Kant. Wolterstorff has been well-known for his strong criticism of Kant, especially on the question of the rationality of theistic belief (Wolterstorff 1998, pp. 1–18). So it is highly significant and unexpected that Wolterstorff would make a positive move in the direction of more constructive readings of Kant’s philosophy of religion, especially on the question of rational belief (Wolterstorff 2009, pp. 158–162). However, I am unaware of any positive indications of change in philosophical theology or philosophy of religion in the direction of constructive work on Spinoza, the other rationalist philosopher, predating Kant, and equally denigrated by self-confessed analytic Christian philosophers of religion. Spinoza’s rationalist conception of ‘God’ is very rarely mentioned in the field, and when it is, Spinoza is dismissed as either a ‘pantheist’ or ‘atheist’4 ; his thoughts about God and any independent reality are assumed to be, if not incoherent, heretical to the analytic philosophical theologian. Spinoza’s thoughts about ‘God or Nature’ (deus sive natura) are simply not taken seriously in their own right: negative labelling seems to justify ignorance. In having uncovered the gap between approaches to contemporary philosophy of religion, I urge taking up a critical and reflective tool which follows nicely after Kant. Elsewhere I developed a philosophical practice of ‘reflective critical openness’ indebted to Miranda Fricker (Anderson 2004, pp. 89–92; cf. Fricker 2007, pp. 66–67). As will be demonstrated here, to employ reflective critical openness in 3 For discussions of the rationality of belief and debates about ‘pure’ cognition in Kant, see Firestone and

Jacobs (2008, pp. 6, 14–15, 20–28, 49, 55, 57, 109–114, 152–157, 168–170, 233–234 and 254n41). 4 The exception are the two collections of new essays in Continental Philosophy of Religion co-edited by

Daniel Whistler et al., including pieces by young academics trained in German idealism, Spinoza, Kant, Hegel, Bergson, Deleuze and other; see Smith and Whistler (Eds.) (2010) and Carlisle, Carter and Whistler (Eds.) (2010).

13


101

reading the rationalist philosophies of Spinoza and Kant would mean cultivating an imaginative, reflective and interactive engagement with the structures, methods and content of their writings.5 Critical dialogue with primary texts of Enlightenment thinkers is not only overdue in the field, but it would stimulate historical and textual thinking; this hermeneutic practice would enrich and expand philosophy of religion for this decade and the next. Analytic philosophers of religion who continue to ignore Continental rationalism are just as likely as any other philosopher to fall into blindness (or, what Kant calls transcendental illusion) to the nature of reason’s demands on thinking. William Wood’s review essay on writings in analytic philosophy of religion and philosophical theology explicitly admits that ‘idolatry’ remains a problem for this approach to philosophy and theology (Wood 2009, pp. 951–952; cf. Crisp and Rea [Eds.] 2009, p. 25). The critical question is, will a focus on pure reason and contemporary philosophy of religion by way of Kant’s critical philosophy confront, or perpetuate, the problem of idolatry in a drive for an ideal observer, or God’s eye point of view for philosophy of religion and theology? The remaining sections of this essay will demonstrate a critical remedy to idolatrous ideals. Kant, rationalism and the new century In his writing on the philosophy of Kant, Allen W. Wood claims that ‘irrational’ and ‘parochial’ views in much of ‘popular religion’ today treat the ideas and ideals of modern Enlightenment rationalism as ‘sinister forces’ (Wood 1999, p. 319). To illustrate this, Wood refers to critics of Kant’s rationalist philosophy of religion who think theistic beliefs in Kantian terms cannot be rationally justified or grounded. But as stated earlier here, Kant himself acknowledges that reason strives for infinitude. Notwithstanding that reason cannot ever achieve infinitude, or the unconditioned, reason persists in its drive to think freedom, God and immortality. Kant’s sense of rational striving is a legacy similar to Spinoza’s sense of persevering in life (see conatus in Spinoza P6; Lord 2010, pp. 88–90). In other words, it helps to understand the reactions to modern retionalism of the philosopher and the theologian historically. Contemporary analytic philosophers of religion who have transformed themselves into analytic theologians could benefit from more historical thinking about reason’s role in metaphysics. I am urging that we think more carefully with the core concepts of conatus and of pure reason in Spinoza and Kant, respectively.6 Consistent with Wood who, as the translator and scholar of Kant’s philosophy, confronts the philosophical critics of Enlightenment rationalism with criticisms of their descriptions of Kantian autonomy as ‘selfishness’, ‘self-centred’ or ‘possessive individualism’, we can confront the popular theological criticisms of the Kantian subject’s attempts to act autonomously and rationally. Both the philosophical and the theological criticisms of ‘Kant’ reflect misunderstandings of Kant’s own philosophy. In fact, Kant has something to offer those of us who see philosophy as a pursuit of truth 5 For more about this conception of critical reflective openness, see footnote 9. 6 Spinoza (1994), Lord (2010, pp. 88–90, 110–112, 148–150), Ricoeur (1999, pp. 43–51), Scruton (2002,

pp. 112–118) and Wood (1999, p. 319).

13

102


characterized by the cultivation of the imaginative, reflective and interactive elements of our intellectual virtue as ‘reflective critical openness’ (Anderson 2004, pp. 87–89; footnote 9 below). Allen W. Wood’s challenge to popular caricatures of Kant is simple: they are wrong morally and intellectually. I would agree. A major dimension of the problem, however, is far from simple; that is, an assumption of many contemporary philosophers of religion is an extraordinarily narrow conception of reason; this narrowness limits reasons’s role so much that it has very little room to function. As for our all too human striving for more knowledge, for more power, for more life, and ultimately, for immortality or, in Spinoza’s terms, the aspect of eternity, each of these requires critical exploration. Spinoza’s rational striving is dynamic and much more than the rationality of logical syllogisms or logical truth tables. Human reason has a conative dimension in longing or yearning for life (in the divine) in its fullness. As already mentioned, the danger here is in human subjects trying ‘to be’ that infinite being. Elsewhere I have criticized this in those philosophers who claim the ‘God’s eye point of view’ for their moral and religious philosophies (Anderson 2004, pp. 94–96, 2005, pp. 86, 93–97). So the question remains, does the shift from analytic philosophy of religion to analytic theology move beyond philosophical boundaries to an idolatrous deity? The answer would be ‘yes’ if analytic theology is characterized by narrowing its field and by insufficient critical self-reflection. Are the valuable skills of analytic methods employed by analytic philosophy of religion incomplete, that is, without the lesson of Kant’s ‘Transcendental Dialectic’? A critique of reason’s inevitable drive, or craving, for the unconditioned is necessary to check our propensity for transcendental illusion. A Kantian check on analytic philosophers of religion would demand a sufficiently broad application of its critical methods and analytic skills: my proposed practice of reflective critical openness is designed to complete Kantian thinking. This reflective practice is for the thinking subject driven out onto the stormy seas. Now, we cannot— nor should we—put a stop on reason’s craving for infinitude. Yet we can criticize overly ambitious cognitive claims about a personal, transcendent God and the afterlife. Cultivating the intellectual virtue of reflective critical openness is not advocated only for seeking truth but for persevering in life. Without this critical awareness our craving can take a corrupt form. Or, in the words of A. W. Moore, Our craving for infinitude has a perspectival character corresponding to the point of view from which alone we exist …. When the craving is distorted, this perspectival character is turned in on itself in such a way that the craving becomes an aspiration that we alone exist.7 … Whereas the incorrupt craving for infinitude would be essentially expansive, leading the subject to try to situate itself within the infinite whole, the aspiration to be infinite is essentially inert, leading the subject to try to situate the infinite whole within itself. And, again by its own lights, it (the aspiration to be infinite) is bad. There is an irrationality in wanting to be that which makes anything

7 Moore (1997, p. 276).

13


103

rational. It is a revolt, and an offence, against that which truly makes anything rational: rationality itself.8 Working against idolatry—evident in the hubris of wanting to be infinite—I’ve suggested previously that instead of seeking to become a divine, or to be an ideal observer, the fundamental task for any human subject is to recognize the ways in which true transcendence actually connects us in solicitude to others and to the self as another. In fact, the significant point is simple. Human subjects self-transcend all of the time, often unwittingly. In this light solicitude is the real grounding for attention to the intrinsic goodness of each and every subject. In religious terms this original attention to one another has the potential to develop truth in a collective reality: we might find ‘God amongst us’, or ‘God’ as ‘Nature’ (and Nature as life). Crucially, this reality of God is neither a wholly transcendent, personal being nor a fully knowable ideal. Analytic philosophers of religion can easily learn about reflective critical openness9 from contemporary feminist epistemology. This includes learning from secular perspectives on personal and social reality (Anderson 2004, pp. 87–91). Feminist philosophy of religion offers examples for this learning: To recognize [that] the motivation to know is first represented by Eve – in whom we have personified a misplaced mistrust of women – we need to imagine her social identity differently. And then, we need to develop a reflective critical openness to the testimonies of those who, like Eve, symbolically and literally, have lacked rational authority (Anderson 2004, p. 92). In other words, reflective critical openness is cultivated by knowers becoming critically and socially informed. Openness to mutual interaction and imaginative self-reflection build upon the self-transcending relations that make up our everyday practices, as well as new cultural formations. To explain this more: Incorporation of reflexive critical openness into philosophy of religion means thinking more effectively by shaping our epistemic practices with the help of the philosophical capacities for reflective, imaginative and interactive understanding. We seek to listen to the testimonies of those who are not merely trusted because of certain, largely [privileged] social markers of rational authority, but because the informant genuinely acquires and offers a true account of the matter, whether of religious experience, practice or belief (Anderson 2004, p. 90). Thinking more effectively and increasing our self-understandings make possible a growth in concrete, material and social knowledge of both men and women, individually and collectively. Generally in philosophy of religion, the epistemic practice of mutually interactive dialogues between men and women, but also between different, religious and secular philosophers would be a normative strategy that does not always 8 Moore (1997, pp. 275–276). 9 Reflective critical openness is cultivated as a cognitive disposition by developing capacities for, what

M. Fricker calls ‘testimonial sensibility’; these are sensibilities concerning who to believe and how to avoid unfair stereotypes, especially stereotypes that have rendered women untrustworthy knowers. For an account of reflective critical openness in feminist philosophy of religion, see Anderson (2004, pp. 89–92, 98–98) and Fricker (2007, pp. 81–85).

13

104


give greater privilege to the ideal perspective of traditional theism. Today, for instance, philosophical thinking needs to be able to challenge divine ideals which re-enforce twenty-first century forms of self-harm, masochistic or sado-masochistic abuse due to hatred of one’s non-ideal sexually specific body. Idealizations of the divine remove the socially and materially situated, thinking subject from reality. Instead second-person exchanges make possible something mutual: persons in dialogue can acknowledge their partial perspectives; materially and socially located reasons and desires would be more attractive than reasons given from a God’s eye view. Linda Zagzebski advocates an appropriate alternative to practices modelled on a God’s eye view—this is … a model for responding to the diversity of moral beliefs according to which the ideal perspective on the self is neither the first-person perspective nor the third-person perspective of an impartial observer. It is the perspective on oneself that one gets from close interaction with others, particularly those others who are wise and who know us intimately. I call this the second-person perspective (Zagzebski 2004, p. 372). Zagzebski goes on to defend this: … the second-person perspective involves an encounter between two persons’ first-person perspectives where each of them understands and appreciates the other. Each also has a first-person perspective on the other’s first-person perspective, which the other can then come to understand and appreciate. This model assumes ideal conditions of communication, which we are rarely able to enjoy. Nonetheless, I do not think that the less-than-ideal conditions that we actually face falsify the point of the model. They just make it more complicated and more difficult to apply (Zagzebski 2004, p. 375). Admittedly, the second-person perspective may not have all the answers for our critique of reason in contemporary philosophy of religion and/or philosophical theology. Nevertheless, my argument in this essay is aimed at the arrogance of recognizing no limits to one’s detached or impartial view of reality. In turn, the rationalism of Kant and of Spinoza have helped us to recognize some of the ways in which reason both strives to persevere in real life and seeks to move beyond the sensible world of every day experience. Critical reflection needs to recognize both the strengths and the dangers of reason’s endeavours. Conclusion To conclude, I would like to propose further assessment of the second-person perspectives as ‘an encounter between two parties’ first-person perspectives’ (Zagzebski 2004, p. 375) rather than a privileged preoccupation with a humanly impossible, thirdperson ideal. As demonstrated above, the sort of critique which remains necessary for the pure reason at play in philosophy of religion today is grounded in everyday acts of self-reflective and rational interaction with another self. In support of this second-person perspective model, consider an all too brief extract from Bernard Williams’ criticism of Peter Singer’s ideal observer, or third-person

13


105

perspective. Williams applies his critique to the hubris of the ethicist’s and/or theologian’s divine ideal: the project of trying to transcend altogether the ways in which human beings understand themselves and make sense of their practices could end up … dangerously close to the risk of self-hatred. When the hope is to improve humanity to the point at which every aspect of its hold on the world can be justified before a higher court, the result is likely to be either self-deception, if you think that you have succeeded, or self-hatred and self-contempt when you recognize that you will always fail. The self-hatred, in this case, is a hatred of humanity (Williams 2006, p. 152). Williams is hard-hitting in the above. Exploration of the ways in which divine ideals shape our moral, social and material relations is a significant and often difficult task for those who intend a critique of reason in the field of contemporary philosophy of religion. But such exploration will also leave unanswered questions. Have we gone completely beyond not only the limits of knowledge, but the boundaries of sensibility? If our approach is overly abstract or unclear, it would hardly be worthy of the description ‘analytic’. If it has demonstrated adequate rationality, ideally in the sense understood by seventeenth-century and eighteenth-century Continental rationalists such as Spinoza and Kant, then more readers will have substantial ground for hope in reason. Some philosophers might believe themselves mature enough philosophically to think well beyond the Critique of Pure Reason or the Ethics; yet I will caution on the side of humility (but not humiliation), in order to encourage more critical, interactive and reflective thinking with other philosophers in the field. For the sake of women and men of all kinds, we must not fail to affirm the selftranscending nature of a truth that could be mutually shared. This would be affirmed, if philosophical effort was put into self-reflective, imaginative and interactive understanding. In turn, this threefold understanding would have to be followed by the constructive, mutual recognition of a truth worth having. References Anderson, P. S. (1998). A feminist philosophy of religion: The rationality and myths of religious belief. Oxford: Blackwell. Anderson, P. S. (2001). Gender and the infinite: On the aspiration to be all there is. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 50, 191–201. Anderson, P. S. (2004). An epistemological-ethical approach to philosophy of religion: Learning to listen. In P. S. Anderson & B. Clack (Eds.), Feminist philosophy of religion: Critical readings (pp. 87–102). London: Routledge. Anderson, P. S. (2005). What’s wrong with the God’s eye point of view: A constructive feminist critique of the ideal observer theory. In H. A. Harris & C. J. Insole (Eds.), Faith and philosophical analysis: A critical look at the impact of analytical philosophy on the philosophy of religion (pp. 85–99). Aldershot, Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing Ltd. Anderson, P. S. (2006). Life, death and (inter)subjectivity: Realism and recognition in continental feminism. International Journal of Philosophy of Religion, Special Edition. Issues in Continental Philosophy of Religion, 60(1–3), 21–39. Anderson, P. S. (2009). Transcendence and feminist philosophy: On avoiding apotheosis. In G. Howie & J. Jobling (Eds.), Women and the divine: Touching transcendence (pp. 27–54). London: Palgrave Macmillan.

13

106


Anderson, P. S. (2010). On loss of confidence: Dissymmetry, doubt, deprivation in the power to act and (the power) to suffer. In J. Carlisle, J. Carter, & D. Whistler (Eds.), Moral powers, fragile beliefs: Essays in moral and religious philosophy. London: Continuum. Anderson, P. S., & Bell, J. (2010). Kant and theology. Philosophy for Theologians series. London: Continuum. Carlisle, J., Carter, J., & Whistler, D. (Eds.). (2010). Moral powers, fragile beliefs: Essays in moral and religious philosophy. London: Continuum. Chignell, A. (2009). ‘As Kant has shown …’: Analytic theology and critical philosophy. In O. C., Crisp & M. C. Rea (Eds.), Analytic theology: New essays in the philosophy of theology (pp. 116– 135). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Crisp, O. D. (Ed.). (2009). A reader in contemporary philosophical theology. New York: Continuum. Crisp, O. D. & Rea, M. C. (Eds.). (2009). Analytic theology: New essays in the philosophy of theology. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Firestone, C. L., & Jacobs, N. (2008). In defense of Kant’s religion. Forword by Nicholas Wolterstorff. Bloomington & Indianapolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Fricker, M. (2007). Epistemic injustice: Power and the ethics of knowing. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Harris, H. A., & Insole, C. J. (Eds.). (2005). Faith and philosophical analysis: A critical look at the impact of analytical philosophy on the philosophy of religion. Aldershot, Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing Ltd. Kant, I. (1952). Critique of pure reason (N. K. Smith, Trans.). London: Macmillan. Kant, I. (1996). Critique of practical reason (Mary Gregor, Trans.). In A. W. Wood (Ed.), Practical philosophy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lord, B. (2010). Spinoza’s ethics. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Moore, A. W. (1997). Points of view. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Moore, A. W. (forthcoming). Making sense of things: The evolution of modern metaphysics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. O’Connor, J. (2010). Book review: The oxford handbook of philosophical theology. Literature and Theology, 24(1), 106–108. Ricoeur, P. (1999). L’unique et le singulier. L’intégrale des entretiens ‘Noms de Dieux’ d’ Edmond Blattchen. Bruxelles: Alice Editions. Scruton, R. (2002). Spinoza: A very short introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Smith, A. P., & Whistler, D. (Eds.). (2010). After the postsecular and the postmodern: New essays in continental philosophy of religion. Cambridge: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Spinoza, B. (1994). Ethics (E. Curley, Trans.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Strawson, P. F. (1966). The bounds of sense: An essay on Kant’s critique of pure reason. London: Methuen & Co. Ltd. Swinburne, R. (2005). The value and christian roots of analytical philosophy of religion. In H. A. Harris & C. J. Insole (Eds.), Faith and philosophical analysis: A critical look at the impact of analytical philosophy on the philosophy of religion (pp. 33–45). Aldershot, Hampshire: Ashgate Publishing Ltd. Williams, B. (2006). The human prejudice. In A. W. Moore (Ed.), Philosophy as a humanistic discipline: Bernard Williams (pp. 135–154). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wolterstorff, N. (1991). Conundrums in Kant’s rational religion. In P. J. Rossi & M. Wreen (Eds.), Kant’s philosophy of religion reconsidered (pp. 40–53). Bloomington & Indianpolis, IN: Indiana University Press. Wolterstorff, N. (1998). Is it possible and desirable for theologians to recover from Kant?. Modern Theology, 14(1), 1–18. Wolterstorff, N. (2009). How philosophical theology became possible within the analytical tradition of philosophy. In O. D. Crisp & M. C. Rea (Eds.), Analytic theology: New essays in the philosophy of theology (pp. 155–170). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wood, A. W. (1999). Kant’s ethical thought. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wood, W. (2009). On the new analytic theology; or, the road less traveled. Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 77(4), 941–960. Zagzebski, L. T. (2004). Divine motivation theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

13


Blinding me with (queer) science: religion, sexuality, and (post?) modernity Ellen T. Armour

Received: 1 June 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 1 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract This essay brings to bear insights from continental philosophers Michel Foucault and Judith Butler on the science of (homo)sexuality and, more importantly, the desire to use such science to resolve contemporary conflicts over homosexuality’s acceptability. So-called “queer science” remains deeply beholden to modern notions of sex, gender, and sexuality, the author argues, a schematic that its premodern (Christian) roots further denaturalize. The philosophical insights drawn from this analysis are then applied to the controversy over homosexuality within global Christianity that often pits the “backward” former colonies against the “modern” west. Keywords

Homosexuality · Christianity · Post modernity

Those of us who trade in contemporary continental philosophy are supposed to be able, at the drop of a hat, to tick off the various symptoms of modernity’s demise: the death of the subject, of credible metanarratives, of reason and truth. If we happen to be philosophers of religion, we are then pressed to state whether we think religion (as a set of metanarratives that assert claims to ultimate truth) is a collateral casualty or whether religion (understood as “faith,” reason’s opposite) might be poised to make a comeback. If we happen to be feminist and/or queer philosophers of religion, we are further pressed to articulate whether (and, if so, how) our particular field of inquiry is aided or hindered by modernity’s passing. These expectations arise because many of those philosophers whom we study and deploy are supposedly caught up in the wide net cast by the postmodern. Yet in many instances, they themselves are explicitly wary of association with such epochal claims—both on behalf of their own work and in general. This is true, for example,

E. T. Armour (B) The Divinity School, Vanderbilt University, 411 21st Ave. South, Nashville, TN 37240, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

108


of the philosophers whose work I will draw on here: Michel Foucault, and Judith Butler.1 For the record, I share their wariness—not because I think the status of subjectivity, metanarratives, claims for truth and justice, etc., ARE actually secure, but because I think the relationship between “modernity” (or certain things we pull out as its hallmarks, including these) and our time and place is not well captured by “post.” In particular, approaching contemporary situations under the flag of the postmodern defined by these rubrics obscures the way religion is actually functioning in our time and thus deflects feminist and queer philosophy of religion from contributions it might make in such situations. Let me take as my test case the contemporary controversy within Christianity over homosexuality. Conflicts over this question threaten to divide denominations and families. Because Christianity is a global religion, this conflict has worldwide ramifications. Indeed, it threatens the livelihoods and lives of LGBTQ persons—Christian or not—in many corners of the globe. Thus, the conflict seems an apt and timely topic for an international journal, particularly on philosophy of religion. I will not, however, speak directly to the international dimensions of the conflict here. Rather, I will confine myself to home—not to avoid the international complexities, but to focus on one of them. A central theme of the international conflict pits “the west” against its former colonized territories. The controversy in the global Anglican church is a case in point.2 A number of African Anglican bishops have claimed that “homosexuality” is a western creation and a western export.3 Westerners often counter with the accusation that resistance to the full inclusion of sexual minorities is part of a larger rejection of modernity.4 Whatever the problems with these charges and countercharges, they call us in “the west” to a process of self-interrogation that I think is salutary both politically and intellectually. As I have argued elsewhere (Armour 2010), framing a helpful political intervention requires that we understand our colonialist past, including Christianity’s role in the policing of sexual mores. That project calls for philosophical analysis informed by historical analysis, I shall argue here. Taking up that call foregrounds the emergence of modernity, its establishment, and the question of its passing. So let me begin very close to home indeed in both time and space: with the way the debate over homosexuality within Christianity gets framed here in the United States. At the heart of the debate lies the question of the cause of homosexuality. Opponents

1 In “What is Enlightenment?” Foucault suggests that we think of modernity as an attitude rather than an epoch or era. Instead of seeking to fix the boundaries of the modern (both before and after), we might look instead for the struggles this attitude has faced since its inception with various forms of “countermodernity” (Foucault 1984, p. 39). In a recent essay, Butler notes modernity’s use as a cudgel in international controversies where sex, gender, sexuality and religion mix. There she notes her own refusal to “traffic in theories of modernity because the concept strikes me as too large…[the theories] too general and sketchy to be useful” (Butler 2008, p. 4). 2 I consider the controversy in the Anglican church in some detail in Armour (2010). 3 See, e.g., the following statement from the Anglican bishops of Rwanda: “We know that some Westerners

have introduced homosexual practices in the Great Lakes Region of Africa, but we, as Africans, repudiate the practice and do not wish it to be seen in our Province” (“Statement” Kolini 1998). 4 Bishop John Shelby Spong, for example, has described African Anglicans as “superstitious, fundamen-

talist Christians” who have “moved out of animism into a very superstitious kind of Christianity—[and have] yet to face the intellectual revolution of Copernicus and Einstein” (cited in Hassett 2007, p. 72).

13


109

of the so-called “homosexual agenda” position homosexuality as a “lifestyle choice” that Christians need not accept. Most Christian lesbians and gay men (and their allies) insist that being gay is not a choice. They cite their experience of coming out as evidence. For most, coming out means being honest with themselves and with their loved ones about who they truly are—a matter over which they often feel they have little if any choice. Homosexuality, then, would seem to be a matter of nature, not nurture; fate, not free will. On the question of the cause of homosexuality, religion can, it seems, draw on science as an ally. In recent years and months, we have seen the emergence of so-called “queer science,” to borrow the title of a book by one of its practitioners, Dr. LeVay (1996). News outlets have reported various claims by LeVay and others to have established biological bases for differentiating between gay and straight; bases that hold out the promise of isolating a natural cause for sexual orientation. They have documented correlations between sexual orientation and differences in finger length, in brain physiology, and, most recently, in brain function.5 Scientists are hot on the trail of “the gay gene,” we’re told. One might think, then, that we were on the verge of settling the question of homosexuality’s cause in favor of nature. If so, one might expect that full acceptance of gays and lesbians (those represented by the rest of the acronym ‘LGBTQI’ may be another matter) into the Christian fold would follow as the night the day. However, consider the words of Dr. Albert Mohler, the President of Southern Baptist Theological Seminary. If scientists find a biological cause for homosexuality, he urges Christians to support seeking a prenatal “cure”. As a recent article put it, “If the idea of chemically suppressing homosexuality in the womb horrifies you, I have bad news: You won’t be in the room when it happens…The reduction of homosexuality to neurobiology doesn’t mean your sexual orientation can’t be controlled. It just means the person controlling it won’t be you” (Marus and Warner 2007). I don’t intend here to malign the motives of scientists who undertake this kind of research. LeVay, for example, is an out gay man who takes responsibility (through lecturing and writing to lay audiences) to explain such projects and their limits and to try to deflect their political misuse.6 But the very fact that such efforts are necessary reflects not just present conflicts, but a harrowing past. Haunting queer science is the historical practice of eugenics and the scientific and pseudo-scientific research programs that undergirded it—not just in Nazi Germany but throughout the West, including the United States.7 Al Mohler is a queer scientist’s worst nightmare. To their credit, several scientists responded immediately and forcefully to Mohler’s statement noting that whatever biological links to sexual orientation were found would likely be connected to other bodily processes necessary to human development. (The so-called sex hormones, for example (androgen, testosterone, progesterone, estrogen), are necessary for the normal growth and development of many parts of the body

5 The latter is particularly interesting, as scientists say that data cannot be explained with reference to the post-partum environment (Saletan 2008). 6 Dean Hamer, a primary researcher into genetic links to homosexuality, has also written a book directed

at laypeople (Hamer and Copeland 1994). 7 For a particularly cogent philosophical analysis of this history, see McWhorter (2009).

13

110


unconnected to sexuality. Biologist and historian Anne Fausto-Sterling recommends we call them steroid hormones to reflect their global function.8 ) While queer science is not connected to the kind of political or social organizations and agendas that provided the infrastructure for the eugenics movement, that it is haunted by this spectral past reflects their common ancestry in what Michel Foucault dubbed the scientia sexualis. In the first volume of his only partially realized multivolume work on the history of sexuality, he traces the emergence of scientia sexualis in modern Europe in the eighteenth to early twentieth centuries (Foucault 1990). The science of sex arose in disparate places for disparate reasons, but it marks a shift in the status of what, because of this history, we have come to call sexuality in several ways. One major change involves the perception of the relationship between sexual acts and the human beings that perform them. Rather than things people do that might be subject to juridical action, sexual acts become understood as expressions of core identity. Second, the institutional body charged to exercise judgment over sexual matters shifts from church and/or civil authorities to the emerging scientific establishment. These changes culminate in a new social and scientific order; one centered around a population of sexualized subjects subjected to and by a therapeutic regime aimed at securing individual, familial, and societal health through the proper management of sexuality. Once upon a time…: the emergence of the science of sexuality One day, Foucault writes, a French field hand ironically named Jouy (jouir = to enjoy, in French) sought out the services of a peasant girl for a “bucolic pleasure” called “curdled milk” (Foucault 1990, p. 31). Doubtless, Jouy had engaged in this practice many times before—perhaps with this same girl. But this time, it provokes a new response. Jouy is picked up by the magistrate’s office, questioned, and eventually turned over to medical professionals. No juridical penalty for engaging in a forbidden act is imposed; rather, Jouy is subjected to perpetual (lifelong, in fact) interrogation at the hands of medical doctors. Their inquiries aim to uncover not evidence about the act itself (or others like it), but rather about the desires and motivations that gave rise to it. Their inquiries extend beyond questioning Jouy, the perpetrator of the act. Jouy’s body is scrutinized for external signs of deviance that might correspond to the internal signs uncovered by the interrogation. This incident is symptomatic of the emergence of the science of sexuality; a practice that creates “sexuality” and renders it “a matter of sensation and pleasure, of law and taboo, but also of truth and falsehood” (Foucault, 1990, p. 56). Establishing the truth of sex becomes not just a matter of determining who did what with whom (policing sex acts, in other words) but determining why. This is no easy task, it turns out. The truth of sexuality is hidden from view—not only or in the first place from scientists but from individuals themselves. This is so not because individuals want to cover up wrongdoing, but because sexuality is itself elusive. Getting sexuality to tell its truth 8 Fausto-Sterling (2000, p. 193). Calling them sex hormones has the odd effect, she notes, of sexualizing

body parts like intestines and bones that have nothing to do with reproduction (Fausto-Sterling 2000, p. 187).

13


111

requires the elaborate mechanisms of inquiry brought to bear in nascent form on Jouy; interrogation (and its counterpart, confession) and bodily investigations. This research eventually produced sexuality’s truth in several forms: as a complex taxonomy of the various forms sexuality takes, both “perverse” and “normal;” as a corresponding set of sexual identities; and finally as the most intimate and core aspect of who we are. Modern subjectivity is sexual subjectivity. Though ultimately displaced as the proper domain for dealing with sexual matters, Christianity provided both a key method for this new science and fallow ground for its primary product, the sexual subject, to take root. The emerging science appropriated the Church’s key strategy for handling sex, confession, transferring it from pastoral practice to scientific inquiry and thus from a logic of sin and redemption to one of the pathological and therapeutic. In doing so, it took over a practice that had begun within monastic contexts but, since the Lateran Council of 1215, had become required of lay Christians as well. Confession’s ostensible targets had also expanded when it came to sexual matters. At first, sexual sins were treated very much like other sins. One can find in early Christian penitential manuals lists of sexual acts named, one after the other, with little attempt to differentiate them. These acts were, like all sins, objects of ecclesial juridical authority and penitential practice. One confessed having perpetrated a given act, a corresponding penance was imposed; performing it absolved the sinner thus essentially wiping the slate clean. But the status of certain sexual sins began to change within the monastic context, according to Foucauldian scholar Mark Jordan in The Invention of Sodomy in Christian Theology.9 Jordan traces sodomy’s evolution in medieval theology from sodomia, one among other sexual sins, to a particularly problematic sin, and eventually to “Sodomy,” the essence of an identity, “the Sodomite.” The account he narrates is not one of simple and straightforward development. For one thing, the meaning of sodomia is difficult to pin down. This is more than a problem in translation (though it is that, as well); it is a problem with the term’s expansion and contraction in meaning and with the interplay of silence and speech in and around it. In some cases, Jordan argues that sodomia seems to have functioned as a catch-all term for all sexual sins (though the specifics are more often assumed rather than spelled out). Many sources refuse to define sodomia, as if to do so is to conjure it up or invite it in. It’s as though speech is unnecessary. Like pornography, you should know sodomia when you see it. However, its meaning comes to coalesce around specific practices of homo-sex—but primarily to practices between men.10 I speak of “homo-sex” here to mark the space between sodomia and modern “homosexuality,” a space constituted by, among other things, a (temporary, as it turns out) gap between acts and identity.

9 Jordan (1997). See also the fourth chapter of Jordan (2002). 10 That women could engage in illicit acts with one another was not in question; whether such acts con-

stituted sodomia was at issue. On this point, see Jordan (2002, p. 81). For a substantive treatment of early Christian views on homo-sex between women, see Brooten (1996). Among the many contributions this text makes by attending specifically to this question (neglected by prior studies), one is to note that the medicalization of sexual deviance predates the nineteenth century. Brooten finds evidence that clitoridectomy was practiced as a “cure” for same-sex desire (among other forms of deviance) in the Roman era.

13

112


The gap does not survive the medieval period. Confession within monastic circles focused originally on sinful acts (sexual and otherwise). Sodomitic acts between monks became objects of particular concern, Jordan suggests, because they were perceived as constituting a temptation specific to and particularly dangerous both for the aim of monastic life (union with God) and its organizational structure. The solitary dimension of monastic life made sins of self-pleasuring (masturbation, e.g.) particularly tough to resist. On the other hand, its communal dimension provided too many opportunities for monks to pleasure one another and to form overly intimate relationships. Sexual sins, then, threatened the monk’s status before God and the bonds within the community. Confessing acts performed came to be seen an insufficient prophylactic measure, and so confessors were directed to press beyond acts to the desires that motivated them. Non-volitional acts (spontaneous erections, nocturnal emissions, sexual dreams, e.g.) also became objects of inquiry—again, not simply for their own sake, but as routes to the desires that underlay them. Deviant desires eventually came to be taken as evidence not just of the sinful nature shared by all humanity after Adam, but of a specific kind of nature; the sodomite. The sodomite was irredeemable, unchangeable; once a sodomite, always a sodomite—and a sodomite to one’s core. What constituted sodomitic acts, then? Everything a sodomite did. How to rid the community of the threat posed by the sodomite? There was only one solution: excision altogether. The object of confession changed once again: from policing deviance to rooting out deviants. I focus on the invention of sodomy not because it is the earliest instance of Christian dealings with homoeroticism (it isn’t11 ), but because it is a pivot point in the eventual emergence of scientia sexualis. The alert reader will have discerned already elements in sodomy’s career that prefigure scientia sexualis. Confession may serve a different master, but its practice is aimed toward a similar object: inquiries into acts and desires serve as entry points into identities.12 Like sexuality, sodomy hides itself—not only from those in authority, but from sexualized subjects themselves. Yet the search for its truth, no matter how difficult or elusive, must go on. After all, it serves a higher imperative. Yet these two regimes are not, for all that, the same. The sodomite is not a homosexual; for one thing, the label was applied primarily (if not exclusively) to men. Moreover, the sodomite is, at bottom, a religious identity located in a Christian taxonomy governed by a logic of sin and redemption; sodomy indexes one’s proximity to the demonic and distance from the divine. Associations of sodomy with effeminacy reflect a parallel association with luxuria, the larger category of sin that included sodomy. Homosexuality, by contrast, indexes one’s distance from the normal and proximity to the pathological (although, as Foucault points out, this logic bears residue from its

11 The groundbreaking study on early Christianity is Boswell (1980). Not surprisingly, its contributions

continue to be appreciated, but it is not without its critics (see Brooten 1996; Kuefler 2006). For particularly fine work on New Testament perspectives, see Martin (2006). 12 Indeed, Jordan’s research establishes the emergence of sexual identities well before the nineteenth

century, thus providing a corrective to Foucault. In Jordan (2002), he discusses several such identities in Christian theology: the Virgin Martyr, the Christian Wife or Husband, e.g., as well as the Sodomite. Brooten (1996) also finds evidence for relatively fixed sexual identities in antiquity.

13


113

predecessor). The homosexual’s identity was as total and totalizing as the sodomite’s. Encompassing body and soul, if you will, homosexuality’s causes were deemed to lie in nature and in nurture. Emerging in the nineteenth century for the first time, the term “homosexual” named “a personage, a past, a case history, and a childhood, in addition to…a type of life, a life form, and a morphology, with an indiscreet anatomy and possibly a mysterious physiology,” (Foucault 1990, p. 43) Foucault writes. At the heart of this sexual identity lies the notion of perversion as inversion; the homosexual is possessed of (and produced by) “an interior androgyny, a hermaphrodism of the soul” (ibid.). Sexual deviance, in other words, expresses gender deviance, itself likely linked to sexed deviance (though the specific bodily signs and symptoms and the nature of their connection to homosexuality remained mysterious). Like the sodomite, no aspect of the homosexual escaped contamination as it was “the insidious and indefinitely active principle” of all of that personage’s actions (ibid.). Homosexuality’s existence had implications not just for the individual, his family, and his community, but for human nature itself. If the sodomite was “a temporary aberration, the homosexual was now a species” (ibid.), Foucault writes, that needed to be codified, identified, contained and controlled.13 The immediate aim of the scientia sexualis was not extinction, exclusion, or suppression of the perversions but their solidification into “a natural order of disorder” (Foucault 1990, p. 44) that could be read off or into behaviors and bodies with increased ease and regularity thus enabling their containment and, with the rise of eugenics, their eradication. Queer science, redux That queer science is the offspring of scientia sexualis is, I trust, clear. While the specific taxonomic table from which it works has changed (I don’t know that zoophiles and gynecomasts (Foucault 1990, p. 43) are valid identities any longer, for example), it operates out of one. Like its parent, it, too, aims at further solidification of that taxonomy—but with a couple of important shifts. It seeks to bypass nurture (for the moment, at least14 ) and establish a cause for homosexuality in nature. Though not explicitly its aim, queer science seems to promise the possibility of moving homosexuality completely out of the taxonomic category of the “pathological” and into the category of the “normal.” Though the scientists engaged in this research are keenly aware of the cultural implications, their research protocols seek to avoid cultural contamination altogether by focusing on the body. They seek in the bodies of homosexuals features of the properly hetero-sexed body; a gay man’s hypothalamus whose size accords with the parameters of the normatively female rather than the normatively male. A lesbian’s index finger whose proportionality to her ring finger approximates that of a male’s

13 As one should expect, given my account of Jordan on sodomy, he contests this point. While sodomy was certainly deemed aberrant, it was no temporary state. 14 Both Hamer and LeVay acknowledge that establishing physiological links to homosexuality will not necessarily eliminate some role for non-physiological factors in its realization. Nor would such links necessarily explain “homosexual behavior” in all cases.

13

114


digits rather than a female’s. They define sexual deviance—or better, deviation—via sexed deviation. I say “deviation” to mark the distance queer science seeks to establish between its pursuits and the social milieu in which it undertakes them; between the (ab)normal and the (non)normative, one might say. That distance is difficult to maintain, however. Deviation connotes mere divergence from the usual course of events. But the usual is the normal, and the normal in this case also the normative. Re-siting the body: Judith Butler on sex, gender, and sexuality To this point, I may have convinced you that a queer philosophical approach might bring useful resources to bear on these matters. However, what benefit a feminist perspective could offer remains largely unexplored. To launch that trajectory of my analysis, let me bring one more philosopher into play: Judith Butler. Butler’s first book, Gender Trouble (Butler 1990) is considered along with the first volume of Foucault’s History of Sexuality an inaugural text in what became known as queer theory. It is also (as its title suggests) a major contribution to feminist philosophy—one that has been taken up by a number of scholars in a wide range of subfields in religious studies.15 Gender Trouble poses some questions to the success of queer science’s turn to the body as a strategy for bypassing culture. Written at a critical juncture in feminist politics and theory, Gender Trouble took its title from incipient difficulties surrounding the longstanding distinction between gender and sex in feminist theory. Gender had become the term for the cultural prescriptions and proscriptions for appropriate behavior and occupation for women and men. Sex, on the other hand, named the bodily markers that distinguished between men and women. Gender (masculinity and femininity) had been proven to vary according to time and place; sex, on the other hand, was presumed to be fixed and relatively unchangeable. Feminist theoretical and political analysis set its sights primarily on gender because of its relative malleability.16 In doing so, it left relatively untouched presumptions in the wider body politic about the relationship between sex and gender—and, most importantly for my purposes in this essay, sexuality. Those presumptions posit linear links between sex, gender, and sexuality. Females (naturally) act feminine and desire males; males (naturally) act masculine and desire females. Desiring otherwise calls into question one’s gender and, by implication at least, one’s sex. [Indeed, Hamer notes that scientists have quite understandably triangulated on homosexuality via sex because in desiring other men, gay men exhibit a female trait (Hamer and Copeland, 1994, p. 151).] Calling in part on recent evidence of greater diversity in interior and exterior bodily sex than most laypeople realized, Butler proceeded to turn this linear scheme on its head. Rather than expressions of nature, she argued that this system was culturally determined. Specifically, presumptive heteronormativity requires sexual desire to channel itself via gendered identities (masculine and feminine). Those identities in turn specify certain bodily markers (deemed male 15 For a sampling, see Armour and St. Ville (2006). 16 That focus also, it was assumed, kept the category of women open to the full range of diversities (racial,

ethnic, and sexual)—or so the feminists of the 1980s assumed until the criticisms of women of color finally convinced them otherwise. On this see Armour (1999).

13


115

and female) as their signature and guarantee. The lived reality—at all levels (sexuality, gender, and sex)—is much more diverse than the system allows. Indeed, the now common acronym “LGBTQI” speaks rather efficiently to that diversity and to the challenges it poses to this tripartite system of binaries. In that light, consider the role played by the body in queer science. On the one hand, queer science disrupts the naïve assumption that bodies are unambiguously male or female through and through; that external genitalia are reliable markers of sex. Just because one has a penis doesn’t mean one’s brain physiology resembles John Wayne’s. Considered alongside other phenomena (intersexuality, transsexuality, variations in chromosomal sex, etc.), queer science reminds us that nature is considerably more variable than our cultural schemes often allow. On the other hand, in seeking to establish a bodily link to homosexuality, queer science reinforces the notion that sexuality is a (by)product of sex. In this respect, it largely reflects (and, if its hypotheses prove true, promises to shore up) the contemporary western social system that surrounds it and the beliefs about sex and gender that sustain that system. But it is, then, also vulnerable to Butler’s critique of this system. This should sound a cautionary note to those who seek from queer science an easy resolution to the controversy over homosexuality. Here, I reach the heart of the concerns that drive this essay. My brief is, in the end, as much (or perhaps more) with what we desire from queer science as with the science itself. We seek from it a resolution to a problem that it is not equipped to solve. And in the process, we treat queer science very reductively. Much of its complexity and nuance is largely lost in popular accounts of it. Take, for example, headlines proclaiming the search for the “gay gene.” It is highly unlikely that “a gene” determines something as complex as sexual orientation. Whatever genetic links might be found are likely to be plural, not singular. And locating a genetic component does not rule out environmental factors. The relationship between genetics and environment, nature and nurture, is not unidirectional; it’s not even necessarily linear.17 The headlines, then, I suggest, say more about us and what we want to be the case than about science. Dorothy Nelkin and M. Susan Lindee have reviewed articles in the popular press on scientific research that purported to link gender and race differences to possible genetic causes (Nelkin and Lindee 1995b). Their survey of the literature suggested that, though not without resistance in some corners, a shift occurred in the last decades of the twentieth century from belief that nurture (or culture) explains such differences to the belief that nature will out. They argue that the gene is “not a biological entity” in the popular imagination as much as it is a “cultural icon”.18 In the popular press, at least, “the gene appears to be a solid and unpredictably unambiguous sign of natural human difference” (Nelkin and Lindee 1995b, p. 388) that we use to reassure ourselves that those human differences that are under assault by social changes

17 See, e.g., Hamer and Copeland (1994). The larger point is reinforced by scientists who have cloned animals. They report that the clones’ personalities and behaviors differ from those of the originals, evidence of the complex and poorly understood relationship between genetics and environment. 18 Hence the subtitle of the book length study on which the essay is based (Nelkin and Lindee 1995a).

13

116


(affirmative action, feminism, gay rights) are real. Affirming their reality shores up the systems by which we manage (contain and constrain) those differences.19 In calling on science to resolve these questions for us, we ask too much from it and too little from ourselves.20 The resistance to full acceptance of LGBTQI people is cultural, not natural. That Christianity would be a primary site of such resistance is no surprise, given the history I have recounted here. Overcoming resistance within Christian circles, it seems to me, will require the labor of theologians, philosophers of religion, and ethicists more than scientists.21 In the time remaining to me, let me attempt to sketch out the philosophical insights from the foregoing that I think might be put to use toward that end.

Keeping time: some epochal reflections I opened this essay by troubling the frequent association of continental philosophy with postmodernity. Clearly, if the “post” is understood as marking a break with modernity—specifically, with its notions of subjectivity, of truth, of metanarratives in which these artifacts are situated—then I trust my analysis suggests that we’re not there yet. That is, we remain deeply embedded in and beholden to at least one modern metanarrative, that of scientia sexualis. We continue to seek the truth it offers us—a truth that holds out the promise of a secure self-identity and communal home. We continue to give ourselves over to its regime of sexual subjectivities most often without question; if and when we raise questions, they are about the value accorded those subjectivities not the subjectivities themselves. When we contest the taxonomy of sexual subjectivities, we generally seek to expand it; rarely if ever do we challenge the notion of sexual subjectivity itself. And by “we” I mean virtually all of us in the West, gay or straight, confirmed secularists or avowed religious believers, and wherever we align ourselves on the spectrum of the current “culture war” over homosexuality. That said, the fact that we can see scientia sexualis as a metanarrative—and that we can bring critical scrutiny to bear upon it—arguably positions us differently in relationship to it than our forebears. I do not think this position is best described as “post,” however; not only because we remain in its grip but also because that critical scrutiny

19 At the same time, Nelkin and Lindee also note that such accounts can be put to different political uses and they cite a number of examples. Syndicated journalist Maureen Dowd argues that evidence linking testosterone and aggression in men suggests they shouldn’t hold political leadership roles while others use a similar correlation to argue women shouldn’t be soldiers. Some Afrocentrists claim that white aggression toward blacks is rooted in whites’ so-called “iceman” DNA. 20 See, e.g., debates over gender/sex testing of women athletes. The protests of scientists as well as athletes ended the mandatory testing of all women Olympic athletes in the 1990s, but the practice persists (in the Olympics and other international competitions) in individual cases when a challenge is raised (Thomas 2008). The most notorious recent case is that of South African track athlete Caster Semenya (see Levy 2009). On the complicated issues raised by such testing (prompted by the Semenya case), see Dreger (2009). 21 As Mark Jordan puts it, “If theology is no longer Queen of the Sciences, it shouldn’t become just

their gullible sidekick” (Jordan 2002, p. 13). He goes on to rightly caution those who enter these waters to beware of assuming that scientists and scholars of religion mean the same thing even when they use the same language. I hope that I avoid such problems herein.

13


117

is itself deeply beholden to the so-called Enlightenment project.22 Of particular interest to me, however, is what this critical analysis reveals about religion’s relationship to this metanarrative—and to the possibilities (such as they are) of moving beyond it. Consider, now, the complex relationship between Christianity and scientia sexualis. On the one hand, the displacement of Christianity by scientia sexualis fits another standard metanarrative of modernity; one that identifies it with an ever increasing drive toward secularity and corresponding diminishment (or eradication altogether) of religion. On the other, however, scientia sexualis would not have taken the form it did were it not for religion; specifically, for Christianity. Indeed, traces of Christian theology and practice remain visible not only in its formative history, but its ongoing practice—a practice that continues to this day throughout western culture including Christian churches. (Perhaps we’ve come full circle, ironically, in seeking from queer science the solution to a problem that, for Christians, is ultimately theological.) Acknowledging this history has implications for how we in the west might respond to the global dimensions of the controversy over homosexuality within Christian communions. First, at least to some degree, the analysis I have offered here lends a certain credence to the charge made by some in the formerly colonized world about the links between “homosexuality” and “the west.” “Homosexuality” is a western invention. That does not mean what those who make this claim intend: that same-sex desire, same-sex sex or same-sex love are unique to the west. Rather, the specific framework that uses “homosexuality” to understand, organize, and contain (if not control) such desires, sexual activities, and loving relationships—scientia sexualis—is western in origin. When one considers the history of colonialism and the role played by sexuality in the “civilizing” of the so-called “savage,” then I would also argue that there is good reason to see “homosexuality” as a western export. Again, not in the way that those who make the claim intend (the introduction of otherwise alien and degenerate desires and acts to places where they did not exist before), but as part of the overarching scheme by which colonized peoples were “encouraged” to (re)organize their sexual and familial lives according to Victorian mores.23 As I noted above, westerners often see opposition to homosexuality in formerly colonized locations as symptomatic of a systemic ignorance (or stubborn rejection) of modern insights. It is, to their minds, of a piece with a more pronounced emphasis on biblical literalism, supernaturalism, and theological “conservatism” that characterizes the Christianity of the formerly colonized.24 The account I have offered here cautions against seeing modernity as the solution. Moreover, I would submit that better acquaintance with what predates modernity—both in the colonized world and in “the west”—may even hold a key to a more progressive future for LGBTQI people within Christianity (and those territories that feel its touch).

22 On this point, see Foucault (1984). 23 This history continues to shape debates over sexual matters (including but not limited to same-sex

relations) in Africa (Ward 2002). 24 For a more developed critique of this position, see Armour (2010).

13

118


I say this not because life before modernity was sexual utopia; it was not. While three decades of historical research has uncovered evidence of times, places, and circumstances in the early centuries of Christendom where same-sex relationships—though primarily between men—were accepted and even celebrated/sanctioned (Boswell 1985), the overarching trajectory is largely negative on same-sex love, especially between women (Brooten 1996). The history of premodern Africa, is similarly complex. The precise parameters of familial and sexual arrangements in African locales prior to colonialism are difficult to establish with certainty, but there is sufficient evidence to suggest that such arrangements included—and in some cases with approval— arrangements between people of the same gender/sex (Roscoe and Murray 2001). I see philosophical promise in this history, however, in its ability to denaturalize our current understanding—and more importantly, lived practice of—subjectivity as sexual subjectivity. This history makes us aware of the inexorable effects of time and history on everything we touch and treat. To speak of sexuality, of gender, of sex—of male and female, masculine and feminine, homosexuality and heterosexuality—is to speak within and out of a particular history; one that we have inherited and for which we are now responsible.25 Lived bodies are products of their history, of their culture as well as of nature. This is not to say that bodies are mere inert matter that culture shapes at will; bodies are complex entities in and of themselves and as sites of interaction with their environment (natural, cultural, and historical). The historicity of bodily existence offers us no easy answers to any of the dilemmas that confront us, including this one. To turn to queer science to resolve a religious dilemma may reflect a desire to melt back into nature, to give up responsibility, but the burden of our historicity will not be so easily set aside. It is in working through the dilemmas of our present in light of the perils and promise of our past that the hope of living into a more just future resides. References Armour, E. T. (1999). Deconstruction, feminist theology and the problem of difference: Subverting the race/gender divide. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Armour, E. T. (2010). Planetary sightings? Negotiating sexual differences in globalization’s shadow. In S. Moore & M. Rivera (Eds.), Planetary loves: Postcoloniality, gender and theology (pp. 209–224). New York: Fordham University Press. Armour, E. T. & St. Ville, S. M. (Eds.). (2006). Bodily citations: Judith Butler and religion. New York: Columbia University Press. Boswell, J. (1980). Christianity, social tolerance and homosexuality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Boswell, J. (1985). Same-sex unions in premodern Europe. New York: Vintage Press. Brooten, B. (1996). Love between women: Early Christian responses to female homoeroticism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Butler, J. (1990). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge (10th anniversary edition 1999). Butler, J. (2008) Sexual politics, torture, and sexual time. British Journal of Sociology, 59(1), 1–23. 25 It is also to speak in terms of vocabulary limited not only in its application across historical periods

(see, e.g., Jordan 2002, pp. 9–17) but also in what it obscures about the past and the present. Brooten (1996) argues, for example, that many other aspects of social status (one’s ethnicity, whether one was free or slave) affected the perception of one’s homoeroticism in the ancient world. The same is true in our time and place, an issue I address at least briefly in Armour (2010).

13


119

Dreger, A. (2009) Science is forcing sports to reexamine their core principles. http://www.nytimes.com/ 2009/09/13/sports/13dreger.html. Fausto-Sterling, A. (2000). Sexing the body: Gender politics and the construction of sexuality. New York: Basic Books. Foucault, M. (1984). What is enlightenment? In P. Rabinow (Ed.), The Foucault reader (C. Porter, Trans.). New York: Pantheon Books. Foucault, M. (1990). The history of sexuality, Vol. 1: An introduction (R. Hurley, Trans.). New York: Random House. Hamer, D., & Copeland, P. (1994). The science of desire: The search for the gay gene and the biology of behavior. New York: Simon and Schuster. Hassett, M. (2007). Anglican communion in crisis: How episcopal dissidents and their African allies are reshaping anglicanism. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Jordan, M. D. (1997). The invention of sodomy in Christian theology. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Jordan, M. D. (2002). The ethics of sex. Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. Kolini, The most revd Emmanuel Mbona, et al. 31 January 1998. Available at http://andromeda.rutgers. edu/~lcrew/rwanda.html. Accessed 10 July 2008. Kuefler, M. (Ed.). (2006). The Boswell thesis: Essays on Christianity, social tolerance and homosexuality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. LeVay, S. (1996). Queer science: The use and abuse of research into homosexuality. Boston: MIT Press. Levy, A. (2009). Either/or: Sports, sex, and the case of Caster Semenya. The New Yorker, 30 November 2009. http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2009/11/30/091130fa_fact_levy. Accessed 1 June 2010. Marus, R., & Warner, G. (2007). Mohler: Homosexuality likely genetic; Christians should support prenatal cure. 7 March 2007. http://www.abpnews.com/1855.article. Martin, D. B. (2006). Sex and the single savior: Gender and sexuality in biblical interpretation. Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press. McWhorter, L. (2009). Racism and sexual oppression in Anglo-America: A genealogy. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Nelkin, D., & Lindee, M. S. (1995a). The DNA mystique: The gene as a cultural icon. New York: W.H. Freeman. Nelkin, D., & Lindee, M. S. (1995b). The media-ted gene. In J. Terry & J. Urla (Eds.), Deviant bodies: Critical perspectives on difference in science and popular culture (pp. 387–402). Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Roscoe, W., & Murray, S. O. (2001). Boy-wives and female Husbands: Studies in African homosexualities. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Saletan, W. (2008). Sexual reorientation: The gay culture war is about to turn chemical. Slate. http:// www.slate.com/id/2193841/. 18 June 2008. Thomas, K. (2008). A lab is set to test the gender of some female athletes. The New York Times, 30 July 2008. Ward, K. (2002) Same-sex relations in Africa and the debate on homosexuality in East African Anglicanism. Anglican Theological Review, 83, 81–111.

13


IJPR: beyond the limit and limiting the beyond Michael Purcell

Received: 29 May 2010 / Accepted: 29 May 2010 / Published online: 5 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract It is now almost 20 years since Janicaud’s critique of the ‘theological turn in French phenomenology’ (Janicaud 1991, 2000), with its emphasis on phenomenology and theology as two and never one. Yet since that time there been an explosion of phenomenologies which are, if not overtly, implicitly religious and phenomenology. Thus, we have phenomenologies of prayer, or love, or hope, and the possibilities of further phenomenologies. The challenge of these emerging phenomenologies is that there seems to be no noematic correlate to a noesis in intentionality. To the fore in the reconsideration of this phenomenological challenge is Jean-Luc Marion (although there are others such as Levinas, Jean-Louis Chrétien, and Michel Henry): all aspects of lived experience appear now to belong to the proper scope of phenomenology. Marion considers the relation in Husserl between intentions and intuitions which fulfil these intentions, and suggests a reversal. In Marion, although intentionality is not rejected, the phenomenological flow which the reduction brings to light is from the object as such as it gives itself in intuition, and then from intuition to intention. For Marion, phenomena are saturated—they give too much. Religion becomes a test-case for all phenomenology. This bearing, drawing mainly on The Visible and the Revealed, offers some of the key things in Marion’s phenomenology. Keywords Phenomenology · Religion · Theology · Jean-Luc Marion · Intentionality · Donation · Saturation The consorting and coupling of phenomenology and theology is more rampant than ever in Continental philosophy and theology, and prizing them apart more difficult than ever, despite 1991 critique the theological turn in French phenomenology which

M. Purcell (B) Systematic Theology, School of Divinity, University of Edinburgh, Mound Place, Edinburgh, EH1 2LX Scotland, UK e-mail: [email protected]

13

122


blurs the distinction between phenomenology and theology. Writing later in 1998 in Phenenomenology “Wide Open”, Janicaud notes that the warning issued in The Theological Turn was heeded and the paradox of revelation as both invisible and invisable acknowledged by Jean-Luc Marion. For Janicaud (1998, 2005) the question becomes one of whether or not ‘phenomenology must be radically atheistic in order to attain, describe, and speak of the “thing itself”’ (Janicaud 2005, p. 9). De Vries (2005) also considers ‘the appeal of methodological atheism’ in the quest for phenomenological meaning, the bisection of reason and rationality in intentional analysis, and the need to ‘address the problem of the infinite reduction and recession of the infinite’ while yet giving an account of the legitimacy of the question of ‘God’ and ‘religion’, however these are to be construed (De Vries 2005, pp. 51–55). In short, theology must veer towards a minimalism which is essentially atheist in the sense that it makes no dogmatic claims but charts the fundamental phenomenological framework within which a theology or a philosophy of religion might be articulated. Despite Janicaud’s criticism of any phenomenologico-theological liaison, an explosion of phenomenologies which recognise the phenomenon of religion or religiosity, and that phenomenology is a response to what is given (a phenomenological presupposition) or what gives itself (a metaphysical claim) is evident in recent years. Benson and Wirzba (2005, 2010), for example, consider the phenomenology of prayer, and new theological turns in French phenomenology. However, in the interests of concision, it is perhaps sufficient to ask whether or not the enduring theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity of which Paul speaks (1Cor.13) are now become also particular modes of intentionality which enable access to reality otherwise not known. Methodologically, Kosky (2001) argues that a philosophy of religion reduced to the subjective response and responsibility does not necessarily compromise theological understanding and intelligibility. This provocation of responsibility as a particular affective and responsive intention which gives access to a reality otherwise not known (namely, death) is evident in Levinas (2000) reversal of Heidegger’s understanding of Dasein as ‘being-towards-death’ (Sein-zum-Tode). The death of the other person affects me, and my affection for the other person through grief and tears offers intentional access to an unknown that cannot be comprehended. Hart (2007) note that, for Janicaud, phenomenology is concerned with immanence rather than transcendence and thus the ‘theological turn’ fails in the face of phenomenology, whereas for Marion the self-revelation of phenomena must be considered as a possibility because possibility ‘is all that phenomenology can do, and must do, if the phenomenality of revelation is to be respected’ (Hart 2007, p. 35). It may not be the case that phenomenology has been taken hostage by theology but that phenomenology as a method is in need of reformulation. The relation between access and excess, or intention and intuition requires reconsideration. This paper takes Marion (2005, 2008) work Le Visible et le Révélé/The Visible and the Revealed as a key to understanding the shift in phenomenological approaches to religion and fundamental theology. This will involve some revisiting of Husserl’s original project, and Marion’s re-reading of that project. The key notion is the adequacy of intention and intuition in the face of givenness.

13


123

The phenomenological project in Husserl Husserl, in The Crisis of European Science and Transcendental Phenomenology: An Introduction to Phenomenological Philosophy (1936), recalls that the original phenomenological project issued from a concern for a tried and tested methodology and objectivity which was lacking in the sciences, a ‘principle of principles’ that would ground all enquiry and give an account an account of both method and object. It would also acknowledge the ‘enigma of subjectivity’ and the ‘struggle for the meaning of man’ (Husserl 1970, pp. 5, 14). The lode-star of all scientific enquiry, phenomenologically founded, would be the constant return to the facts (Zu den Sachen selbst), in which both object of enquiry and method of enquiring and their mutual relation were subjected to transcendental scrutiny. Said otherwise, the phenomenological project seeks to clarify the relation between noesis and noema, which involves the correlation of intention and intuition, and implicates the correlation of access and excess, and this is the point of engagement of Marion with Husserl. The apple tree in Husserl’s garden Apples not only provoke an insight into Newtonian physics, but also Husserlian phenomenology. In Ideas Pertaining to a Pure Phenomenology and to a Phenomenological Philosophy I (1913), Husserl (1983) investigates intentionality and the correlation of a meaning-bestowing noesis and a meaningful noema. As a science of meaningful intent, phenomenology is concerned with the ways in which consciousness intends, or directs itself towards, an object. In Ideas I §97, the perception of the apple tree in the garden provides ‘an exemplary analysis’ of the noetico-noematic correlation. Husserl writes, Let us suppose that in a garden we regard with pleasure a blossoming apple tree, the freshly green grass of the lawn, etc. It is obvious that the perception and the accompanying liking are not, at the same time, what is perceived and liked (Ideas I, §88). Three things are to be distinguished: first, the act of perceiving the blooming apple tree; secondly, the blooming apple tree as perceived; and thirdly the attitude accompanying the perception of the perceived blooming apple tree, namely, ‘with pleasure’. Now, the natural or everyday attitude presumes the actual existence of the apple tree as perceived in perception. A real relation exists between the perceiving and the perceived. ‘Between the one and the other real things, between the real person or the real perception, and the real apple tree, there exist real relations’ (Ideas I, §88). Thus, for example, in the natural attitude, when I look at the blooming apple tree at the bottom of my garden, there is me who is doing the looking, and there is the blossoming apple tree that is looked at, or at which I am looking. This real relation and the coincidence of perceiving and perceived is relatively unproblematical, for, quite obviously, I am perceiving a perceived apple tree. But, the natural attitude is also a naïve attitude, for it fails to consider the role that the attitude itself plays in perception. While it may be perfectly clear, in a natural or naive attitude, that, in perception,

13

124


there is a direct relation between perceiving and perceived, the nature of perception is itself more complex on account of the accompanying attitude, which is not actually an accompanying attitude but rather the lens or filter of appreciation. Husserl does not refuse the actual existence of the object, but takes as the phenomenological starting point the intentional inexistence of the apple tree. The apple tree is perceived with pleasure, but being perceived with pleasure affects, and determines, this real relation between perceiving and perceived. This same apple tree might equally be perceived in/with anger and despair, for it was from this tragic tree that my young son fell and was killed, and every year when it flamboyantly blossoms and its branches dance in the wind, my heart is filled with renewed pain and sadness as I recall other like trees in a cemetery which canopy a grave, casting a shadow while at the same time offering shade to the mourner. Like a barren fig-tree (Luke 13:6–9), cursed in anger, I may say, ‘I will bring an end to this tree. I will hew it down and hack out its roots. It is an instrument of death not of life’. Or, perhaps like a pomegranate tree in Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner on which was carved ‘Amir and Hassan, Sultans of Kabul’ and which, revisited years later, is a symbol of past friendship, betrayal, and regret: recall the incident in which the young Amir pelted Hassan with a pomegranate, and Hassan in response afflicted himself with pomegranates. How could Amir ever eat a pomegranate again with recalling this incident? In other words, a tree—whether apple or pomegranate—is not just a tree: what it is determined by the meaning-bestowing attitude with which it is perceived. So, this is the tree I perceive in/with pleasure as it reminds me of happier moments; this is the tree on whose branches a swing was constructed amid much laughter; this is the tree under which I sit amidst the rustle of leaves and recover memories, lost but ever present, and whose predictable blossoming with the coming of each spring is a reminder of hope and promise yet to come. This is the tree I hate, the sight of which angers me so much that I would put an end to it and cut it down and do away with it, but cannot do. This tree is, for me, a crucifixion, at once a thing of memory, hope, and promise, but also a thing of death and despair. For many, this tree may simply be a tree like any other, but, for me, this tree is unique in all the world and irreplaceable, and if you came into my garden to cut it down, I would be provoked to violence, for this tree is not just a tree. Now, Husserl does not question that his blooming apple tree is a real and actual tree which is exterior, transcendent, and independent, irrespective of its being perceived by me. ‘[T]he actual existence of the real relation between perceiving and perceived’ (Ideas I, §88) is not in question. But Husserl places this natural attitude to the side, placing it in parenthesis in a phenomenological epoché, in order to consider not its ontological but rather its phenomenological status. The suspension of the natural attitude enables a consideration of the phenomenological attitude, and the relation between meaning and reality.

Intentionality For Husserl, intentionality is determinative of the meaningful relation with an intended object, although intentions await intuitive fulfilment. ‘Intentionality is what

13


125

characterises consciousness in the pregnant sense…’ (Ideas I, §84). This relation between intention and intuition will be important to bear in mind, particularly when considering Jean-Luc Marion’s stress on intuition over intention. The prelude to Husserl’s consideration of intentionality as ‘the principle theme of phenomenology’ (Ideas I, §84) is the insufficiency of ‘concrete mental processes’ which need augmented by an ‘extra-essential determinational part’ (Ideas I, §83). In short, intentions call for intuitional fulfilment. This extra-essential supplement, or what might be termed the excess or surplus of intuition in relation to intention, does not alter the ‘essential contents proper to the mental process’ in their ideality. It does, however, recognise that ‘perception itself changes according to change in the determinedness of the surroundings’ (Ideas I, §83). This is further explained in Ideas I, §84 where Husserl stresses that consciousness is always consciousness of something, and is never unaccompanied: ‘a perceiving is a perceiving of something … a judging is a judging of …’ and so also with valuing and wishing. ‘Acting bears upon action. Doing bears upon the deed, loving bears upon the loved one, being glad bears upon the gladsome’. Further, the bestowal of meaning is neither the sole province nor the provenance of a single meaning-bestowing subject; nor is meaning purely ideal for, were that the case, an identically essential content would be incommunicable between two subjectivities. Meaning is not completely determined according to its essential content, but is always and already situated, and intersubjective. (One should note, although this is not evident in Husserl, that it is also historical and cultural.) One consciousness cannot communicate fully a content of consciousness to another consciousness across the epistemological divide that phenomenology sought to resolve, for other factors intervene in the realm of meaning. As Husserl notes, ‘Every mental process influences the (bright or dark) halo of further mental processes’ (Ideas I, §83). In other short, ideal meaning is tinted and tainted by intuition, attitude, and intersubjectivity. A particular intentional attitude or stance towards an object—that is, a particular mode of intentionality—enables a particular access to an object, and it will be important to bear this in mind when considering the blossoming of various modes of intending an object in contemporary phenomenologies: the mode of access may be a significant factor in attaining a phenomenon which is excessive.

The halo or aura of meaning Intentionality is to be understood in ‘its pregnant sense’ ‘as a comprehensive name for all-inclusive phenomenological structures’ (Ideas I, §84). Pregnancy, often unexpected, intends the unforeseen and the unanticipated, and possibly also opens on to hopes yet to be fulfilled. Husserl acknowledges an accompanying horizon. Within consciousness, there is a remainder or an excess which also requires the rigour of phenomenological rendering, but also pushes phenomenology as a scientific discipline towards and even beyond its limits, but not necessarily with either trespass or transgression. It is this relation between access and excess which is the phenomenological challenge, and which Marion will exploit, for the pregnant sense of intentionality implicates both the phenomenon as it gives itself in intuition and the mode and manner of intentional access.

13

126


All intentions have an accompanying, indeterminate, and yet to be determined, halo or aura which, though not directly intended, accompanies the intention, and whose intuitive fulfilment is yet to come. This halo belongs to ‘the intuitive unity of consciousness’ as ‘a potential field of perception’ (Ideas I, §84). It is worth noting two things: (1) intuitive fulfilment which intention anticipates may not be offered; (2) perception, as a modality of intentionality opens on to other modalities of intentionality which may already be ‘stirring’ in the background without having been aroused, and which may also give access to the intended object, such as wishing, judging, and valuing, which, although strictly speaking, are not exactly intended yet are not, on the other hand, unintended. One might suggest an intentional empathetic resonance. Husserl cites the example of the ‘effecting’ of sorrow in which the Ego ‘actionally “undergoes suffering”’ and notes that ‘it is continually necessary to take into account the modal differences between acts’ (Ideas I, §84). Although murmurings or ‘stirrings in the background’, which may neither have to be nor have been effected by the egocogito, and although unintended and essentially inactual, the field of consciousness that these inactualities intrude upon remains a ‘consciousness of something’ (Ideas, I, §84). The further phenomenological task thus becomes one of ‘further determination or clarification’ of this ‘halo of indeterminateness’ for ‘[c]larity does not exclude a certain halo of indeterminateness’ (Ideas I, §84). In Ideas I, §85, Husserl goes further in distinguishing ‘sensuous hyle’ and ‘intentive morphe’. ‘Sensuous moments’ or ‘stuff’ (hyle) are ‘animated’ and given ‘sense’ and shape by ‘intentive formings, or sense-bestowings’ (morphe), and so, in terms of a noetico-noematic correlation, one can speak of ‘formless stuff and stuffless forms’ (Ideas I, §84). ‘The stream of phenomenological being has a stuff-stratum and a noetic stratum’ (Ideas I, §85). This relation between sensuous ‘formless stuff’ (hyle) and intentive ‘stuffless forms’ (morphe) leads to a reconsideration of this correlation in terms of intention and intuition. Both intention and intuition are phenomenological concerns. The correlation between modalities of intentional access and the givenness of excess in intuition requires further phenomenological consideration.

Broaching phenomenality with Marion ‘Zu den Sachen selbst’/‘to the facts themselves’ is the great phenomenological watchword. The phenomenon as it makes its appearance in consciouness is the starting point for phenomenological reflection and reduction. But thought as noesis with a correlated noema is a starting point with a history of which it is not the origin. The ego-cogito of the Cartesian Meditations that is maligned by the ‘malin génie’ has to seek recourse to divine veracity. ‘The central argument of Descartes’ metaphysics proceeds through clear and distinct perceptions to the existence of God, and then from God’s veracity to the truth of clear and distinct perceptions’ (Gerwitz 1941, p. 368). In other words, thought already demands a foundation other than itself. Phenomenologically, the egological or subjective reduction in Husserl needs pushed further into halo of intersubjectivity, with its further historical and cultural, and religious correlations. Husserl’s ‘principle of principles’ (Zu den Sachen selbst) needs maintained, but this privileges intention over intuition, and access over excess. As Levinas (1978) will

13


127

have it, thought is always here and marks a phenomenological point of departure, but thought, later and always lately, comes upon what preceded and provoked it. Marion (2008) suggests that intuition merits further phenomenological attention. Reflecting on phenomenon and phenomenality and the manner in which phenomena phenomenalise themselves, Marion (2008) notes that phenomena clearly belong to the realm of the visible, which can be intended. However, phenomena may give themselves in intuition not only in terms of supplying an intentional deficit in need of intuitive fulfilment but also as an excess or a surplus of meaning which overwhelms the original intention, which is thus shown not to be the single or sole source of meaning. To this end, Marion wonders what a phenomenology might say of the invisible which cannot be intended since it apparently transgresses phenomenality. In play here is a distinction between voir/viser and a visible/visable, and the paradox and possibility of intending an invisible that might also be invisable. If the phenomenon which phenomenology prizes also implicates the way in which a phenomenon phenomenalises itself, then both intention and intuition are co-implicated in the phenomenological adventure, and this ‘indeterminate halo’, which is both invisible and invisable, becomes a phenomenological challenge both for intention and intuition. While intention awaits intuitive fulfilment, whose advent may or may not happen, intuition provokes intention as access and wonders at other ways that might access the other. But, for Marion, the crossing point is phenomenality itself. Phenomena, in their very appearing, give more than is at once apparent, or, give themselves excessively. Phenomena, in their very phenomenality, are saturated.

Adequating intention and intuition religiously Phenomenology describes, produces, and constitutes phenomena, and determines the agora in which these might make their appearance, according to the strictures and structures of a strict phenomenology. However, a phenomenology of religion has to deal with a phenomenon as it makes itself apparent, or phenomenalises itself. The task which Marion sets before phenomenology is the task of adequacy, intent, and intuition. The alternatives are the arena or the agora: phenomenology and theology either have to compete or dialogue. Now, the phenomenon of religion is phenomenologically problematical insofar as a phenomenology of religion ‘would have to render visible what nevertheless could not be objectivised’ (Marion 2008, p. 18). The consequences of this are disastrous for a phenomenology forced to its limits: either definable phenomena are identified with the concurrent loss of religious specificity, or, a religious dimension is maintained with a concurrent lack of definite objectivity. Are religious phenomena formless stuff or stuffless forms? Is it possible, however, for a religious phenomenon as such to be broached without phenomenological rigour being breached? For Marion, religion is a test-case for phenomenology since it ‘poses the question of the possibility of the general possibility of the phenomenon in general’ (Marion 2008, p. 18). What it at issue here, methodologically, is not simply the question of the possibility of the phenomenon in its very phenomenality, but also the question of the phenomenon of possibility: ‘[t]he question concerning the possibility of the phenomenon implies the question of

13

128


the phenomenon of possibility’ (Marion 2008, p. 19). Is the inactual a phenomenological possibility? In Ideas I, Husserl would seem to hint at such. By accentuating both intentional limits and intuitive excess, Marion suggests that religion becomes ‘a privileged index of the possibility of phenomenality’ (Marion 2008, p. 19). Referring to the Kantian Critique, in which the formal conditions of experience are a sufficient but not necessary principle for determining the appearance of an object within consciousness, Marion notes its inadequacy since it neglects the very appearing of the object as such, and the force with which it impacts on the sense-consciousness axis, or the hyle-morphe correlation. Husserl, therefore, replaced Kant’s principle of sufficient reason with the ‘principle of principles’ in which ‘every originarily giving intuition [Anschauung] is a source of right [Rechtsquelle] for cognition, [and] that everything that offers itself to us in “intuition” [“Intuition”] is to be taken quite simply as it gives itself out to be, but only within the limits in which it is given there’ (Marion 2008, p. 21, quoting Ideas I, §44). What is implicated here is the subversion of the transcendental subjectivity of modernity and its associated epistemology, for what gives itself in intuition becomes the necessary source of knowledge. The essential characteristics of this phenomenological ‘principle of principles’, according to Marion, can be charted briefly. Intuition enables the appearance of phenomena: the apple strikes one on the head and arouses one from slumber. These phenomena are self-justifying as and insofar as they give themselves—no more, no less. But, intuition is characterised by a ‘logic of loss’ and is both inadequate to the object as it gives itself and also insufficient to the claim that it might fulfil the scope of intentionality. For Marion, what gives itself is surprisingly excessive and overwhelms intuition, which leads to the question of whether intuition, which is the presumed fulfilment of intention, does not itself presuppose an absolute horizon of donation. Now, what gives itself gives itself in intuition to an I. Donation presupposes an I. Although donation is originary and self-validating, it must still and necessarily appear before ‘the tribunal of the I’: ‘transcendental or not, the phenomenological I remains the beneficiary, and therefore the witness and even the judge, of the given appearance’ (Marion 2008, p. 23). Yet, if all phenomena are reducible to the ‘I’, the possibility in general of an absolute, autonomous, and irreducible phenomenon must be excluded, for the emphasis on the object as it appears in consciousness and subjected to the strictures and the structures of the I disregards the object as it gives itself or offers itself in intuition. Significantly, Marion notes that classic phenomenology, by affirming consciousness itself as originary and as arbiter of the way in which an object appears in consciousness, has tended to privilege intention over intuition with the consequent compromising of the appearance of the object as such. In short, intentional determination is detrimental to what gives itself in intuition. What Marion intends, however, is not the undoing of phenomenology, but rather forcing it to confront its limits, which is what the very ‘principle of principles’ suggests. The I is not negated nor is the horizon against which objects appear before the tribunal of the I. The epistemological divide between subject and object which Husserl sought to overcome is not to be compromised. Phenomenological rigour remains, but pushed to its limits. Rather, what, Marion asks, if there were a type of phenomenon which transgressed and contested both horizon and reduction, but were still

13


129

able to be subjected to a strictly phenomenological enquiry? For example, beyond the noetico-noematic axis, what if the possibility of such things as a phenomenology of play, a phenomenology of laughter, and a phenomenology of comedy are possible and plausible? Could there, for example, not also be a ‘phenomenology of birth’ which is able to undertake a phenomenological reduction which recognises the excessive event of birth and its associated joy or sorrow without reducing it to technique and delivery? What if the phenomenological terrain were inverted such that the reduction operated in such a way that the move was from intuition to intention, rather than from intention to intuition? Such an inversion would be a hypothesis that tested the limits and possibility of phenomenality and the ability of phenomenology to cope with phenomena that give themselves in their very phenomenality, excessively and as such. Certainly such a phenomenology would open on to the possibility of a phenomenology of religion and a phenomenological exploration of the theological virtues of faith, hope, and charity from a fundamentally theological perspective. Indeed, Marion suggests that the appearing of certain phenomena, at the very limits of their phenomenality, requires various modalities of intentional access to allow for the excess that intuition offers to consciousness. ‘In short, an unconditioned and irreducible phenomenon with neither delimiting horizon nor constituting I presents a real possibility’ (Marion 2008, p. 25).

The ordinariness of the extraordinary Marion further suggests that saturated phenomena are not extra-ordinary. The religious phenomenon becomes a test-case and a touchstone for all phenomena which give themselves. Saturated phenomena are banal. The cry—‘Zu den Sachen selbst’— is terribly ordinary, average, and everyday and rarely inauthentic or uneigentlich, even though Heidegger might claim otherwise. Even at its most mundane, my life is my own (eigen). The fact that I may eke out a living selling lemons to provide bread for my children is an authentic existence, and more so as it implicates others for whom I am responsible. Selling lemons is certainly ordinary and extraordinary and phenomenal.1 Levinas (1978) points to this when commenting on the ordinary and necessary significance of buying a watch. Why does one buy a watch? Not primarily as an adornment, but so that one can keep time to meet the other, for time is from and for the other. But, what this points to is a shift in the sense of the phenomenal in its adjectival or hyperbolic use. For actually, ‘phenomenal’ does not simply mean what it says but points towards or intends the intuitive excess or the surplus at the heart of things. Thus, we inhabit a world of footballers who are ‘phenomenal’ to the point of being, as Marion (2001) might suggest, both idols and icons; of concerts and drama whose performance is ‘phenomenal’; of rocks and seas and crashing waves and wind and salty mist in the face whose envigorating power is ‘phenomenal’; of setting suns that are ‘phenomenal’; of the smile or touch of another person whose unexpected intrusion into life is ‘phenomenal’. Excess is at the heart of things. However, excess is not always on the side of the good and a cause of wonderment; it is also the site and sight of violence 1 The reference to lemons is taken from an example in Althaus-Reid (2000).

13

130


where flesh is ripped and stripped beyond its capabilities. Phenomena phenomenalise themselves to extremes which can be excessive. One might say that the world is too much, and phenomena can strike the subject with such force that the I is overwhelmed the subject and provoked to response. Wonder (and one might also add, horror) are at the heart of things. Said otherwise, mystery is at the core of reality. The existential impact of phenomena is also prior to reflection such that description is always inadequate. Reflection is disengagement and distancing from the world and does not adequately or fully match or exhaust the original experience. This is perhaps why rituals need to repeated time and again, as one will read in Chrétien (2002) in The Unforgettable and the Unhoped for. More always can be and needs to be said for the world is too much. Gerard Manley Hopkins perhaps glimpses that excess with which phenomenology must grapple when he writes that the world is ‘charged with the grandeur of God’ and that the ‘dearest freshness deep down things’ needs plumbed by a rigorous and adequate phenomenology for ‘nature is never spent’ (Hopkins, God’s Grandeur (1918), 2009). Now, since the phenomenal object that gives itself in its very phenomenality, yet gives itself in such a way that cannot be wholly comprehended through reflection for there is an excess which exceeds both the capacity and the modality of thought as access, phenomenological access to excess is placed in question, and modalities of access other than representation need considered. In other words, other modalities of intentionality which are not based on representation need to be taken seriously. The access-excess axis (which is the inconclusive Husserlian relation of intention and intuition) calls for a wider consideration of the noetico-noematic correlation beyond representation. Levinas, rightly, towards the end of his doctoral critique on The Theory of Intuition in Husserl’s Phenomenology suggests the importance of aesthetics and ethics as intentionalities which give access to what otherwise would not be glimpsed cognitively. Further, for Levinas, ethics and aesthetics is a provoked response in which intuition is privileged over intention. One is touched by an other. But there are also more fundamental phenomenological and theologico-religious issues surrounding access and excess, namely the possibility of intending the nonphenomenal. For example, can there be a phenomenology of prayer, a prayer that is not idolatrous and self-seeking, but has no object in mind, such as contemplation or despair? Similarly, can there be a phenomenology of hope? Hope is not simply waiting for or working towards a future yet-to-come. Its shape is unknown. It is ectopic, atopic, and eutopic. Yet, one still works for a future even though one does know what shape it may have or how it might be achieved. Hope, it would seem, has no object, but hope, as an intentionality, gives a possibility, though not a promise: one works for a time beyond oneself (Purcell 2003). Again, can there be a phenomenology of death which, like the hoped-for future, is the great unknown. Heidegger gives no consolation as Dasein intentionally hurtles into the abyss of the great unknown. But death is the great undoing of Heideggerian phenomenology, for, as Levinas (2000) argues, Dasein commits itself existentially to the unknown that can never be known. Death can never be noematic correlate of a noesis.

13


131

Revelation and the revealed Marion employs the notion of revelation when speaking of the way in which the phenomenon gives itself in its very phenomenality as saturated or excessive. Revelation, however, is not an exceptional event. It, too, is average and everyday. The fundamental problem that phenomenology, as a science, must address is the correlation of access and excess, and any possible adequacy between them. Access corresponds the modality by which a subject intends an object in its phenomenality (the phenomenal object). Excess corresponds to an object gives itself in intuition. Adequacy corresponds to the phenomenological demand to bring method and object (that is, intention and intuition) into further approximation. While a strict phenomenology seeks to reduce the object in terms of consciousness, the object, for its part, resists phenomenological reduction on account of its own objective irreducibility. Yet, this is not to restore the epistemological divide between subject and object which Husserl had sought to overcome through the phenomenological époche. Rather it is to place in question anew the adequacy of the relation between access and excess, and to acknowledge that just as the appearance of an object within consciousness is determined by the modality of intentional access, so also the modality of intentional access is itself provoked, and in some way determined, by the object as it gives itself as such and as excess. Objects are not simply illuminated by intentionality but are, of themselves, revelatory. Marion’s use of the term revelation should not be dismissed too hastily as religious or theological. Revelation has a phenomenological sense, and the presumed extreme instance of revelation as a purely religious or theological leitmotif should be extended to phenomena in general. Examples of this phenomenological sense of revelation abound in such seemingly disparate ‘phenomena’ as art, music, film, theatre, liturgy, all of which rely on the notion of the excessive: for the artist intends more than can be limited to the canvass or the score or the stage or the screen yet which, nonetheless, demands the phenomenality which canvass, score, and stage provide. Similarly with poetry which seems to condense the more into the less, and where each word or phrase is pregnant with possibilities unsaid and yet to come. (And here perhaps the reason why the poem relies as much on the blank space on which no words are written as on the space which written words occupy. Marginal notes occupy the space or halo or aura around the text and witness the attempt to make further sense of the excess that is already given in the text). Similarly in literature, which, in giving a narrative of the particular human experience and its condition, opens onto further horizons. Art and its interpretation is predicated on an ‘indeterminate halo’ (Husserl) and possibilities which the artist did not intend (Blanchot), and which remains in need of possible intuitive fulfilment but is caught up in unintended webs of signification (Derrida).2 In like manner, the phenomenon of exposed flesh whose very touching, 2 Blanchot (1982), speaking of authorial intent, draws attention to the phenomenology of writing and the

relation between an author and his/her work (oeuvre), but his insights are no less true of other art forms—and may, in fact, be the norm of all activity. The author does not know what s/he eventually intends or how the work s/he aims to create is finally realised. Not only do intentions open on to horizons unforeseen—the work itself, only realised in its being released from its authorial anchor, becomes its own locus of meaning and of meanings which its author did not intend, could not have intended. The work speaks for itself. The horizon and horizons onto which the work achieved opens can no more be anticipated or foreseen

13

132


whether tenderly, voluptuously, viciously, violently, or vicariously, betrays an excess. Excess finds its equivalent in the parent’s touching of their child or the mopping and cleansing of wounds which flesh has suffered (for which words are inadequate), or in the excess of passion (for which there are no words), or in the excess of violence (which is unspeakable). Examples abound. Marion is correct to point to the revelatory impact of the ordinary and the quotidian, but perhaps can be criticised for viewing saturation and excess as a surplus of the good. For many, the ordinary and the quotidian is struggle and strife. Also in need of phenomenological consideration is the excess of evil, and a theodicy which is not simply an Augustinian theodicy which considers evil as a privatio boni, but recognises the force of evil. As much as wonder, the excess of evil in its very phenomenality defies adequate phenomenological accounting, and perhaps can only be accessed through provoked intentional modalities of anger and compassion, of hope and despair. There is the excess of poverty, the excess of violence and genocide, the excess of suffering and sickness, the phenomenality of which is open to some description but the depths of which defy an adequate phenomenological accounting. How can a phenomenology grasp the excess of misery and suffering which nakedly presents itself in its very phenomenality but the reality of which escapes adequate reflection. The phenomenal is not only the capacity to provoke wonder and awe, but also shock and horror. Nieman (2004) reading of evil in modern thought through the lens of violence offers a perspective on evil, as does Nemo (1998) consideration of Job and the excess of evil in dialogue with Levinas. Now, though appealing to the revelatory force of the phenomenal, Marion broaches but does not breach the phenomenological project. Instead, the notion of the unforeseen, unanticipated, and unintended halo or aura has been advanced, and the possibility of the object’s intrusion in intuition provokes intention. Access and excess and their adequation becomes the phenomenological task. Religion as phenomenon Religion, for Marion, is a saturated phenomenon and the fact of religion becomes a test-case by which the adequacy of phenomenological method can be assessed. Thus the reciprocal questions: ‘Can phenomenology contribute in a privileged way to the development of a “philosophy of religion?” In other words, can “philosophy of religion” become a “phenomenology of religion”’ (Marion 2008, p. 1). ‘Zu den Sachen selbst—the simple fact of returning to what is given as such, to the simple fact that it is given—remains the watchword turn’ in Husserl’s phenomenology. ‘[G]ivenness precedes intuition’ (Marion 2008, p. 4). But, what is the phenomenological method for returning to things in themselves? Footnote 2 continued than can the inspiration and inspirations which provoked its author to make a beginning. In a sense, the author, to make a beginning, has already been exposed to a provocative excess. Derrida (1973) similarly draws attention to the web of meaning in his critique of Husserl’s theory of signs. For Husserl, signs were essentially expressive rather than indicative. Derrida’s critique draws attention to the fact that Anzeigen is prior to Ausdrucken. Indication is prior to expression.

13


133

The fact or phenomenon of religion variously phenomenalises itself in rites, gestures, liturgy and texts, which also need to be reduced culturally, socially, politically, and so on. However, a phenomenology of religion claims that religious phenomena give the possibility of further yet-to-be-disclosed horizons, horizons that may never be disclosed. Importantly and phenomenologically for Marion, access is guided by excess, since phenomena are grasped according to their own measure. Givenness precedes intuition, and intuition is determinative of intention. A double demand arises here: not only is there the phenomenological requirement ‘of justifying religion to phenomenology as a possible phenomenon’ but also of ‘justifying phenomenology to religion as a suitable method’ (Marion 2008, p. 1). Access, excess and adequacy consort.

Donation, or, what gives itself as such What is given as such, and from the simple fact that it is given (‘ce qui est donné comme telle, du simple fait qu’il est donné’ (Marion 2005, p. 17) is the phenomenological point of departure. For Husserl, the emphasis is what is given in consciousness; for Marion, the fact of giveness ‘as such’ is emphasised. Marion employs the term ‘donation’ for ‘what is given as such’. For Husserl, intentions are fulfilled through intuition, a categorical and epistemological framework already prepared by Kant (Critique of Pure Reason A85/B117). Going beyond Kant, Husserl suggests that what is given as such in intuition may not fully accord with intentions and may remain unfulfilled not only on account of a lack of intuition but also on account of an excess of intuition. Marion goes further than Husserl, emphasising the facts ‘as such’ for, prior to the intention which intuition fulfils, there is the simple fact of donation. ‘[G]ivenness precedes intuition and abolishes its Kantian limits, because the fact of being given to consciousness, in whatever manner, testifies to the right of phenomena to be received as such, that is to say, as they give themselves’ (Marion 2008, p. 4). (‘Es gibt das was sich gibt, ça donne ce qui se donne, donc cela donne ce que cela donne’, Marion 2005, p. 19.) Shakespeare’s Romeo is correct in his telling to Juliet that ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’ and still remain a rose for ‘not only the rose, but any phenomenon is without why, since any phenomenon is as it gives itself’ (Marion 2008, p. 5). It is the simple yet striking fact of givenness, in the very force of its phenomenality that merits phenomenological attention. Now, Husserl’s axiom Zu den Sachen selbst is radicalised in Marion as ‘Autant d’apparence, autant d’être’/‘As much appearance, so much being’ (Marion 2005, p. 20, 2008, p. 6). While, for Kant and Husserl, consciousness sets the bounds or limits and is arbiter for the appearing of any object within consciousness, Marion argues that, prior to any categorical or intuitional framework that would determine its appearing, the phenomenon gives itself as such. The structure of consciousness may a necessary reason for determining the possibility of the appearance of a phenomenon, but it is not a sufficient reason. The simple fact of donation is its own reason beyond and independent of either the structure or the capacity of any meaning-bestowing consciousness. What this entails, for Marion, is the extension of the possible field within which phenomena give themselves to include religious phenomena, and the

13

134


possibility of a phenomenology of religion. The notion of the phenomenon is thus extended beyond limits fixed by Husserl, and opens on to a possible phenomenology of the inapparent which offers or gives itself in the apparent. Husserl suggests such a possibility in Cartesian Meditations V, §56. Just as in Levinas, the infinite is not opposed to the finite but is to be read equally as in-finite, or the infinite in the finite (Levinas 1979), so also with the inapparent, which needs to be read as in-apparent. ‘In-’ is not a simple negation but points to the appearing of the inapparent within the apparent. Methodologically, phenomenology needs to consider the fact of donation further, not only as that which appears in consciousness but as that which gives itself to consciousness, thereby going beyond Husserl’s reduction in order to give a more adequate account of experience (Erlebnis). Zu den Sachen selbst the factuality of donation.

Some fundamental phenomenologico-theological–methodological considerations and conclusions From a phenomenological viewpoint, a strict phenomenology is applicable only insofar as it ‘reduc[es] the revealed to the lived experience of the revealed, hence obscuring the revealed revealing itself (le révélé se révélant lui-même)’ (Marion 2005, p. 25, 2008, p. 10). The phenomenon, now become an object of faith, is interiorised, and the possibility that an object is excessive and revelatory of itself is thus discounted or discarded, and the phenomenological epoché becomes a methodological scotosis where modalities of access are not taken as seriously as they should be. By excluding the possibility of a properly religious phenomenon and the fact of an excess of donation, phenomenology both betrays and ultimately negates its own ‘principle of principles’, and its proper or ‘ownmost’ purpose, namely, the return to the facts themselves. The phenomenon is restricted to the status of ‘as it appears’ rather than ‘as such’. Intention is privileged over intuition. But what gives itself is neither wholly apparent or transparent to meaning-bestowing subjectivity. It is in-apparent and not wholly reducible. Methodologically, the Husserlian demand of phenomenology as a strict science may be satisfied and preserved, but betrayed, because the reduction does not go as far as the point where access confronts excess or where intention and intuition collide. But, even for a strict phenomenology as a pure science, some account of this collision must be rendered. From a theological viewpoint, the rupture between both phenomenology and theology as fundamental disciples, each in their own right, reinforces the retreat or refuge of theology into faith. Faith becomes the sole access to an inapparent (rather than an in-apparent), non-phenomenal, transcendent reality. Yet, faith gives access to excess, but such a faith, as Levinas (1990) advocates when considering ‘Adult Religion’ is neither adult nor mature. The one who has faith retreats into the interiority of consciousness and the transcendent is transcendentally or emotionally reduced to the interiority of thought in the immanence of consciousness, or to feeling. The world ‘in which we live and move and have our being’ (Acts 17:28)—a world of excessive phenomena exemplified by a Christ figure—is by-passed in favour of a faith which alone gives access to excess, and the full force of incarnation is rendered theologically unnecessary, if not redundant. Yet faith, for Levinas and for phenomenology and a fundamental

13


135

theology cannot by-pass or pass-by the world in all its stark and harsh and naked reality. The Good Samaritan remains the model of ethical intervention (Luke 10:25–37). In short, theology is both inspired and informed by ethics, which becomes both ‘first philosophy’ and ‘first theology’ (Levinas 2001, p. 182). Heidegger was most certainly correct in stressing the unitary phenomenon of Dasein’s ‘being-in-the-world’ (in-derWelt-sein), the phenomenological significance of which Levinas extends into ethics. Ethics and existence are inextricably and intractably linked. In terms of modalities of phenomenological access, what are termed the theological virtues of faith, hope and charity, which may each be considered as a habitus or an inclination towards a particular intentionality, bear on the excessive but also are modalities of access. Faith, hope, and charity do not replace a rigorous phenomenology, but press phenomenology and theology to consider further modalities of access. However, the key phenomenological and theological point is the excess of intuition over intention, and the ability of phenomenology and theology to be in bed together. The result of copulation and consummation does not necessarily produce an illegitimate offspring. From a methodological viewpoint, the need for an opposition between theology and theology does not have to be upheld in view of phenomenological rigour. From a phenomenological perspective, phenomenology cannot yield to theology on account of a claim of revelation as such, but nor can it dismiss the possibility of a revelation as such which might be excessive. Theologically, the demand of excess over access allows the possibility of possibility, which is the field of phenomenology. A minimalist theology is not necessarily theologically inadequate inasmuch as theology is also fundamentally concerned with method. The question that Marion (2008) raises is whether or not theology is a transgression of phenomenology, whether or not fundamentally phenomenology and theology inhabit two separate and separable worlds with neither commerce nor conversation, or, whether there is the possibility of pursuing the phenomenological reduction to its limits, to the point at which, without compromising or transgressing the phenomenality of the phenomenon, the reduction encounters the saturated phenomenon as it gives itself in the reduction while remaining irreducible to that reduction. For Marion, the divorcing of phenomenology and theology and the ensuing rupture of reality that ensues—a phenomenological world and a theological world—is not necessarily absolute or final unless a conversation between the two is impossible. A conversation is both possible and necessary: could theology not suggest to phenomenology certain modifications of method and process in virtue of its own requirements and only for formulating them? In other words, could one not inquire into the (unconditional) conditions to which phenomenological method would have to subscribe in order to attain (accéder) a thought of revelation? Inversely, could not the requirements of theology permit phenomenology to transgress itse proper limits, in order finally to attain (atteindre) the free possibility at which it has pretended to aim (viser) since its origin? (Marion 2005, p. 29, 2008, p. 13) Marion will further argue the need for phenomenology to subject its own method and presuppositions to scrutiny in the quest for an adequate correlation of method and intended object. While Husserl (1970) sought to develop phenomenology as a foundational science without presuppositions, whose ‘principle of principles’ would be

13

136


‘to the facts themselves’, a principle on the basis of which all other disciplines would ground their research, the ‘principle of principles’ is not without presuppositions, the two principal ones being the notions of the ‘I’ and the ‘horizon’, both of which, within a Husserlian perspective, conspire to exclude revelation as a phenomenological possibility: ‘the question of a phenomenology of religion, like that of a phenomenology of revelation, places in question the axiomatic character of these two presuppositions’ (Marion 2008, p. 13). With regard to the ‘I’: Phenomenologically, the subject as consciousness is the point of departure for the phenomenological reduction, for, as Levinas (1978) indicates, thought is always here. However, the ego-subject, as consciousness, finds itself always and already situated in a world that precedes it. The self-assured subject, as a presupposition for the reduction, finds itself almost immediately on shaky ground as the reduction progresses, and comes upon—albeit it lately—a precedent world. Heidegger (1978) existential analytic of Dasein stresses that subjectivity is a ‘being-in-the-world’ (‘in-der-Welt-sein’). Immediately and at once, the ‘I’ is upset and disturbed by the fact that there is a world that is anterior to thought, even though, phenomenologically thought comes first and the anterior is only reduced and discovered after thought, but not as an afterthought. Marion (2008) views this as a phenomenological challenge for, if phenomenology seeks to the ‘facts themselves’ as they make their appearance in consciousness, and if phenomenology seeks to understand the determination by consciousness of objects as they appear in consciousness and intended in a particular manner by consciousness—if, in other words, ‘the I constitutes its objects according to its axis of intentionality’ (Marion 2008, p. 13)—then this does not address the very constitution and determination of the I, which remains transcendental rather than existential and intersubjective. Within Husserl’s scheme, the I which constitutes is itself unconstituted and self-constituting. As such, its self-constituted existence is the condition for the intentional inexistence of objects, that is, the appearance of objects within consciousness. The question yet-to-be-addressed is the relation between the constituting I and the constituted I : ‘Is the I original (originaire) or derived?’ (Marion 2005, p. 31, 2008, p. 14). With regard to the horizon: if the ego-subject, as constituting consciousness, originates ‘the axis of intentionality’, the field of consciousness extending to the limits of its horizon would be co-extensive with intentional aim of consciousness. Somewhat like a lighthouse, consciousness would illumine the area within which objects may make their appearance, yet the space within which objects may appear is only given along with the very appearance of this or that particular object. One might say that all light is reflected and refracted light, the source of which is only known in the objects illumined. Thus, if intentionality is not to remain blind and unfulfilled, it requires intuition for its fulfilment. For Husserl, intuitive fulfilment is yet-to-be-given or and may indeed not-be-given. From the outset, intentionality, because it is largely unfulfilled, demands intuition as its counterpart. The notion of a horizon is already embedded Husserlian phenomenology, yet this horizon is unforeseen and cannot be predicted. That there might be some intuitive fulfilment of an intention may ultimately be a matter of hope, which will raise the further question of the hope as a modality of intentionality. However, the main question now is the relation between intention

13


137

and intuition, and whether or not, pushing Husserl further, intention demands intuitive fulfilment or whether intuition provokes a particular intention. Now, the horizon should not be viewed as a stage or a backdrop against which objects appear. Objects, making their appearance, set the stage, although the stage is already there but inapparent, held in the wings as an unintended yet present ‘halo of consciousness’. What gives a horizon is the appearance of the object as it gives itself to consciousness, and opens on to further possibilities. Givenness is anterior and prevenient to the reduction but only reduced lately, and thus does intuitive excess challenge and confound intentional access. The subject, rather than constituting its object is constituted by and dependent upon its object. Donation is prior to and provocative of a constituting subjectivity. Such an anterior donation is possibly a revelation of excess within the existentiality of lived experience of a phenomenon which is saturated, and a phenomenon of which both phenomenology and (fundamental) theology seek to make sense. In other words, revelation is the unintended inappearance of a saturated phenomenon within consciousness and the unintended halo that accompanies it, or, the intentional inexistence of excess. To the question: ‘what is a saturated phenomenon?’, Marion will respond, quite simply, that it is a phenomenon in which intuition surpasses the intentional aim, in which ‘intuition offers … infinitely more than the intention’ (Marion 2008, p. 16). The proper task of phenomenology is to ‘allow phenomena to appear without any reserve’ (Marion 2005, p. 28, Marion 2008, p. 48), and to recognise what prevents appearance as such. For Marion, this involves a re-alignment of the relation between intention and intuition in view of the givenness of the given, and a going beyond both Kant and Husserl. The question is whether or not Marion succeeds in his phenomenological endeavour. References Althaus-Reid, M. (2000). Indecent theology: Theological perversions in sex, gender, and politics. London: Routledge. Benson, B. E., & Wirzba, N. (2005). The phenomenology of prayer. New York: Fordham Univesity Press. Benson, B. E., & Wirzba, N. (2010). Words of life: New theological turns in French phenomenology. New York: Fordham University Press. Blanchot, M. (1982). Space of literature. London: University of Nebraska Press. Chrétien, J.-L. (2002). The unforgettable and the unhoped for. Fordham: Fordham University Press. De Vries, H. (2005). Minimal theologies: Critiques of secular reason in Adorno and Levinas. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Derrida, J. (1973). Speech and phenomena, and other essays in Husserl’s phenomenology. Chicago: Northwestern University Press. Gerwitz, A. (1941). The Cartesian circle. The Philosophical Review, 50(4), 368–395. Hart, K. (Ed.). (2007). Counter-experiences: Reading Jean-Luc Marion. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Heidegger, M. (1978). Being and time. Oxford: Blackwell. Hopkins, G. M. (2009). ‘God’s Grandeur (1918)’, Gerard Manley Hopkins: The major works. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Husserl, E. (1970). The crisis of European science and transcendental phenomenology: An introduction to phenomenological philosophy. Evanston: Northwestern University Press. Husserl, E. (1983). Ideas pertaining to a pure phenomenology and to a phenomenological philosophy (Vol. 1, §§84–99, §124, §§128–133). Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic Publishers.

13

138


Janicaud, D. (1991). Le tournant théologique de la phenomenology française. Paris: Editions de l’Eclat. Janicaud, D. (1998). La phenomenology eclatée. Paris: Editions de l’Eclat. Janicaud, D. (2000). The theological turn in French phenomenology. New York: Fordham University Press. Janicaud, D. (2005). Phenomenology “wide open”. New York: Fordham University Press. Kant, I. (1982). Critique of pure reason. London: MacMillan Press. Kosky, J. L. (2001). Levinas and the philosophy of religion. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Levinas, E. (1978). Existence and existents. The Hague: M Nijhoff. Levinas, E. (1979). Totality and infinity. The Hague: M Nijhoff. Levinas, E. (1990). Difficult freedom. London: Athlone Press. Levinas, E. (2000). God, death, and time. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Levinas, E. (2001). Is it righteous to be? Interviews with Emmanuel Levinas. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Marion, J.-L. (2001). The idol and distance. Fordham: Fordham University Press. Marion, J.-L. (2005). Le Visible et le Révélé. Paris: Editions du Cerf. Marion, J.-L. (2008). The Visible and the revealed. New York: Fordham University Press. Nemo, P. (1998). Job and the excess of evil. Pittsburgh: Duquesne University Press. Nieman, S. (2004). Evil in modern thought: An alternative history of philosophy. New York: Princeton University Press. Purcell, M. (2003). Justice as an aporia in Levinas? Explorations in contemporary continental philosophy of religion. Amsterdam: Rodopi.

13


Something new under the Sun: forty years of philosophy of religion, with a special look at process philosophy Philip Clayton


Abstract Looking back over the last 40 years of work in the philosophy of religion provides a fascinating vantage point from which to assess the state of the discipline today. I describe central features of American philosophy of religion in 1970 and reconstruct the last 40 years as a progression through four main stages. This analysis offers an overarching framework from which to examine the major contributions and debates of process philosophy of religion during the same period. The major thinkers, topics, positions, and controversies are presented, analyzed, and critiqued. In the concluding section I offer a critical appraisal of the state of the field today based on the results of these historical analyses. Keywords History of philosophy of religion · Analytic philosophy · American philosophy · Alfred North Whitehead · Process philosophy · Classical metaphysics · Naturalism · New Atheism Once upon a time there was a generation of philosophers of religion who were trained to do good, solid analytic philosophy. Around us the sixties were happening. We marched in the streets, read radical literature, formulated radical thoughts; probably some inhaled. But the philosophy in which we were trained was something different. In graduate classrooms our Eisenhower-era professors were uncompromising in their demands that we master formal logic and strict analytic argumentation. The heart of philosophy, we knew, lay not in philosophy of religion but in the core courses we were being prepared to teach: logic, epistemology, analytic metaphysics, the history of philosophy (especially British Empiricism), philosophy of science, and perhaps a

P. Clayton (B) Department of Philosophy/Theology, Claremont Graduate University, 150 E. 10th St., Claremont, CA 91711, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

140


smattering of ethics or social–political philosophy. Any philosopher worth his salt, we were told (and I use the male pronoun intentionally—that’s what they said), would utilize these core disciplines to guide him and to set the criteria when he turned to debates in the philosophy of religion. We were quite sure we knew what good philosophy of religion was—just as precisely as we knew what was philosophy’s enduring canon. Idealism had been refuted by G. E. Moore in a Mind article in 1903; Nietzsche was too poetic and aphoristic to be taken seriously; Continental philosophy was second rate because it contained no real arguments. We laughed over Carnap’s famous collection of “meaningless” sentences from Heidegger and tried to find our own examples: What is to be investigated is being only and – nothing else; being alone and further – nothing; solely being, and beyond being – nothing. What about this Nothing? …Does the Nothing exist only because the Not, i.e. the Negation, exists? Or is it the other way around? Does Negation and the Not exist only because the Nothing exists? …We assert: the Nothing is prior to the Not and the Negation. …Where do we seek the Nothing? How do we find the Nothing? …We know the Nothing. …Anxiety reveals the Nothing. …That for which and because of which we were anxious, was ‘really’ – nothing. Indeed: the Nothing itself – as such – was present. …What about this Nothing? – The Nothing itself nothings. (Carnap 1959) (For many of us, das Nichts nichtet was about all the German we knew.) Finally, although we were interested in the philosophy of religion, we knew better than to introduce any explicitly theological concerns into the discussion, for that would be professional suicide. (Look again at Alvin Plantinga’s major publications prior to 1980.) Logic was on its throne, and all was well with the world. Now fast-forward 40 years. Our Eisenhower-era mentors have long since passed away, and their writings are no longer widely read. Analytic philosophy today does not stand as the undisputed king and standard-bearer for all professional philosophy. Indeed, even the battle between analytic and Continental philosophy, once a central concern in the profession, no longer dominates the field. Beginning in 1973 and continuing for well over a decade, the tone of the Yale philosophy department was set by the combat between two venerable, battle-to-the-death foes: Ruth Barcan Marcus, representing modal logic, and John E. Smith, representing pragmatism and the philosophy of religion. In 2010 American philosophy is pluralist to the core—as thoroughly pluralist as it once was exclusivist. Make no mistake about it; I do not glorify this past. Who could wish for a return to the days of “The Smoker,” the heart of the Old Boys’ Network—that ballroom at the APA Eastern Division, permeated by the smell of booze and cigarette smoke, where (male) professors would walk their (male) doctoral students around the tables, share drinks and jokes with the chairs of the various search committees, and the philosophy posts for the coming academic year would be filled? Access to positions of power, which determine who teaches and who publishes what and where, were tightly controlled by a relatively small group. But that practice clashes with the ideal of philosophy: to explore the reasons for and against any claim in any context. Surely we stood in those days further from Habermas’s “ideal speech situation” (Habermas 1990,

13


141

2001); many groups had limited or no access to the table of discourse. Is it any surprise that the questions being debated fell into such a (relatively) narrow range of topics? The democratization of philosophy has made major strides since 1970. But has the quality of argumentation in philosophy of religion declined as a result, as is sometimes claimed? I remember listening to Bill Alston after an APA session about a dozen years ago, when he was bemoaning the loss of quality in our field. The standards are slipping, he complained; when core assumptions and standards for quality are not shared across the discipline, it is no longer possible to do really rigorous work in the field. I suggest that this criticism misses two crucial considerations. First, the highly constrained background assumptions that make rigorous analytic argumentation possible come with a downside, namely, the exclusion of a wide range of alternative assumptions. What one gains in rigor one loses in comprehensiveness. Philosophy of religion in 1970 had not yet confronted the depth of this tension and the opportunity costs of what was being omitted as “unphilosophical.” Second, those with open and inquiring minds will discover impressive rigor and argumentation in thinkers whose work lies far outside the canon with which we worked in 1970. Think of the argumentative rigor in the great debates across the six classical schools of Vedantic philosophy, or the sharp arguments of the philosopher Karen Warren in her impressive volume, Ecofeminist Philosophy (2000).

Features of philosophy of religion in 1970 It is interesting to reflect on what were the core assumptions and practices of philosophy of religion in 1970: • The field was fundamentally Christian. Whether one thinks of leaders in the field such as Richard Gale, Al Plantinga, Nick Wolterstorff, William Wainwright, Keith Yandell, Nelson Pike and others, or one peruses widely used textbooks in the philosophy of religion such Baruch Brody’s Readings in the Philosophy of Religion: An Analytic Approach (1992), first published in 1974, one sees that the bulk of the attention was paid to arguments for the existence of God, the nature of God (usually as seen by Christian authors), the problem of evil, divine revelation, and occasionally the question of divine action. The famous 1959 symposium on “Theology and Falsification” (Flew, Hare and Mitchell), which heavily influenced philosophy of religion for about a quarter of a century, focused philosophers’ attention on the question of whether religious language was inherently meaningless. • The challenges of Heidegger, Bultmann, and the “demythologization” project received less attention than one might have expected, as did the phenomenology of religion, probably because of their reliance on Continental philosophy. Looking back through the first few decades of IJPR, I am not surprised at the underrepresentation of philosophical questions arising out of other religious traditions; we already knew that comparative philosophy is a more recent (and highly welcome) development. But it’s a bit surprising that classical metaphysics did not play a more central role; and philosophical treatments of the work of even highly influential theologians of the time (e.g., Paul Tillich) are notably under-represented.

13

142


• When authors stepped outside the framework of predominately Christian questions, it was often the question of unitive mysticism that concerned them, as in the work of Evelyn Underhill, W. T. Stace, and of course William James. Exceptions—one thinks of the Wheaton philosopher Stuart Hackett and his interest in Eastern religions (Hackett 1979)—only prove the rule. Although Ian Barbour had begun to launch science/religion as a distinct field of study (Barbour 1966, 1974), this work received less attention from professional philosophers than one would have expected. Hume’s critique of religion, and the conflict between empiricism and religious belief more generally, received far greater attention. • Many philosophers, such as Alvin Plantinga, may have been influenced by their Christian belief and practice. But it was only with the advent of “Reformed epistemology” (Plantinga and Wolterstorff 1983) and the “Anselmian” program in the philosophy of religion (Morris 1987) that the philosophers’ theological commitments became topics of explicit discussion, gradually launching the distinctive program in (orthodox) Christian philosophy of religion that has played such a visible role in our field in the last 20 years or so. (The formation of the Society of Christian Philosophers in 1978, and the success of SCP’s journal, Faith and Philosophy, certainly contributed significantly to this switch as well.) Prior to the Anselmian program, and with some important exceptions, the debate centered on making progress on some of the classic proofs: among many others, Plantinga (1974) on the ontological proof; Rowe (1975) on the cosmological proof, followed later by Craig (1979); and Swinburne (1977, 1979) on the teleological argument.

The history in four phases I suggest that the major trends in the philosophy of religion over the 40-year period we are considering (1970–2010) correlate in interesting ways with developments in epistemology over the same time span. Suppose we represent this movement as a series of four stages—recognizing, of course, that all historical narratives are rational reconstructions. In 1970 philosophy of religion was dominated by analytic epistemology and its core positions. All the major philosophy departments in the country were in the hands of analytic philosophers. Surveys that ranked the top five departments would invariably include only the famous analytic departments; Harvard, Yale, Pittsburgh, UCLA, and UC Berkeley often topped these lists. Nor was this judgment merely a tautology; prestige, power, and money really did accrue to the top analytic departments, and far less so to the great Continental departments such as Penn State, the University of Chicago, Northwestern, UC Davis, and others. In phase two one began to see signs of an organized and increasingly effective opposition. At the time it was called the “pluralism” movement; one of the early leaders was the Emory University Philosophy Department. By the mid-1980s protests were being heard within the APA, challenging the dominance of the Association by analytic philosophers and asking for equal rights for other forms of philosophy. A sort of Affirmative Action program was launched, with echoes of the Civil Rights movement, and APA programs began more clearly to reflect the broader range of interests within the profession. Not surprisingly, more doctoral students began to specialize in other

13


143

schools of philosophy as a result; new journals were launched; and publications by American philosophers in these other fields increased. In the third phase professional philosophy in the U.S. became increasingly balanced between Anglo-American analytic philosophy and other philosophical schools. The major departments tended to have strong representation in Continental philosophy as well as analytic philosophy. This had immense repercussions for the philosophy of religion, as we will see in a moment. In the fourth phase, the present, this entire debate, which once dominated the American philosophical landscape, is no longer the center of attention in the profession. Many philosophers pride themselves on approaching philosophy of religion from a variety of philosophical traditions. Indeed, the list of traditions is not limited to the traditional areas (analytic, historical, Continental) but has vastly increased in scope. Today a philosopher may have been trained primarily in French post-structuralist thought (say, Derrida to the present period). But she might combine this expertise with any one of a large number of other approaches as she reads, teaches, and publishes, linking her post-structuralism with Heidegger, or the Frankfurt School, or postcolonial thought, or Buddhism, or Wittgenstein, or environmental philosophy, or psychoanalysis, or eco-feminism, or Greek philosophy, or ethics …the list goes on and on. Moreover, her discussion partners will tend to expect this wide range of connections; they may well value her work based on the “out of the box” connections that she is able to draw. In short, we have made significant strides towards the democratization of philosophy during these 40 years. Of course, the changes have also brought with them some major challenges. Consider the impact of this four-stage process on philosophy of religion. It is less of a caricature than one might think to say that, in 1970, “philosophy” meant analytic philosophy, “religion” meant (more or less orthodox) Christianity, and “philosophy of religion” (at least “the philosophy of religion that mattered”) was by and large defined by a set list of canonical topics within that intersection set. Today the coverage of topics within the profession is clearly broader, and many of us would say it is now more adequate. “Philosophy” can mean a wide variety of topics drawn from wide variety of traditions; “religion” now extends to all the religious traditions of the world; and “philosophy of religion” has virtually no privileged path within this union set of all philosophies and all religions. The author must pick his or her way through the virtually unbounded terrain of this new overlap set. The impact is well known to those who follow the field today. Though overall it is positive, it has brought downsides as well. When papers across such a wide range of topics are presented at a single conference or in an anthology, it is frequently difficult to find conceptual common ground. It becomes difficult to develop serious dialogue between widely divergent papers; participants may talk past one another, fail to acknowledge common criteria of evaluation, or settle on the lowest common denominator. More often, the field splits into highly specialized topics. If most members of the Society of Christian Philosophy are evangelical Protestants or traditional Catholic thinkers, it becomes possible to find common ground. Discussions of liberal Protestantism take place in other venues, such as the “Theology and Religious Reflection Section” section of the AAR. Other productive discussions happen around the work of specific philosophers of religion and the schools they have spawned: John Caputo, Mark C. Taylor, John Milbank, J. L. Schellenberg, latter-day Wittgensteinians,

13

144


Marxist theories of religion, and of course philosophies of religion that are tied to a specific historical epoch, religious tradition, or set of ethical concerns. The example of process philosophy of religion Process philosophies have a long history, of course. One could seek their origins in Heraclitus or Empedocles; one could note parallels in the emanation metaphysics of Plotinus and the Neoplatonic school; one could trace the increasing emphasis on temporality in Lessing, Schelling, Hegel, Schopenhauer, and their followers. As a school in contemporary philosophy of religion, however, process philosophy traces back to the work of Alfred North Whitehead, particularly his 1929 Process and Reality, and its influence. Whitehead and Russell’s Principia mathematica had a major influence in logic and the philosophy of mathematics, his work in the philosophy of education had major advocates (e.g., Brumbaugh 1982; Brumbaugh and Lawrence 1985), and his philosophy of science continues to receive significant attention (e.g., Eastman and Keeton 2004; Epperson 2004; Cobb 2008). But without question Whitehead’s major influence has been within the philosophy of religion. By the late 1940s there was a strong Whitehead school at the University of Chicago Divinity School. During the 1950s and 1960s, when Yale was widely heralded as the nation’s leading philosophy department, several of the key figures were Whiteheadians, including Paul Weiss and William A. Christian. Since then process philosophers have made significant contributions to a wide variety of debates within the philosophy of religion.1 The starting point for process philosophy is usually the metaphysical framework advanced in Process and Reality. According to this metaphysic, reality consists of moments of experience or “actual occasions.” Actual occasions “prehend” the contents of previous occasions both physically and mentally. But each actual occasion, in a process Whitehead calls concrescence, also synthesizes its input into a unique perspective on the world. Thus each actual entity, as it concludes its process of becoming, bequeaths to the world a new synthetic perspective; as Whitehead put it, “The many become one and are increased by one” (1978, p. 21). The idealist tendency of this metaphysics is clear: reality is synthesized in the experience of each individual unit of reality; in some sense, reality just is the sum of these experiences. This idealist tendency may explain the attraction this metaphysic has had for philosophers of religion. God is an actual occasion (or perhaps a series of actual occasions) and is describable using the same metaphysical principles exemplified by all other finite occasions. But Whitehead’s God is also different in some fairly noticeable respects. God’s “primordial” nature includes the valuation of all possibilities and thus acts as a sort of axiological ground for all reality, that is, for all subsequent moments of experience. By contrast, God’s “consequent nature” prehends, values, and retains the experience of all other occasions. God becomes the “fellow sufferer who 1 For an overview of the literature in process philosophy and theology, see the online bibliographies at the

Center for Process Studies, http://www.ctr4process.org/publications/Biblio/Thematic/, accessed May 22, 2010.

13


145

understands.” Whitehead realized that some sort of cosmic retention was crucial if a thoroughgoing process metaphysic was not going to devolve into nihilism. He wrote, The ultimate evil …lies in the fact that the past fades, that time is a “perpetual perishing.” Objectification involves elimination. The present fact has not the past fact with it in any full immediacy. The process of time veils the past below distinctive feeling. There is a unison of becoming among things in the present. Why should there not be novelty without loss of this direct unison of immediacy among things? In the temporal world, it is the empirical fact that process entails loss: the past is present under an abstraction. But there is no reason, of any ultimate metaphysical generality, why this should be the whole story. (1978, p. 340) God preserves the results of all past experience, though not that experience in its subjective immediacy. No perspective is lost. Charles Hartshorne tended to give this metaphysic a distinctively rationalist twist, whereas the thinkers of the “Chicago School” read it in a more empiricist and naturalist fashion, even when they were doing theology. In works such as A Christian Natural Theology (1965), Hartshorne’s student John Cobb balanced the two strands, while also extending the results more deeply into Christian theology, interreligious dialogue, and the philosophy of science (Griffin 2004; Cobb 2008). This emphasis on developing a coherent metaphysical account and extending it to a wide range of social, political, and cultural issues can be found in books by process philosophers such as Lewis Ford, Robert Neville, Brian Henning, Daniel Dombrowski, Don Viney, Jay McDaniel, and David Ray Griffin.2

Atheist, naturalistic, and agnostic strands in process philosophy of religion Process philosophy represents a complex resource for philosophers of religion in part because it has been put to use not only by theists but also by agnostics and atheists, not only by classical theists and panentheists but also by naturalists, not only by those affiliated with specific religious traditions but also by perennialists and philosophers with more purely metaphysical interests. We briefly examined the dipolar theism that Whitehead advocated at the end of Process and Reality and that Charles Hartshorne and his followers elaborated in many later publications. But scholars have also noted that many features of Whitehead’s theism were only introduced in the final stratum of the composition of Process and Reality.3 His magnum opus was followed by two major works, Modes of Thought and Adventures of Ideas, in which theism plays little to no discernible role. Thus by the 1960s one can find strong advocates of an atheist process metaphysics.

2 For a useful summary of process philosophers, see Browning and Myers (1998). The best single sum-

mation of process philosophy of religion is David Ray Griffin, Reenchantment without Supernaturalism: A Process Philosophy of Religion (2001). 3 Lewis Ford worked out the layers of composition in The Emergence of Whitehead’s Metaphysics (1984).

13

146


These thinkers affirm a metaphysics of creativity as Whitehead’s major contribution to philosophy, and then argue that Creativity has as much claim to ultimacy in Whitehead’s writings as does the notion of God. Creativity could be an attribute of God, but it can also be taken as a basic metaphysical principle independent of God. (Consider the parallel: some Platonists locate the forms within the mind of God; others postulate that the exist in an independent realm, as in Penrose’s or Popper’s third world.) If this argument is successful, the notion of God becomes optional for, if not actually counter-indicated by, Whitehead’s notion of Creativity. Sherburne made this argument in (1967), and one finds something like the same move in Gordon Kaufman’s In the Beginning—Creativity (2004), in which he makes Creativity his final theological resting place. In recent years atheism has been less of a focus, and the greater emphasis has fallen on defending process thought as a kinder, gentler form of naturalism. David Ray Griffin has led this charge (though certainly not without allies) in a number of publications, the most notable of which is his Reenchantment without Supernaturalism. Griffin distinguishes the form of naturalism dominant in contemporary science and, for example, the New Atheists—he calls it naturalismsam —from the non-reductive naturalism to which process philosophy gives rise—naturalismppp . Naturalismsam is sensationalist, atheist, and materialist. That is, it accepts the representationalist and empiricist theory of knowledge that gradually emerged in British Empiricism from John Locke to David Hume and that unintentionally constructed an increasingly high barrier between the agent and the world she seeks to know.4 Atheism is assumed in standard modern naturalism, but the God it rejects is a supernatural God who stands over against, and even tends to negate, the natural order. Finally, naturalismsam accepts the Hobbesian assumption that all that exists is “matter in motion”; it thus perpetuates the materialist metaphysic that dominated much of modern European thought. In contrast to naturalismsam , Griffin advances an alternative view, naturalismppp , which is prehensive, panentheistic, and panexperientialist. Instead of the exclusively external relations presupposed in modern empiricism, Griffin affirms the Whiteheadian doctrine of “prehension,” which presupposes internal relations between the knower and the things that she knows. Instead of atheism it affirms panentheism: all is contained within the divine, though God is also more than the world. And instead of materialism, it affirms that all units of reality are themselves occasions, moments of experience.5 Of course, critics may dismiss Griffin by arguing that “theistic naturalism” is a contradiction in terms and that one cannot, Humpty-Dumpty like, make a venerable philosophical term such as “naturalism” mean just anything. Still, the remarkable influence that Griffin’s work has had turns in part on the sense that the modern battle between naturalism and supernaturalism (a distinction foreign to medieval philosophy) is locked in a stalemate that neither side can break. Famously, Whitehead sought to conceive God not as “an exception to all metaphysical principles” but as “their chief exemplification” (1978, p. 343). Of course, there is more than one way to break the 4 Richard Rorty famously made a similar point in Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature (1979). 5 For a briefer exposition of this view, see David Ray Griffin, Two Great Truths: A New Synthesis of

Scientific Naturalism and Christian Faith (2004).

13


147

stalemate. The “open panentheism” that I defend in Adventures in the Spirit is not identical to the orthodox Whiteheadian position that Griffin is proposing.6 In arguing for the finite–infinite distinction in a (roughly) Hegelian fashion, I rely on essential distinctions between God and finite agents that Griffin does not endorse. Still, we are parts of a broader movement in recent philosophy of religion that is seeking to undercut, and I think is succeeding at undercutting, the harsh natural–supernatural distinction that has tended to place religion at such odds with science. The naturalism–supernaturalism distinction is also left behind in recent work that seeks to synthesize process philosophy with contemporary French post-structuralist thought, especially Jacques Derrida and Gilles Deleuze.7 In this work, however, the very distinction between constructive and deconstructive philosophy (or theology) is challenged. Wedding Whitehead, the systematic metaphysician, with Derrida, the deconstructer of systems, makes for a surprising match—especially given that the bestknown process thinkers of the previous generations were highly systematic in their approaches (Hartshorne, Cobb, Griffin, Ford). Yet Whitehead’s late work in particular offers strong evidence that he placed process over systematicity; and the recent work by Catherine Keller and Roland Faber may well represent the most philosophically sophisticated work in process studies published in the last several years. The role of a process agnosticism in the philosophy of religion should be mentioned in closing. Sometimes this agnosticism represents a transition point for philosophers who are disillusioned with classical theism and the arguments on its behalf, yet who have reasons not to settle into a doctrinaire atheism. Sometimes agnosticism attracts naturalists who have become disillusioned with reductive materialist naturalism but who are skeptical about the metaphysical commitments necessary for full-fledged theism. For others, however, it becomes a resting place, a settled via media between an untenable traditional theism and an untenable reductionist naturalism. A brilliant example of this process agnosticism can be found in “On ‘Wide Sense Agnosticism’ and Process Theism” by Herczog (2008), whose tragic death from cancer a few months ago cut short her dissertation work on this topic. Process philosophy and Christianity From the beginning philosophers of religion recognized that Whitehead’s theism diverges from classical theism. Hartshorne decided to call it “neoclassical” theism, and “process theism” eventually became the standard term. A variety of orthodox and evangelical philosophers of religion challenged process theism for being inadequate to core requirements of orthodox theology and Christian practice: process theology is not (sufficiently) Trinitarian; a God who takes up all finite experience within God’s self cannot be protected from the challenge of the problem of evil; Whitehead’s “objective immortality” is not sufficient for the Christian hope, which presupposes subjective 6 See Clayton, Adventures in the Spirit (2008), e.g., chapter 11, “Open Panentheism and Creation as

Kenosis.” 7 Probably the most significant authors in this area are Faber (2008) and Keller (2003, 2008). Keller has

also organized and edited an important series of anthologies under the title “Transdisciplinary theological colloquia.”

13

148


immortality; the uniqueness of Jesus Christ cannot be adequately conceived in the context of process theology; a God who persuades but does not coerce cannot be counted on to “bring all things unto himself”; and prayer becomes impossible without a more robust understanding of miracles. In a complex and sometimes technical philosophical dispute played out over some three decades, process theologians responded to each of these charges. Many authors in Bracken and Suchocki (1997) argued for one or another form of process trinitarianism. The problem of evil is not more pronounced in the Whiteheadian context, but instead the rejection of omnipotence in process thought is the only way to avoid making God culpable for unnecessary suffering (Griffin 1976, 1991). In The End of Evil (1988), Marjorie Suchocki provided a sophisticated defense the possibility of subjective immortality within a Whiteheadian framework; a more recent anthology has offered defenses, elaborations, and criticisms of her attempt (Bracken 2005). Numerous volumes have defended the compatibility of process theology with the biblical documents, with religious practices such as prayer, and with core motifs of Christian theology.8 The rich conceptual overlaps between process theology and “open theism” or “free will theism,” starting in the 1990s, have spawned significant new work in philosophical theology.9 A number of projects in this area today are being coordinated by Thomas Jay Oord, whose work seeks to integrate process philosophy and orthodox Christian thought. Oord’s conferences, and sessions on “Open and Relational Theology” at the American Academy of Religion attended by up to 500 people, have produced several new anthologies with important new work (e.g., Oord 2009). The partnership between open theists and process thinkers reflects the (to my mind accurate) sense that there is significant common ground between the Whiteheadian view of God and the understanding of God in the biblical documents: the love of God for the world …is the particular providence for particular occasions. …By reason of this reciprocal relation, the love in the world passes into the love in heaven, and floods back again into the world. In this sense, God is the great companion – the fellow-sufferer who understands. (Whitehead 1978, p. 351) Both open theists and process thinkers challenge the idea of a God of unlimited power, whose pre-ordination of all events and predestination of all souls make it difficult to defend a robust notion of human self-determination and make human existence appear more like a puppet show. And both groups can appeal to common christological statements: “To say that Jesus was God, then, ought to mean that God himself is one with us in our suffering, that divine love is not essentially benevolence—external wellwishing—but sympathy, taking into itself our every grief” (Hartshorne 1953, p. 147). 8 Examples include Lewis Ford, The Lure of God: A Biblical Background for Process Theism (1979); Lull

and Cobb’s process interpretation of Romans (2005); and Catherine Keller’s Face of the Deep: A Theology of Becoming (2003). I found over a dozen volumes on process and prayer; see e.g., Pittenger (1974). 9 E.g., Clark Pinnock and others in The Openness of God: A Biblical Challenge to the Traditional Under-

standing of God (1994); John Sanders’s The God Who Risks: A Theology of Divine Providence (2007); and David Basinger’s The Case for Freewill Theism: A Philosophical Assessment (1996). Process and free will theism are both represented in Cobb and Pinnock’s collection, Searching for an Adequate God: A Dialogue between Process and Free Will Theists (2000).

13


149

The greatest tension between the two groups, I suggest, arises with the question whether the limited nature of divine power is an essential feature of God (or of the God–world relationship), or a voluntary self-limitation on the part of God. Open theists and Christian panentheists generally defend the claim that the creation of all things was a free decision by God and thus reflects divine grace and providence. This is also our core reason for affirming a creation ex nihilo. On this view, God is essentially all-powerful, but God freely self-limits the divine power in order to allow for real agents to exist and to have a genuine role in co-determining their future. This view has come to be known as the “kenotic doctrine of creation,” drawing from the notion of self-emptying (ekenosen) ¯ in Phil. 2:5–8. Process philosophers reply that any such self-limitation would be a contingent and arbitrary move. If it results from a free divine decision, no adequate philosophical account can be constructed to account for it. Moreover, a God who arbitrarily limited God’s power could also just as arbitrarily choose to exercise it again at some future point of time. Much more philosophically satisfying, they argue, is a conception of God according to which it lies in God’s essential nature to persuade rather than coerce. God is essentially, and hence eternally, limited by a world. For this reason, orthodox process thinkers share Whitehead’s resistance to creation ex nihilo. God has always been accompanied by some world or universe, even though it may have been different worlds in different “cosmological epochs.” This limitation on the divine power is an essential feature of God; like every other actual occasion, God could not coerce even if God wished to. Put differently: because God as an existing entity is essentially similar to other entities, the limitation on divine power presupposed by genuine (bi-directional) interaction with others is a metaphysical given. This explains the famous six symmetries at the end of Process and Reality: It is as true to say that God is permanent and the World fluent, as that the World is permanent and God is fluent. It is as true to say that God is one and the World many, as that the World is one and God many. It is as true to say that, in comparison with the World, God is actual eminently, as that, in comparison with God, the World is actual eminently. It is as true to say that the World is immanent in God, as that God is immanent in the World. It is as true to say that God transcends the World, as that the World transcends God. It is as true to say that God creates the World, as that the World creates God (Whitehead 1978, p. 348). Conclusion Given the nature of Whitehead’s work, process philosophy was from the beginning committed to engaging in systematic metaphysics in the grand style. Aesthetics, philosophy of education, and social–political philosophy have been topics of discussion since the 1960s. In other respects, however, process philosophy of religion since 1970 has shared many of the same trends that we have seen in the field as a whole. The earlier years showed a predominance of analytic methods and argumentation. Philosophical

13

150


and theological frameworks, once more sharply distinguished, have been allowed to cross-fertilize. Practical concerns receive more attention than they did 40 years ago. Likewise, cross-cultural dialogue, comparative philosophy, and interreligious discourse now play a much larger role. Today there are major schools of process thought on each continent. By far the greatest influence is in China, where there are now 18 university centers for process philosophy and where many government and university leaders explicitly link the future of “postmodern China” to Whitehead’s thought. Stepping back for a moment from the specific case of process thought, I want to ask: what about the future of the philosophy of religion? What threats are raised by broader cultural changes, changes external to our field? And what opportunities do they offer to professional philosophers? Consider first changes in the public square. Over the last years, the so-called New Atheism has become culturally dominant in English-speaking intellectual circles (and beyond), which has led to a marked change in the perceived status of religion. There were times over the last decades, at least within our field, when the atheist voices (Kai Nielsen, Anthony Flew, and others) were enough of a minority that they were seen more as helping pro-theistic philosophers of religion to do their work better than as undercutting them. Philosophical skeptics such as Peter K. Unger were genteel challengers. After all, most of us were from the same class (and race and gender), and we shared an admiration for crisp prose and sharp argumentation with our opponents. Not so with the New Atheists. The new challengers have little competence, and even less interest, in philosophy. Even the few philosophers among them tend to substitute rhetoric for good arguments: if atheists are “the brights,” then by implication theists are morons (Dennett 2006). But the protests in our academic journals tend to fall on deaf ears. Overall, the advent of New Atheism has tended further to ghettoize professional philosophy of religion. Many of us take pride in the specialized nature of our discipline, the background knowledge it presupposes, and the sophisticated arguments that we compose. But the truth is that our field no longer has much influence on the broader cultural understandings of religion. It is as if we have bequeathed the debate in the public square to more popular voices. This move is worrisome for several reasons. Academic publishing is in crisis; as people invest their reading hours in blogs and internet-based content, book sales plummet. With specialized academic publishing becoming financially unsustainable, more and more journals are forced to give up their paper publications and to go to online editions only. All signs are that this trend will continue and intensify. Yet without refereed journals and specialized books, it is hard to imagine philosophy of religion continuing in anything like the form that we have know it over the last 40 years. Closely related to the crisis in the publishing industry is the growing crisis in the humanities. This is not the place to discuss the decreasing number of students enrolling in classic humanities majors and the increasing use of adjunct professors to cover courses in philosophy (and other humanities) departments. In 1970 it would have been unthinkable that classics departments would close and that Greek and Latin would no longer be taught. Twenty years ago it was unthinkable that philosophy departments would be viewed as esoteric and not financially sustainable.

13


151

Most of us believe that reflecting deeply, philosophically, on the nature of religious belief and practice is inherently valuable; such reflection offers guidance for society as a whole as it seeks to comprehend and respond to human religiosity. When society decides to richly fund the humanities, we will be ready. But in a time of economic scarcity and educational cutbacks—and there are no signs that this time will soon pass—it is up to us to justify the value of what we do. That means allowing the questions that we teach and write on to be motivated not only by internal disciplinary concerns (what experts care about), but also by the questions that the broader society views as the most urgent and important. It is not hard to list what these are: questions of the connection between religion and religious violence; the relation of religion and science; religion and atheism; theology and popular religious belief; miracles and the problem of evil; religion and the environment; and the religious resources for addressing fundamental ethical dilemmas, such as medical ethics and bioethics, the ethics of war, and so forth. In short, justifying our work to a broader audience involves paying more attention to the issues of religion in the contemporary world—how religious belief and practice are affecting society today. Of course we must bring historical resources and great philosophical texts to bear on these questions; that’s what we do best. But the study of technical philosophical issues without connection to the contemporary situation will fail to win the necessary support for and impact of what we do. Without it, the discipline is in danger of falling into an increasingly monastic existence: a small circle of specialists pursuing the traditional debates for decades (or centuries?) until the world again recognizes how important our work is and gives it the attention we feel it deserves. Surely that is not a recipe for success. References Barbour, I. G. (1966). Issues in science and religion. London: SCM Press. Barbour, I. G. (1974). Myths, models, and paradigms: A comparative study in science and religion. New York: Harper & Row. Basinger, D. (1996). The case for freewill theism: A philosophical assessment. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Bracken, J. (Ed.). (2005). World without end: Christian eschatology from a process perspective. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans. Bracken, J., & Suchocki, M. H. (Eds.). (1997). Trinity in process: A relational theology of God. New York: Continuum. Brody, B. A. (1992/1974). Readings in the philosophy of religion: An analytic approach (2nd ed.). Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall. Browning, D., & Myers, W. T. (Eds.). (1998). Philosophers of process (2nd ed.). Bronx, NY: Fordham University Press. Brumbaugh, R. S. (1982). Whitehead, process philosophy, and education. Albany: State University of New York Press. Brumbaugh, R. S., & Lawrence, N. M. (1985/1973). Philosophical themes in modern education. Lanham: University Press of America. Carnap, R. (1959). The elimination of metaphysics through logical analysis of language. In A. J. Ayer (Eds.), Logical positivism. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Clayton, P. (2008). Adventures in the spirit. Minneapolis: Fortress. Cobb, J. B., Jr. (1965). A Christian natural theology, based on the thought of Alfred North Whitehead. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Cobb, J. B., Jr. (Ed.). (2008). Back to Darwin: A richer account of evolution. Grand Rapids: William B. Eerdmans Pub. Co.

13

152


Cobb, J. B., Jr., & Lull, D. J. (2005). Romans. St. Louis, MO: Chalice Press. Cobb, J. B., Jr. & Pinnock, C. H. (Eds.). (2000). Searching for an adequate God: A dialogue between process and free will theists. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Craig, W. L. (1979). The Kalam ¯ cosmological argument. New York: Barnes & Noble Books. Dennett, D. C. (2006). Breaking the spell: Religion as a natural phenomenon. New York: Viking. Eastman, T. E., & Keeton, F. (Eds.). (2004). Physics and Whitehead: Quantum, process, and experience. Albany, NY: SUNY Press. Epperson, M. (2004). Quantum mechanics and the philosophy of Alfred North Whitehead. New York: Fordham University Press. Faber, R. (2008). God as poet of the world: Exploring process theologies. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Ford, L. S. (1979). The lure of God: A biblical background for process theism. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Ford, L. S. (1984). The emergence of Whitehead’s metaphysics, 1925–1929. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Griffin, D. R. (1976). God, power, and evil: A process theodicy. Philadelphia: Westminster Press. Griffin, D. R. (1991). Evil revisited: Responses and reconsiderations. Albany: State University of New York Press. Griffin, D. R. (2001). Reenchantment without supernaturalism: A process philosophy of religion. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Griffin, D. R. (2004). Two great truths: A new synthesis of scientific naturalism and Christian faith. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press. Habermas, J. (Ed.). (1990). Discourse ethics: Notes on a program of philosophical justification. In Moral consciousness and communicative action. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Habermas, J. (2001). On the pragmatics of social interaction. Cambridge: MIT Press. Hackett, S. C. (1979). Oriental philosophy: A Westerner’s guide to Eastern thought. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Hartshorne, C. (1953). Reality as social process. Glencoe, IL: The Free Press. Herczog, M. (2008). On ‘wide sense agnosticism’ and process theism. Accessed May 17, 2010, from http://www.ctr4process.org/publications/Articles/HerczogM-On_Wide_Sense_Agnosticism.shtml. Kaufman, G. (2004). In the beginning—creativity. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Keller, C. (2003). Face of the deep: A theology of becoming. London: Routledge. Keller, C. (2008). On the mystery: Discerning divinity in process. Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press. Morris, T. V. (1987). Anselmian explorations: Essays in philosophical theology. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Oord, T. J. (Ed.). (2009). Creation made free: Open theology engaging science. Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications. Pinnock, C. H., et al. (1994). The openness of God: A biblical challenge to the traditional understanding of God. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Pittenger, N. (1974). Praying today. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co. Plantinga, A. (1974). The nature of necessity. New York: Oxford University Press. Plantinga, A., & Wolterstorff, N. (Eds.). (1983). Faith and rationality: Reason and belief in God. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Rorty, R. (1979). Philosophy and the mirror of nature. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Rowe, W. L. (1975). The cosmological argument. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Sanders, J. (2007). The God who risks: A theology of divine providence (2nd ed.). Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic. Sherburne, D. W. (1967). Whitehead without God. The Christian Scholar, 50(3), 251–272. Suchocki, M. H. (1988). The end of evil: Process eschatology in historical context. Albany: State University of New York Press. Swinburne, R. (1977). The coherence of theism. Oxford: Clarendon. Swinburne, R. (1979). The existence of God. Oxford: Clarendon. Warren, K. (2000). Ecofeminist philosophy: A western perspective on what it is and why it matters. Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield. Whitehead, A. N. (1978/1929). Process and reality: An essay in cosmology, corrected ed., Griffin, D. R., & Sherburne, D. W. (Eds.). New York: Free Press.

13


Rival concepts of God and rival versions of mysticism Daniel A. Dombrowski

Received: 20 July 2009 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 4 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract There is a well known debate between those who defend a traditional (or classical) concept of God and those who defend a process (or neoclassical) concept of God. Not as well known are the implications of these two rival concepts of God in the effort to understand religious experience. With the aid of the great pragmatist philosopher John Smith, I defend the process (or neoclassical) concept of God in its ability to better illuminate and render as intelligible as possible mystical experience. Keywords Process theism · Traditional theism · Concept of God · Mysticism · Religious experience · John Smith · Charles Hartshorne · William Alston Introduction Largely as a result of the efforts of process philosophers of religion and process theologians, one can no longer blithely assume that by “God” is meant the classical theistic concept of a supernatural, eternal being outside of time and history who is completely unmoved by creatures, yet who knows with absolute assurance and in minute detail what will happen in the future to these creatures. That is, there is in addition, at the very least, a neoclassical concept of God who everlastingly exists through all of time and who omnibenevolently changes in light of creaturely suffering, the details of which cannot in principle be known in advance with certainty. The nuances of the well-known debate between defenders of these rival concepts of God need not concern us here (see, e.g., Gibson 1963; Ross 1977; Dombrowski 1996). What is not so well-known is the fact that these rival concepts of God tend to engender rival versions of how to account for mystical experience. Defenders of both

D. A. Dombrowski (B) Department of Philosophy, Seattle University, Seattle, WA 98122-4411, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

154


concepts of God attest to the importance of the experiential dimension of the religious life, but they typically differ in how to explain this dimension. It will be the purpose of the present article to make a modest contribution to the understanding of this latter debate. My sympathies lie with both a neoclassical or process concept of God and a neoclassical or process account of mystical experience. But the neoclassical stance can be significantly improved, I think, by appeal to two distinctions made by John Smith, the great defender of the concept of experience developed by the major figures in American philosophy. That is, the present article can also be seen as trying to make a contribution to process-pragmatist rapprochement. To this end I will compare my results at the close of the article with those of William Alston in his magisterial work Perceiving God. Two distinctions It is common to have mystical experience referred to as “direct” or “unmediated” (i.e., “immediate”) experience of the divine, in contrast to an approach to God by way of rational argumentation. And it is often assumed that “direct” is a rough synonym of “unmediated” (or “immediate”) and that both are meant to contrast with their opposites: “indirect” and “mediated.” One of the most important of Smith’s contributions to philosophy, however, is to distinguish between the indirect-direct distinction and the mediated-unmediated (immediate) distinction (especially Smith 1968, chaps. 2–3). By separating these two distinctions, I claim, we can better understand the major differences between the classical theistic account of mystical experience and that typically found in the work of neoclassical theists (Dombrowski 2001a; cf., Dombrowski 1992, p. 183). Pragmatic theists and neoclassical theists would thus mutually benefit from this separation; and perhaps classical theists as well, to the extent that they are interested in the work of pragmatic and neoclassical theists. A first pass at the two relevant distinctions can go as follows. The distinction between indirect and direct experience is that between experience that relies on rational inference and that which does not, respectively. By way of contrast, the distinction between mediate experience and immediate experience is that between experience that requires some medium in order for the encounter between the experiencer and that which is experienced to occur, on the one hand, and experience that is (per impossible) medium-free, on the other, respectively. Putting the terms under consideration here in a position matrix, four options (not two) are possible. It should be noted that this position matrix is not meant to be logically exhaustive, as are many of the position matrices used by the neoclassical theist Charles Hartshorne (e.g., Hartshorne 1970), but rather to open up certain differences between rival accounts of mystical experience that might not otherwise come to light. indirect direct

unmediated (immediate) A C

mediated B D

It is hard to know what to make of (A), at least if the experience in question is religious in character. What would it mean to have a religious experience that was not

13


155

in any way dependent on a medium (not even on a linguistic or conceptual medium), on the one hand, and yet be an experience that was the result of rational inference, on the other? Not much promise is to be found here. Quite understandably, this is not what theists (whether classical or neoclassical) mean by mystical experience. Further, it is not likely that theists (whether classical or neoclassical) would see mystical experience along the lines of (B). Nonetheless, those theists who defend one of the famous arguments for the existence of God place a great deal of importance on (B) because they think that through the media of language and logic one can legitimately infer the existence of God, or at least the unintelligibility of the nonexistence of God (e.g., Dombrowski 2005, 2006). But theists tend not to identify these arguments with mystical experiences, even if there are theists like Smith who think that arguments for the existence of God must be rooted in some way in experience (Smith 1961, pp. 157–172, 1968, pp. 122–134, 1984, pp. 103–109; Dombrowski 2006, pp. 148–151). The debate with which the present article is concerned is that between defenders of (C) and (D). The classical theistic attempt to understand mystical experience is usually along the lines of (C) in that mystics are alleged not only to experience God directly (i.e., not merely by way of rational inference), but also without the media of language, logic, or even embodiment. This view of mystical experience (hereafter: mystical experience-1) goes hand-in-glove with the classical theistic concept of God because this lack of mediation by language, logic, and embodiment is only possible when God is seen as a supernatural being who transcends time and history (and hence language and logic and embodiment). The mediating influences of this natural world are transcended by the mystics, it is alleged by classical theists, when spiritual contact is made with that world that exists beyond this one. To cite a representative example, the mystical theology of St. John of the Cross, heavily reliant on the Thomistic concept of God, favors this sort of understanding of mystical experience-1 (Dombrowski 1992).

The religious dimension of experience I will not say much more about (C), which has been widely discussed by scholars. But I do hope to reflect light on (C) in the more detailed analysis I will offer of (D). In order to explicate experience of God it is important to note the background distinction between the holy and the profane. As Robert Neville aptly puts the Smithian point: Two ideas are especially important for Smith’s analysis of the religious dimension of experience. The first is the distinction between the Holy and the Profane. Not all dimensions of life are holy; many aspects of life are properly profane and are to be understood on their own terms. But some events in life, those that push and break the boundaries—such as birth and death, attaining to responsibility, sickness and social tragedy—cannot be dealt with in profane terms and are to be understood as holy. Smith’s second idea for understanding the religious dimension is that the holy occasions raise the question of the ground and goal

13

156


of human life. By this Smith means not merely our causes and purposes, but the ground of the contingent world as such, the purpose of human life as such. The religious dimension of life has to do with acknowledging grounds and affirming purposes of life in the context of the holy (Neville 1997, p. 77). But the context of the holy is itself complex. We should be skeptical of “religious experience” and “mystical experience” if these refer to mystical experience-1. Hence, Smith urges us to talk instead of the religious dimension of experience (what I have called mystical experience-2). The immediate experience of God alleged in mystical experience-1—i.e., (C)—would be unmediated by any signs, hence it is unlikely if we could ever know we had it! This is because if we had such an experience we would not be able to distinguish it from any other immediate experience. That is, “the grasp [prehension] of God in experience comes through the use of signs” (Neville 1997, p. 76). Although these signs are fallible, they are nonetheless needed as the media through which God can be present to us. The religious dimension of experience or mystical experience-2 (in contrast to a “religious experience” that transcends mediating nature, language, logic, and embodiment—i.e., mystical experience-1) involves an encounter with the presence of the holy, a presence famously described by Wordsworth in terms that had a profound effect on Hartshorne (see Dombrowski 2004a, 2006, pp. 58–61): And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man: A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls though all things. (Wordsworth, “Tintern Abbey”). It is crucial to realize that the presence in question is not something merely human. Rather, it is encountered as something that transcends the human, even if the human is enveloped by it. Further, the presence in question seems to burst upon us in an instant (exaiphnes), as in the experience of Beauty itself in Plato’s Symposium (210E). Intellectually honest religious believers do not have to accept everything at face value, but they do have to accept what they find, as Smith emphasizes. Many individuals encounter a holy presence in the world. These encounters, however, are always experiences both of God or the holy as well as of something else at the same time. That is, these direct experiences are never absolutely immediate. The medium through which religious encounter occurs is thus intimately related to the reality it discloses. This should not be surprising to those theists who are Christian in that in this incarnational tradition it has historically been believed that the best clue we are likely to get regarding the divine nature comes through a being who is fully human, and hence characterized by the linguistic, the logical, and the embodied.

13


157

Further, the special times (Wordsworthian “spots of time”) when mystical experience-2 is likely to occur are, although extraordinary, nonetheless thoroughly natural rather than supernatural. This is one of the key points in David Ray Griffin’s magnum opus: Reenchantment without Supernaturalism (Griffin 2001). The special times in question include those that involve initiation, vocation, marriage, birth, suffering, and death. These events elicit in many people a very real experience of being judged, or at least of being watched. And these experiences often force those who have them to conclude that the experiences of ordinary life, when the “world is too much with us” (Wordsworth, “The World Is Too Much with Us”), are banal and that one must come to terms with life in its depth. Once again, God is not so much constituted out of these crisis events as experienced within them (Smith 1968, chap. 2). It should not be assumed that (C) or mystical experience-1 better accounts for mystical experience than (D) or mystical experience-2 because it is time honored and has tested positively against the testimony of a long line of famous mystics. Actually (C) has failed the test. To take the same prominent example that was mentioned earlier, although the theology of John of the Cross conforms to (C), his mystical poetry, which comes closer than theory to the concrete reality of mystical experience that he is trying to convey, conforms to (D). Indeed most of the great figures in the history of Western mysticism have at some point or other complained in a Pascal-like way about the God of the philosophers or theologians. We should be more precise: their complaint concerns the God of classical theism as traditionally defended by many philosophers and theologians. John of the Cross’s poetry, in contrast to his theology, involves bodily (even sexual) metaphors for the intimate contact with the divine. And although he (along with St. Teresa of Avila) at times describes his experience of God as ineffable, even this claim is mediated by language and is artfully contradicted by his many writings. In fact, John of the Cross is the national poet of Spain, indicating that mediation through language used at a sophisticated level and through (even sexual) passion is not only not at odds with mystical experience, it is its lifeblood (see Dombrowski 1992, 2004b). The logic of the term “revelation” requires relationship. What would it mean to speak of divine revelation if there were no one to whom the divine was revealed? In this regard it once again makes sense to defend neoclassical, process-relational theism, as articulated, say, in Hartshorne’s most tightly written book, The Divine Relativity (Hartshorne 1948). Divine presence is always disclosed through a medium (not in the “spiritualist” sense) that makes possible the relationship between the God who is revealed and the person to whom this God is revealed. God is experienced as present in both natural events and persons, hence attentiveness to these events and persons involves an intimate relation with God. By way of contrast, the classical theistic God (the “God of the philosophers” castigated by many mystics) is unmoved and unchanged by creatures, and hence is not internally related to them, contra the claims of the great mystics. The experience of intimacy with the divine is, in principle, ruled out on the classical theistic view (Smith 1968, pp. 68–77). Criticism of the supernaturalistic assumptions of classical theists, and of the negative effects these assumptions have on attempts to understand mystical experience, does not lead to an invidious egalitarianism wherein each natural being is as likely as the next to best understand the religious dimension of experience. Just as some beings

13

158


run faster than others, play the piano better than others, etc., so also some beings— e.g., Moses, Jesus, Mohammed, Teresa of Avila—seem to be especially suited both to experience this dimension and to report on such experience (Hartshorne 1984, p. 5). Their own bodies, the historical conditions of their age, and the language they use to report their experiences to others are all mediating influences. The Judeo-Christian tradition has been especially insistent on the idea that God is encountered in historical events: the Exodus, the Incarnation. In particular, “For Christianity every disclosure of God is also a disclosure of something else at the same time” (Smith 1968, p. 81). This is in contrast to (C), where we supposedly have immediate experience of God in a timeless unity beyond all media. Smith puts the point well: To say that God is revealed through a historical medium is to say that God is directly, but not immediately, experienced, and encountered rather than inferred. On the one hand, he [sic] is not immediately apprehended because he is known only in and through the medium; on the other hand, he is not inferred because he is present in the medium (Smith 1968, p. 83; also see 1961, pp. 181–182). Or again: If we can understand how a self can be directly present to another self and yet require a medium or form of expression through which disclosure takes place, we shall have some idea of what the revelation of God means…. [The] view which says that we encounter a person first as a collection of actions, spoken words, gestures, facial expressions, and other forms of behavior, and then infer that there is a person present needs to be reconsidered…. If we attend to what actually happens when we encounter each other, we see at once that we never infer the existence of the other person. On the contrary, the other person is acknowledged as such at the beginning of the encounter (Smith 1968, p. 85). Analogously, the revelatory situation is one where God is directly present and encountered, but not immediately known as such. The medium of the suffering servant is an especially fecund ground for the religious element in experience, whether found in Isaiah, the New Testament, or in our lives today. Here we encounter God, contra the utter denial of divine historicity in the Docetists, the Gnostics, and sadly to a great extent in classical theists. Because the experience of God is mediated through signs and symbols, it is amenable to (or better, requires) rational interpretation of some sort. And because we are so insistently intellectual beings, we need to make the experience of God intelligible in some way, whether in terms of mystical experience-1 or mystical experience-2. But only the latter comes close to success in this regard (Smith 1968, pp. 92, 101, 150, 154). As before, the great mystics implicitly admit this. John of the Cross tries to make his experience of God intelligible to us through now famous symbols: dark night, flight to the beloved, intimate union, and the living flame of love. And Teresa of Avila’s experience of God is conveyed to us through the medium of marble by Bernini in his famous statue in Rome. Without the media of rational thought, language, poetic symbols, stone, etc., there would be no mystical experience, nor, a fortiori, would there be reports of such.

13


159

The view I am defending does not depend on, but it is nonetheless very much consistent with, the view that suggests that there are severe problems with the fideistic strict separation of faith and reason. Rather than such a strict separation, we should instead speak of relatively unreflective faith, which nonetheless presupposes some minimal understanding, and a more reflective, intellectualized faith. Not even the content of the former is mere gibberish in that it is mediated by intelligible language and some concepts, however inadequately they are understood. As Smith puts the point, “all faith as such is incipient understanding” (Smith 1973, pp. 7, 10, 22, 44). As before, mediation through language and concepts is unavoidable. But such mediation provides no good reasons to deny that many people experience a disclosure of a divine reality that is not reducible to our own (Smith 1967, pp. 51–55). That is, religious experience-2 or (D) is a living reality (Smith 1978, pp. 161–162). An objection Defenders of mystical experience-1 or (C) will not doubt have several objections to the thesis defended in the present article. I would like to anticipate at least one of these objections so as to give a sense of how a neoclassical theist could respond to the inevitable challenges he or she will receive to the defense of mystical experience-2 or (D). The objection can be stated in terms of the following argument: (i) Mystical experience is something quite remarkable. (ii) But mystical experience as explicated by neoclassical theists is no longer anything remarkable. (iii) Therefore there is something defective about the neoclassical theistic explication of mystical experience. The argument is valid (i.e., the conclusion follows from the premises), but is it sound in the sense that the premises are true? I think not because although premise (i) is defensible, premise (ii) is not. Direct experience of the divine is remarkable at the very least because it requires true solitude, which is rare, and a level of concentration not found in ordinary experience. This is why I have claimed above that mystical experience is extraordinary even if it is not supernatural. The most readily detectable realities are those that are sometimes present in an insistent way and sometimes not, as in redness or pain. What is always given, however, tends to escape notice. For example, notice how difficult it is for many people to experience spatial extension in sounds, even if they can readily experience spatial extension in colors. Or again, notice how difficult it is for most people to feel the feeling of the individual cells in their bodies, unless, perhaps, localized pain alerts them to cellular feelings, as when cell walls are ripped open through intense heat when the tip of one’s finger is burned (Hartshorne 1976). These examples are meant to point us toward the remarkable, yet perfectly human, ability of the mystics to directly experience God, albeit mediately. The difference between mystics and others is not an absolute one. The former are consciously aware of experiencing what we all experience implicitly. Most human beings “prehend” God in the sense that they grasp implicitly meaning in the world. They feel as an inchoate

13

160


object of experience that they are parts of a meaningful whole, that there is a concrete fact of relatedness between themselves and the divine personal (or tripersonal) force at work in the cosmos. But the mystics have an explicit, remarkable, conscious “apprehension” of this relatedness. They exhibit an acuity, as it were, that the rest of humanity possesses only potentially. In short, I think that the objection can be countered. Consider the famous example of mystical experience reported by Thomas Merton in his classic The Seven Story Mountain (Merton 1998, pp. 310–312). Merton is like most mystics who are classical theists in complaining about the God of the philosophers, but what he says about mystical experience actually supports the case for process or neoclassical theism. His experience of God, elicited by the sounds of a children’s choir and the sight of the raised chalice at the Eucharist during a visit to a church in Cuba, struck him like a thunderclap and with a light that was so bright that it neutralized every lesser experience. Here we are reminded of many similar experiences described in William James’ equally famous classic The Varieties of Religious Experience (James 1985). Yet Merton goes out of his way to inform us that “the thing that struck me most was that this light was in a certain sense ‘ordinary’—it was a light (and this most of all was what took my breath away) that was offered to all, to everybody, and there was nothing fancy or strange about it.” Further, the God experienced by Merton (despite his Thomism) was anything but an Unmoved Mover or Pure Actuality; rather, the God of the mystics is the Most Moved Mover with a boundless potential to enter into relations with a person of faith.

Naturalistic theism As is well known, one of the hallmarks of process or neoclassical theism is its opposition to the Boethian eternity of God, wherein God is seen as transcending time and history altogether. Instead, process or neoclassical theists defend divine everlastingness or sempiternity, wherein God is seen not as outside of time and history, but as omnitemporal. God exists necessarily in the sense that the divine being could not not exist at any time (Dombrowski 2006). I used to think that belief in divine everlastingness radically distinguished process or neoclassical theism from classical theism (see Dombrowski 1996), but a significant number of analytic philosophers who are theists, but who do not normally think of themselves as process or neoclassical theists, have been won over to the cause of divine everlastingness (e.g., see Swinburne 2008). Perhaps the patient efforts of process or neoclassical theists to plant the seedlings of divine everlastingness in the minds of philosophers and theologians have started to bear significant fruit. It is still widely assumed, however, by both theists and religious skeptics alike, that to believe in God is to believe in a supernatural realm. Because process or neoclassical theists tend to see divine supernaturalism as integrally connected to belief in divine eternity, it will be worth the effort to briefly explore the problems with this connection as it relates to the two rival versions of mysticism that are the subject matter of the present article (see Griffin 1990).

13


161

Theism is, in fact, at odds with reductionistic materialism, but it is not necessarily at odds with naturalism if nature itself is a personal whole or a besouled compound individual rather than a mere aggregate or concatenation of mechanical parts. The process or neoclassical view is that the following four-term analogy helps us to better understand religious belief than language regarding the super-natural: S1: S2 :: S2: S3 where S1 refers to the microscopic sentiency found in living cells that reside in a human body; S2 refers to sentiency per se as exhibited in each one of us as animal individuals, wherein our central nervous systems enable us to feel as mesocosmic wholes just as our cells feel at a microcosmic level; and S3 refers to divine sentiency. We have feeling of feeling. Further, our mesocosmic bodies are, as it were, like cells in the macrocosmic whole, the cosmos. God is the Mind or Eros for the universe, on this panentheistic view. It is not to be confused with pantheism in that, although both views are types of divine inclusiveness, pantheists refuse to admit any sort of divine transcendence or partial divine externality to the natural world. Also by way of contrast, God is a person on the panentheistic view, which is not possible on a pantheistic basis (Levine 1994). On the process or neoclassical view (which Whitehead called “the philosophy of organism”), God is not an abstract principle, as in pantheism, but a living being. In Christianity the way this point has been put is in terms of the universe being the “mystical body of Christ.” On the basis of the naturalistic theism defended by process or neoclassical theists, mysticism consists in becoming aware of the Mind of the cosmos. This can occur either implicitly (when we do not experience the world as clueless; or when we have, as previously mentioned, an inchoate awareness that we are parts of an intelligible, organic whole) or explicitly (when we are consciously aware of our fragmentary lives as fragments). Marjorie Suchocki is helpful regarding the latter when she alludes to the following “Balm in Gilead”: God experiences our prayers and sufferings and mysticism consists in becoming consciously aware of God doing this. However, mystical experience also involves the awareness that our prayers and sufferings that are prehended or grasped by God are transformed or transfigured (in that they are incorporated into the life of an omnibenevolent and omniscient Being-in-Becoming) and it is this transformed or transfigured character of prayer and suffering that the mystic experiences (see Suchocki 1992) and that gives the mystic’s life a certain lightheartedness and ludic quality (see Dombrowski 2009). The implicit mysticism mentioned in the previous paragraph is evidenced in the common aesthetic experience of the world as neither monotonous nor chaotic (i.e., as in some sense beautiful, despite its obvious flaws). The religious dimension of aesthetic experience in general involves an appreciation for the harmonies and intensities of everyday experience as parts of a mighty (yet not omnipotent) whole. This appreciation itself is a type of beauty that is more sublime than pretty, a source of excess that is captured artistically by Bernini in his aforementioned famous statue of St. Teresa of Avila in ecstasy. On the process or neoclassical interpretation, however, the literal ecstasy here does not refer to dis-placement in some super-natural realm, sub specie aeternatatis, as if that were possible. Rather, it refers to a detachment from our

13

162


normal place, characterized by the usual tendentiousness, bias, and prejudice of human existence; it refers to at least a vicarious view of the cosmos from the perspective of the greatest conceivable living being, one who could not fail to exist at any time.

Alston and mystical experience I would be remiss if I did not indicate how the view I have defended in the present article is similar to, and yet different from, that of Alston in his now classic work Perceiving God (Alston 1991). By doing so I hope to make apparent in a more precise way what I take to be the process-pragmatist contribution I am making to the philosophical understanding of mystical experience. Although Alston was a strict adherent to the methods practiced by analytic philosophers, he nonetheless adopted Peirce’s view (without ever explicitly mentioning Peirce) that, rather than clinging to the Kantian metaphor that an argument is only as strong as its weakest link, we should accept the metaphor that an argument is like a cable that is made stronger by adding several argument strands together that mutually reinforce each other in the service of the overall argument. Alston calls this approach a “cumulative case” of “mutual support” (306, also 293). The mutual support he speaks of consists of both religious experience and natural theology (including the argument from religious experience, which is different from religious experience itself). Theists may put more or less emphasis on one strand or other, but Alston is surely correct that one should avoid an overemphasis of either the experiential or the intellectual in philosophy of religion. “There is something of a ‘percepts without concepts are blind, concepts without percepts are empty’ situation here” (293). Alston’s view is like my own in taking direct perception of God seriously. However, he uses “direct” and “immediate” as rough synonyms, as well as “indirect” and “mediate” as rough synonyms. On this parsimonious basis he nonetheless distinguishes three different sorts of mystical experience. (a) Absolute immediacy occurs when we are aware of God through nothing else, not even through a state of consciousness. Whereas (b) mediated immediacy occurs when we have direct perception of God without the aid of rational concepts, but through a state of consciousness. And (c) mediate perception occurs when we are only indirectly aware of God by way of something else, as in an awareness of another act of perception or as a result of a rational inference (see numerous passages: 5, 9, 11, 14, especially 20–28, 35–38, 59, 66–67, 78–79, 186, 288, 306). Six comments are in order. (i) Alston is correct to be suspicious of what he calls “absolute immediacy” in that this type of mystical experience is similar to what I have above designated “C” or mystical experience-1, which I have criticized. Indeed, he reserves this type of perception of God for “extreme mystical experience” (23). Although it is not clear what he means here by “extreme,” it seems that it refers to what Maritain (1938) claims about the “absolute immediacy” of the beatific vision (51). (ii) That is, mystical experience in this life, in contrast to the otherworldly character of the beatific vision (if there is such), is most likely a sort of “mediated

13


163

immediacy.” This position bears a striking resemblance to what I have designated position “D” or mystical experience-2. (iii) However, by not making the two distinctions I have made above (between direct and indirect experience of God, on the one hand, and between immediate and mediate experience of God, on the other), but only one distinction, Alston confuses matters by oxymoronically describing the perception of God that he is considering “mediated immediacy.” Less confusion is caused, I think, by using the less oxymoronic language I have employed. (iv) There is much to be learned from Alston’s view of mystical experience, despite the misleading way in which he labels it. What we are both trying to understand philosophically are the experiences wherein God is directly present to the experiencer, the sort of presence found in infused contemplation when God is given to the experiencer in such a way that we can profitably use the Russerlian language of acquaintance rather than description. (v) Indeed, Alston is astute to notice that to speak of “indirect presentation” is to contradict oneself (21). This is why in point (ii) above I alleged something similar (in fact, with less hyperbole) by claiming that there is something oxymoronic, if not contradictory, about “mediated immediacy.” In effect, at times Alston see no inconsistency in the position he defends (95–96), while at other times he quite readily points out the inconsistency (21). Most importantly (vi), despite the appropriateness of Alston’s skepticism regarding “absolute immediacy” (i.e., what I have called position “C” or mystical experience-1), it is not clear to me that he can consistently maintain the more defensible position (i.e., what I have labeled “D” or mystical experience-2). The reason for this difficulty concerns Alston’s defense of classical theistic divine attributes like supernaturality (59, 245) and complete immateriality (19–20, 245). If John Baillie is correct that experience of God, albeit direct, always occurs mediately through nature, history, and society, then how could a strictly supernatural and immaterial God be experienced? I think that Baillie is correct on this particular point, but the evidence from Alston is unclear (26). If God is strictly supernatural and immaterial, it seems that experience of God could only occur in something like the aforementioned beatific vision. Alston does a significant amount of intellectual work on the parsimonious basis of his single distinction between mediate or indirect justification, on the one hand, and immediate or direct justification, on the other (71). One question is: can we be justified in believing that mystical experience could be purely immediate? Alston responds to this question in the affirmative (87), although he conveniently covers his tracks here by suggesting that most mystical experiences are (once again, oxymoronically) partly immediate and partly mediate (93). It is the partly mediate part that is hard to understand if God is not found in the mediating world of nature, history, and society. A panentheistic God, in contrast to the classical theistic one, would not run into these difficulties. Here we can once again see the evidence for the claim that there are rival versions of mystical experience, as mentioned in the title of the present article. It should be noted that Alston does not completely close the door to naturalistic panentheism in that he makes it clear that when he rejects naturalism he is confining his attention to materialist, nontheistic versions of naturalism, which he correctly notes

13

164


are the most common and particularly prevalent forms of naturalism at present (246). But there are also theistic versions of naturalism, as Alston no doubt realized in that his alma mater (University of Chicago) was a center for theistic naturalism for decades. In fact, earlier in his career Alston made important concessions to Hartshorne’s version of neoclassical theistic naturalism by granting that, of the 10 most important divine attributes discussed by theists, Hartshorne does a better job of analyzing four of them than classical theists. That is, in 1984 he was willing to meet neoclassical theists who were naturalists and panentheists halfway—or at least forty-percent of the way (see Alston 1984; Dombrowski 1994, 2001). But by 1991 this tentative support for much of what was involved in neoclassical theism had dried up. Whitehead’s or Hartshorne’s panpsychism, which is integrally connected to their religious naturalism and panentheism, for example, is rejected (130– 139, 273–274) as an approximation of the truth in that it leads to false beliefs. (It should be noted, however, that Alston inaccurately speaks of panpsychism as including the idea that rocks and trees are sentient individuals. Cf., Hartshorne 1970.) And, as we have seen, God is assumed in 1991 (without argument) to be supernatural and strictly immaterial. One is shocked to find Alston claiming that we are “innately programmed to perceive…[including perception of God?] in Aristotelian terms” (273). Process thinkers resist this straightjacket. In sum, neoclassical theists can expect only partial rapprochement with Alston on the topic of how to account philosophically for mystical experience. Both sides can agree that the supposed ineffable quality of mystical experience largely consists in the difficulty of describing such experiences in ordinary terms (32); spiritual metaphors work better. And both sides can complain about the prejudice in philosophy against the unanalyzable, which is unfortunate if some of what we experience is directly presented to us (38). Finally, both sides can agree that to directly experience God is not to experience the divine essence (62); in Hartshornian terms, it is only to experience the divine actuality. But looming behind these agreements is Alson’s view of God as a Boethian totum simul, as articulated by Stump and Kretzmann (1981, 64). If mystical experience is mediated by nature, history, and society (even on Alston’s own grounds), then it is difficult to see how such experience of God could occur if God is completely outside of nature, history, and society. References Alston, W. (1984). Hartshorne and Aquinas: A via media. In J. Cobb & F. Gamwell (Eds.), Existence and actuality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Alston, W. (1991). Perceiving God: The epistemology of religious experience. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Baillie, J. (1962). The sense of the presence of God. New York: Scribner’s. Dombrowski, D. (1992). St. John of the cross: An appreciation. Albany: State University of New York Press. Dombrowski, D. (1994). Alston and Hartshorne on the concept of God. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 36, 129–146. Dombrowski, D. (1996). Analytic theism, Hartshorne, and the concept of God. Albany: State University of New York Press. Dombrowski, D. (2001a). Visions and voices vs. mystical union. Sophia: International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 40, 33–43.

13


165

Dombrowski, D. (2001b). Charles Hartshorne. Stanford encyclopedia of philosophy. http://plato.stanford. edu. Dombrowski, D. (2004a). Divine beauty: The aesthetics of Charles Hartshorne. Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press. Dombrowski, D. (2004b). Saint John of the cross and virtue ethics. Mystics Quarterly, 30, 7–14. Dombrowski, D. (2005). A Platonic philosophy of religion: A process perspective. Albany: State University of New York Press. Dombrowski, D. (2006). Rethinking the ontological argument: A neoclassical theistic response. New York: Cambridge University Press. Dombrowski, D. (2009). Contemporary athletics and ancient Greek ideals. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gibson, A. B. (1963). The two strands in natural theology. Monist, 47, 335–353. Griffin, D. R. (1990). Sacred interconnections: Postmodern spirituality, political economy, and art. Albany: State University of New York Press. Griffin, D. R. (2001). Reenchantment without supernaturalism: A process philosophy of religion. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Griffin, D. R. (2007). Whitehead’s radically different postmodern philosophy. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hartshorne, C. (1948). The divine relativity. Haven: New Haven University Press. Hartshorne, C. (1970). Creative synthesis and philosophic method. LaSalle IL: Open Court. Hartshorne, C. (1976). Mysticism and rationalistic metaphysics. Monist, 59, 463–469. Hartshorne, C. (1984). Omnipotence and other theological mistakes. Albany: State University of New York Press. Hartshorne, C. (1991). The philosophy of Charles Hartshorne (L. Hahn, Ed.). LaSalle, IL: Open Court. James, W. (1902/1985). The varieties of religious experience. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Levine, M. (1994). Pantheism. London: Routledge. Maritain, J. (1938). The degrees of knowledge. London: Geoffrey Bles. Merton, T. (1998). The seven story mountain: An autobiography of faith (Fiftieth Anniversary ed.). New York: Harcourt. Neville, R. (1997) John E. Smith and metaphysics. In Reason, experience and God: John E. Smith in dialogue (V. Colapietro, Ed.). New York: Fordham University Press. Ross, J. (1977). An impasse on competing descriptions of God. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 8, 233–249. Smith, J. (1961). Reason and God: Encounters of philosophy with religion. New Haven: Yale University Press. Smith, J. (1967). Religion and empiricism. Milwaukee: Marquette University Press. Smith, J. (1968). Experience and God. New York: Oxford University Press. Smith, J. (1973). The Analogy of experience: An approach to understanding religious truth. New York: Harper & Row. Smith, J. (1978). Purpose and thought: The meaning of pragmatism. New Haven: Yale University Press. Smith, J. (1984). Some aspects of Hartshorne’s treatment of Anselm. In J. Cobb & F. Gamwell (Eds.), Existence and actuality: Conversations with Charles Hartshorne. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Stump, E., & Kretzmann, N. (1981). Eternity. Journal of Philosophy, 78, 429–458. Suchocki, M. H. (1992). Charles Hartshorne and subjective immortality. Process Studies, 21, 118–122. Swinburne, R. (2008). Was Jesus God?. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wordsworth, W. (1974). Wordsworth: Poetical works (T. Hutchinson & E. DeSelincourt, Eds.). Oxford: Oxford University Press.

13


The logic of authoritative revelations John H. Whittaker

Received: 6 June 2010 / Accepted: 7 June 2010 / Published online: 8 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract Despite the tendency to think that the justification of revealed truths depends on a verifiable contact with divine reality, this essay argues that the authoritative status of revelations is due to their role in defining a distinctively religious order of judgment. Rather than being immediately apparent to everyone, this kind of authority is local to particular forms of judgment that depend on the principles that frame these ways of thinking. Revelatory claims are logically exempted from the normal demands of justification because of this role they have as definitive judgments, and they share their immunity from ordinary forms of justification with other axiomatic principles. Yet their authority can in certain cases be challenged, and it is a secondary purpose of this essay to bring the various ways of challenging their truth to light. Keywords Revelation · Authority · Matters of principle · Divine · Human communication · Mistaken and revised revelations · Conceptual truths · Wittgenstein · Kierkegaard Because it stands apart from what many philosophers think of as rational epistemology, the concept of revelation has been relatively neglected outside of theology. Divinely revealed truths, precisely because they are revealed, are exempted from the justification that applies more generally to our beliefs. Yet the term “revelation” also covers a wide range of mostly secular intuitions—inspired ideas, hunches, premonitions, tacit insights, and so on. Most of these intuitions come to us in sudden and surprising ways, but their sudden arrival in consciousness does not necessarily imply anything special about their authority. When we speak of revelations in a religious sense, however, we think of these revelations as authoritative. No doubt there are other intuitive

J. H. Whittaker (B) Department of Philosophy, Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge, LA 70803, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

168


experiences that might resemble religious revelations in this respect, but it is the logical status of revealed claims as authoritative claims that I want to concentrate on. For it is the understanding of this issue that illuminates the nature of religious belief in general.1 In the Judeo-Christian tradition, for example, the whole body of canonical scripture is often referred to as revelation; and we often assume that every scriptural passage in the bible must therefore be accepted as an authoritative revelation. Yet as we will see, the canonical scriptures are said to be revelatory only because the fundamental teachings of the faith are drawn from it. The material in the bible, after all, includes a bewildering variety of things from poetry to the history of political infighting, from instructions of how priests should dress to predictions about the future, and from miraculous stories to historical narratives, and so on. Yet few biblical scholars think that all this material rises to the same standard of divine revelation. But what is this standard? Why do some biblical teachings qualify as religious revelations, while other teachings are largely ignored by the average believer? Part of the answer, I think, is that revealed truths are conceptual truths, not factually informative truths; and the authoritative claims of revelation are made up of just this kind of teaching. They represent the characteristics of various things by identifying their definitive features, and it makes no more sense to demand an inferential justification for them than it does to demand such justification for definitive truths of geometry. In the religious traditions that have settled themselves around biblical teachings, then, these ideas come to possess an authoritative status because they have become the defining ideas that shape the way believers see themselves and the world. Of course, we do not have to accept these teachings as authoritative any more than we have to accept the reliability of defining principles of a way of thinking that seems alien or foolish to us. But this fact does not affect the logical status these revelations have as the definitive framework for a distinctive view of the world. Their conceptual role in defining this perspective sets them apart from ordinary, cognitive descriptions, placing them outside the reach of objective testing but hardly outside the reach of doubt. But though the truth of revelations cannot be objectively discovered, their truth can be inwardly sustained as an expression of the believer’s confidence in the new way of thinking that follows from them. That is why we set them apart from hypothetical claims as authoritative ideas. They belong to a separate logical category of judgment. This authority, once again, is not unconditional or universally binding; and no one is under a logical obligation to believe in the revealed ideas of religion. Their authority is attached only to the peculiar perspective in which believers understand their lives, and thus it waxes or wanes with the sense believers find in this form of understanding. Of course, this is not the way in which the average believer thinks of revealed ideas; but it is implicit, I think, in the manner in which believers treat their basic religious ideas as matters of faith. For in practice believers do set revealed teachings apart from 1 Jaynes (1990), for example, offers an impressive, neurologically-based theory that stress induces audi-

tory hallucinations originating in the brain’s right hemisphere. But nowhere does he suggest that these experiences might have a logical basis as authoritative claims.

13


169

speculative opinions, and that is why they call these teachings matters of faith. Yet at the same time, when asked to explain why they accept various revealed doctrines about God as matters of faith, believers typically appeal to misleading pictures of how revealed ideas are delivered to various prophets by God. That is, they treat the divine source of a revealed teaching as the reason why it is authoritative; and while this sounds fine on the surface, it proves problematic as soon as we begin to explore the idea. Not only religious believers but skeptics as well tend to share this same picture. Revealed claims would have an authoritative status if a divine being had handed them down to prophets, but the skeptics believe that there is no reliable chain of divine transmission, either because there is no God or because a prophet’s connection with God cannot be reliably established. There is, so to speak, no “parent” handing down its revelations to its off-spring. There are no genuine theophanies out of which a real God reliably speaks, as Yahweh is said to have spoken to Job. Yet such attacks miss the real the point at issue. For the point of presenting religious beliefs as revelations is to present them as conceptual truths—as practical axioms of life, as ruling principles that frame new conceptions of worth, happiness, and selfhood—and this puts them into different logical category than the basket that holds hypothetical claims. To explain the authority of revealed doctrines in an adequate way, then, we have to clarify the logical role that revealed ideas play in the thinking of believers.

Problems with the delivery view Suppose we stay with the imaginary picture of revelations’ delivery long enough to realize just how problematic it is. The usual conception goes something like this: God is a supernatural agent who interacts with people by selecting some of them to receive a divine message. Those who are favored in this way are God’s messengers or prophets. Either the prophet hears God speaking directly to him and then repeats God’s words to others, or the prophet has only a vague sense of a divine message that he must formulate in his own words. If we take the first of these ideas literally, it makes perfectly good sense to ask what God sounded like, whether he spoke in Hebrew, whether his grammar was always correct, whether he answered the prophet’s questions, whether he spoke slowly or quickly, etc. And it also makes sense to ask the prophet how he knew that the voice he heard was in fact the voice of God, rather than say, a demon. My sense is that such questions are impertinent; and they are impertinent because they miss the point of utilizing such imagery, which is not to fill in all the details regarding what it is supposed to be like to receive a revelation, but simply to repeat the authoritative status of the prophet’s claim by dressing it up in human analogies. The deeper issue here is the question of what accounts for the authoritative status of revealed claims, and to clarify this status requires more than a relatively minor adjustment in the picture of how the revealed doctrine came down from heaven and alighted on a prophet. It requires an elucidation of the inherent authority of the revealed doctrine itself, but that can be provided only by clarifying its logical role as a definitive truth in a particular, transforming, species of judgment. Once we understand the inherent

13

170


authority of revealed doctrines, we can take the details of their supposed transmission with a grain of salt. Here it does no good to say that the prophets realized a divine insight out of a more general pre-verbal contact with God, resulting in a prophetic insight that the prophets had to express in their own words. For this way of imagining a revealed teaching lies open to the same sort of awkward questions that plagued the literal view. What exactly is this “more general contact with God” supposed to involve? If it was a visionary, face-to-face contact, what did God look like? Did God look like a man? If it was neither visual nor auditory, how did the prophet know that his experience came from God, or that it represented an experience of God? Such questions would be relevant if the point of the story was to establish the character of a divine-human contact. But again, I do not think that establishing the specific character of such experiences is relevant to the logical status of the revelations that are distilled from them. It is perfectly understandable why those in theistic traditions might want to portray their revelatory experiences as coming from God. Conceptually understood, God is the source of truth, and the idea that revealed truths come from God definitively establishes it as a true idea. For it is impossible—conceptually impossible—for God to lie. So it comes naturally to believers to imagine revealed truths as coming from those situations in which God speaks authoritatively to those who hear him. God speaks to his children just as parents speak to theirs, and just as the words of the parents carry authority for the children, so too does God’s word carry authority for us—only God’s authority, unlike that of parents, is absolutely authoritative and absolutely reliable. This can be said, but it is hard to imagine just how we might know that a teaching is authoritatively true by checking the details in the story of its transmission to us. What is to be done, for example, if God, the absolute authority, is beyond our understanding? Then we can never be sure that revelations came from God. And thus we would do better, I think, to understand the idea that a revelation comes from God not as a factual claim but as a conceptual truth that places revealed truths beyond the possibility of factual verification. The picture of God revealing himself to human beings simply restates this conceptual truth. To put the drift of these last remarks differently, we might say that the usual conception of divine revelation is entirely anthropomorphic and should not be taken literally. The idea behind these anthropomorphic images is to insure that a revealed doctrine will enter into the believer’s thinking differently from the way that a hypothetical conjecture or an empirical theory enters into it. Revelations, as it were, do not come in through the busy doorway of objective reasoning but through the side door of faith. They enter our thinking as the foundations for an altogether new—and from a secular point of view, very different—way of understanding the world. Looked at from this logical perspective, then, the authority of revealed teachings is bound up with the foundational role they play in a form of understanding that makes the whole world new. If they did not have this foundational role, they would not be authoritative. But this is a logical point, and the anthropomorphic way of thinking of revelations as coming from a divine source is a figurative—but also misleading—way of making this point. This new way of religious understanding, as I said, involves a transformed way of seeing oneself, a new way of thinking about true happiness, and a newly-conceived idea of true selfhood. These new ideas of happiness and selfhood make little sense

13


171

from a secular point of view, in which happiness is understood as if it depended on pleasure, comfort, the satisfaction of desires, the avoidance of suffering, and other so-called worldly goods, none of which are promised by faith. Faith places its trust in another kind of happiness, not “a peace that is no peace but life closed in the sod” (as one hymn puts it). This peace is not peace because it eliminates ordinary suffering but because it enables believers to withstand such suffering. That is why it is called the “marvelous peace of God.”2 This same conception of real peace is also found, as we might expect, in scripture (Tim. 4:7 and in John 14:27). To trust ourselves to it requires us to give up our hold on earthly aspirations and imagine all things as being well despite the tragedies that surround us. Yet this trust depends guiding principles that lead us out of one way of seeing our fate into another. Perhaps St. Paul says it best: “all things work together for good [even life’s tragedies] for those who love God and are called according to his purpose” (Rom 8:29). The very thought so jars our ordinary way of thinking about the good life that it is only intelligible from the point of view that comes by holding fast to the principles of faith. Still we know virtually nothing about how Paul “got it from God.” Nor do we need to know anything about this precisely because it is offered to us as one of the first principles of faithfulness. As such, it is meant to accepted by following into a new way of thinking. That is faith’s way of commending itself, not on the basis of speculative hypotheses to be argumentatively justified but on the basis of logically fundamental principles that lie at the bottom of a new way of seeing our lives. The revealed “truths of faith” are not the only teachings that fall into this category of claims that are exempted from the ordinary requirements of justification. There are, as I said, other ways of thinking that depend on first principles, and all these truths are conceptually defined rather than cognitively discovered. These principles are held in place by the form of judgment that follows from them, and in that sense they cannot be judged apart from an appreciation of the new world of insight that they open up. But since that understanding is available only by internalizing these principles in the way we think, there no possibility of assessing them apart from this internalized form of understanding. In other words, their reasonableness applies only to the systems of judgment that they conceptually underwrite, and even from that perspective their credibility does not result from data by way of inference. Nor does their reasonable belong to their general necessity; for if that were the case, then they might be intuitively known by anyone who has learned to think, to communicate verbally, to consider questions, etc. Yet religious claims are obviously not self-evident in that sense. If they become credible at all, their credibility rests on the life of judgment that they regulate and sustain. Unlike the “delivery view” of revelations, which can suggest that revelations ought to be believed because an all-powerful God expects them to be followed, this view carries no such implications. Revelations “ought” to be believed only as the means to a higher form of judgment since it is only in the transformed life of faith that their credibility is to be found, if it is to be found at all. In this sense, their logical status gives them their authority and not their direct delivery from God to man. Saying that

2 The complete hymn can be found as number 661 in the Episcopal Hymnal (1982).

13

172


God sends us revelations simply repeats the idea that revelations are authoritative teachings, and this is a conceptual truth about revelations, not a truth to be checked by asking for more factual details about its chain of transmission. Thus, if the authority of revelations is to be believed, it is by directly following their implications into that new way of being in which their value appears.

Further problems with the delivery view In describing the role of revealed claims as something that belongs to their logic, I am using the term “logic” in the way that the later Wittgenstein did; that is, as a normative conception that covers everything from the meaningful use of our words to the good sense involved in various sorts of judgment. The word God, for example, is properly a mystery; and this is a logically definitive truth about the concept. It means that God cannot be a being that we can see, touch, or get to know by ordinary means. Idols are the sorts of gods that can be handled and investigated, whereas the true God and cannot be studied in any factually informative way. So to say that authoritative revelations come from a mysterious God, then, cannot possibly be a factually informative truth about how God reveals himself; it must be a conceptual truth that says genuine revelations come from God—i.e., from the mysterious source of all saving truth. In trying to bring out the logic of revealed teachings, therefore, I am not trying to advance a novel factual theory of revelation. Still less am I trying to argue that religious ideas should be accepted as revealed ideas. My only point is to clarify the conceptual kind of issue that the religious belief in revealed truths leaves us with. Given this interest in logic, however, there is another, much simpler, point that should be noted. We commit a logical fallacy if we think that the origin of a belief, including that of a revealed doctrine, has any decisive bearing on its truth. This fallacy is the so-called genetic fallacy, and it results whenever we confuse the causal conditions of a truth claim with the conditions for its proper judgment. Indeed, the truth or the falsity of a message of any kind is logically independent of the conditions that give rise to it as long as these conditions are causal factors responsible for the act of belief. Thus, if someone wakes up from a particularly powerful dream, saying “the events that I foresaw were so vivid, so plain, so clearly spoken that they just have to be true, he needs to be reminded that such impressions do not just have to be true. There is nothing in the vividness of dreams that logically guarantees the truth of the predictions that are derived from them simply because dreams about the future do not always come true. Here it makes no difference whether a prophet or a dreamer believes himself to have been in contact with God—or with a dead relative “on the other shore” or with any other kind of supernatural source. And if the dreamer reports the implications of his dreams in various authoritative statements, we do not have to accept these “revelations,” even if we understand what has got the dreamer excited about them. We know that dreamers can be mistaken, even when they feel certain. The same is true of those who receive other powerful visual and auditory experiences. The extraordinary character of these experiences might well explain why they are caused to think that the statements are true, but this does nothing to guarantee the accuracy of their content.

13


173

If we step aside from religious examples for a moment, we can understand this aspect of inspired and revelatory experiences a little better. I have a friend who is a prominent molecular biologist, and he has told me that he gets his best scientific ideas early in the morning just as he is waking up. In that half-awake state of mind, he has sudden insights that promise breakthroughs in the problems involved in his research. He has no idea where these ideas come from, but neither does he present these unaccountable gifts as revelations. If he did, I would understand that expression only as a reference to the sudden way that his ideas come to him; for I know that he always goes back to the lab to test these ideas. Here it is obvious that the circumstances in which he receives such ideas have nothing to do with the logic that governs their judgment. Even if we say that his ideas rise up from his subconscious mind, their subconscious origin changes nothing. They have no special authority because they are still scientific ideas; and as such, they require an empirical means of validation. That is a point about the logic of scientific claims, and it trumps all other considerations when it comes to assessing their truth. There is a difference, to be sure, between private inspirations and the revealed truths of religion, as the latter are reinforced by a traditional consensus. And one might think that this consensus, not their role in defining a conceptually transformed way of thinking, gives them their authority. But if this consensus represents nothing more than an appeal to the fact that that many people have believed—as if that might justify our belief—then it is simply another logical fallacy. To see this point, we need only consider cases in which a traditional consensus develops around objectively determinable truths, and the case of Galileo offers a good example. Galileo said that scientific claims about the motion of the heavenly bodies should be decided by scientific considerations, and not by the fact that a geocentric view was recorded in a book of divine truths, the church’s original deposit of revelation. Even if there were a consensus regarding the geo-centric theory of the solar system, its teachings could not, in Galileo’s mind, guarantee the truth of those opinions that fell within the compass of scientific or any other normal cognitive inquiry. At the time of Galileo’s second heresy hearing, the Roman Catholic Church actually had two views about biblical revelation, one that the Bible itself, and everything in it, was authoritatively revealed, while the other restricted biblical revelation to moral and religious, or essentially saving, wisdom. Galileo explained that the heliocentric theory of the solar system had no such salvific importance and thus could not be said to have any authority as a definitive principle of the church’s spiritual teaching. Instead, the shape of the solar system is a scientific matter that stands to be determined by observational evidence, and hence the geocentric view found in the scriptures should not be authoritatively received. Yet an influential cardinal, Cardinal Bellarmine, had earlier drawn a curious distinction between everything that was immediately authoritative (the church’s spiritual teachings) and those extraneous matters that were indirectly authoritative simply because they appeared in the Bible. Since the geo-centric theory is found in scripture, this meant that the geo-centric theory had an indirect but nonetheless binding authority, trumping the appropriateness of whatever logical standards there might be for the determination of scientific truths. Consequently, the commonly held helio-centric conception of the solar system should be believed no matter what the evidence indicated. Indeed, everything

13

174


contained in the Bible, no matter how evidentially dubious, must be accepted as divinely revealed.3 To the extent that the Church followed Bellarmine’s view of biblical revelation in condemning Galileo, it made a terrible mistake, a mistake that the Church has now admitted. In so doing, the Church reaffirmed the arguments of St. Augustine and St. Aquinas, who said that Biblical revelation does not extend to those teachings that lie outside the intent of the “divine instructor,” who reveals only the essential truths that people need to avoid despair and to live godly lives. This change leaves believers free to follow objective standards of judgment wherever they logically apply to the various material contained in the bible. Their judgment of historical as well as scientific claims, for example, are to be made on the basis of historical and scientific means of determining truth, not on the basis of the church’s logically arbitrary consensus that biblical authority trumps these standards. By acknowledging this restriction in the concept of an authoritative revelation, the Church has avoided the repetition of the Galileo affair in modern times. And the same goes for other protestant and orthodox denominations, many of which had come to a similar conclusion much earlier. Only those matters that pertain to spiritual matters are subject to authoritative teaching. These teachings on these matters are not the product of deliberation but of grace, and they are to be accepted as the formative structure of a new perspective on our lives, our death, our ultimate values, our relation to others, and so on. Attributing such teachings to grace adds little to their authority. It too only restates their authority as divinely inspired ideas, adding only that that such graciously given ideas are not the deliberate products of human effort. Thus, for example, it is natural for us to define and pursue our prudentially understood welfare, but it is not natural to enter into a form of judgment that is tied to another conception of our spiritual good. That is made possible by teachings that are not only authoritative but also gracious. Revelations as definitive principles of judgment Thus, we come back to the point that I made earlier, that the credibility of a divine revelation depends on the life-changing effects that come after a believer enters into religious understanding through the door of revelation. Divine revelations, we might say, are truths to live by, and their most powerful commendation is the changed life of those who realize their role in awakening people graciously to a fuller sense of life’s meaning. Here believing is not so much a matter of grounding revealed claims in evidence—something that logically cannot be done—but abiding in the insights that come with them by holding fast to them as reliable truths of practical wisdom. In short, authoritative revelations have a distinctive logic, and they must be commended in a distinctive way. The spiritual power of authoritative revelations is the power of a new principle of judgment, and what power that they might have as beliefs must be shown in the spirit of a new way of life rather than being inferred from strictly objective evidence. This is the insight that Kierkegaard was driving at when 3 See Langford (1978).

13


175

he criticized Magister Adler for turning to the philosophers to confirm Adler’s claims to revelation.4 Apparently Adler had been inspired by thoughts that came to him in a sudden and unaccountable way, becoming so enthusiastic about these ideas that he described them as revelations. Yet if these thoughts really were revelations in the religious sense—that is, if they were the transforming insights of a new way of being— then Adler should have stood by them in such a way as to let his changed life speak for them. He should have preached as St. Francis advised, only occasionally using words. But that was not what he did. Instead of dwelling confidently in a new way of life, he went off in search of philosophers to confirm his inspired ideas; and in so doing he confused the authority of a religious revelations by treating them as if they were hypotheses. Adler, in other words, misunderstood the logic of religious revelations. It is the definitive role that religious revelations play in a new order or understanding that rules out the logical possibility of their being justified on argumentative grounds. But there is a deeper point here. The very meaning of religiously authoritative revelations lies in the point they serve, which is internal to their proper understanding. Thus, the regulative point of an authoritative claim determines what might count as an acceptable substitute for it; as any alternative expression for a revelation must bear the same internal point. Understanding the meaning of such framework beliefs is not, as we often think, a matter of grasping referential content prior to believing in them, as if this meaning were given apart from the role that such ideas play. Understanding their meaning is primarily a matter of understanding their definitive connection with a new way of understanding. Thus, in geometry we do not learn what dimensionless points are outside of geometery, as if we knew what dimensionless points are and might check the world to see if there are any out there. Rather, the point of identifying dimensionless points is internal to the construction of geometrical forms and the quantitative measurement of lines, angles, etc. Thus, we know what they are “about” only in making ourselves familiar with geometrical thinking, and the same goes for the principles that govern other forms of judgment. We know what they mean only if we understand the logical role that they have in a certain manner of thinking. This is why it is crucially important for those who, like Adler, advance their own private revelations; for the point of a revealed teaching must be made manifest in the demonstration of what it means to adhere to it. In the case of religiously accepted revelations, there are teachers and saints who have already done that. The notion that misleads us here is the notion that we have independent access to the referents of such terms, as if we might find out more about objects that are conceptually defined without learning more about the world of judgment in which they figure. But this is not the case. The domain that fixes their meaning is the domain of their employment in the thought and practice of believers. In short, revealed ideas are exempt from the logical possibility of objectively certifying their truth. This and the suggestion that their sense also depends on their regulative role—and not on any independently identifiable referents—are the major points for which I have been arguing. I realize, of course, how strongly attached believers are to

4 Kierkegaard (1998)

13

176


the idea that revelations come directly from God, as if their transmission were a matter of an almighty being passing his word along to human messengers. Admittedly, this way of picturing the delivery of revealed truths to human being serves to emphasize the graciousness that believers experience as they grow in a religious form of understanding, since the insights of revelation do not come from willful effort on our part, nor are they confirmed by such effort. Rather, the truths of revelation seem to present themselves as new-born ideas, asking us to accept them simply by holding fast to their implications. Put in a different way, I am suggesting that it is another conceptually definitive truth about revelations that they come to us as gifts from God. If they do not come from God, they are not gracious; and if they are not gracious, then they not authoritative. Such remarks belong to what Wittgenstein called the conceptually true scaffolding, or the grammatical remarks, that characterize a religious way of thinking. Yet the real grammatical role of conceptually defined concepts is often hidden beneath their surface of our language’s syntax, and the result of this is that we commonly falsely generalize about the way they acquire their sense. In this case, we think that God’s gracious gift of revelations is a fact about God, and that we might check on the factual character of revelations by verifying their origin. Yet the “fact” that revelations come from God is a purely conceptual truth. It is still true in a way, but it is not a descriptive truth about an objectively given object; it is a definitive truth about God and it leaves the conceptual truth that God is cognitive mysterious untouched. Certainly, we did not find out about grace, much less about God’s mysteriousness, by investigating God as an object; for then God would be an object of possible investigation and not a mystery at all. Again, therefore, we can gain no cognitively informative knowledge about how the divine mind works, how God inspires the scriptures, or anything of the sort. We have no factually informative knowledge of God’s nature at all, and the truths that believers do have of God are conceptual in nature.5 So too are the truths about God’s revelations. Change and disagreement These last points summarize my thesis, but to get clearer about some of the subtleties of thinking of revelations as conceptual truths, let us step back from the religious case and consider the closely related case of moral judgment. Our parents and teachers presented us with moral principles to live by, and they did so without attempting to ground these principles in argument. Instead, they taught us by authority, disciplining our behavior, and rewarding and punishing us as we as struggled to understand what we were supposed to do. All the while they repeated certain moral ideas, such as the idea that others deserve respect. Though we did not initially understand exactly what that meant, we gradually learned to act in certain ways that our teachers said showed respect for other people. Here our coming to understand moral thinking depended on learning not only how to think morally but also how to live morally; and without this practical accompaniment of our teachers’ instruction and example, we would not have 5 See Whittaker (2009).

13


177

been able to understand moral principles. Eventually, however, we made qualitative advances in our understanding. We realized that we were to treat other people with respect not simply because it pleased our parents but also because it pleased others and was somehow right. Had moral arguments been made to us before we had internalized any of the moral instruction that we might have been given, we could not have understood these arguments because we would not have understood the moral principles on which they were based. That is why the question, “how would you feel if someone did that to you,” is not an argument but a thought that is intended to awaken moral understanding. No doubt this summary of our moral education is oversimplified, but the fact remains that our growth toward moral autonomy depends on a process of instruction in which we are asked to follow moral rules without being given an intelligible justification for these rules. In this process we gradually realize deeper levels of moral understanding, and these awakenings might conceivably be described as revelatory experiences. Leo Tolstoy, for example, witnessed the beheading of prisoners while he was a young man, and that experience had an unforgettable impact on his moral sensibilities. When I saw the heads being separated from the bodies and heard them thump, one after the next, into the box I understood, and not just with my intellect but with my whole being, that no theories of the rationality of existence could justify this crime. I realized that even if every single person since the day of creation had, according to whatever theory found this necessary, I knew that it was unnecessary and wrong.6 Here Tolstoy describes his awakening to a basic principle of moral judgment, but he did not describe this experience as a revelatory one. If he had done so it would have not have been because he learned that that it came from a divine source, it would have simply acknowledged the dawning of a life-changing conviction that lay deeper than theoretical reasoning. This conviction, however, did not dawn on him as an isolated principle. Rather it was a realization that deepened and expanded the moral ideas that he vaguely understood already. Once he saw these executions, the cruelty of this form of punishment inscribed itself on his conscience, not only because it seemed cruel but also because it expanded the scope of his sense that we owe others respect. Much the same thing has happened in white America’s gradual realization that dawning that Negroes, women, the poor, immigrants, etc., are to be included in the principle that all people have inalienable rights. The point here is that moral insights, like religious revelations, can contribute to our moral sensitivity if they are expanded beyond the restrictions that we often assume in their scope. Rarely, however, do we say that divine revelations are required to bring about these expansions in our moral sensibility. Such leaps in our moral understanding are made possible by moral training and moral discussion itself, which is exactly why we say that such training engenders moral awareness. We do not have to say that God awakens us to moral insights, even when these insights brings us to the recognition of

6 Tolstoy (1987), p. 26.

13

178


our own internal darkness, deception, and sinfulness. Usually we simply say that we are awakened to such failings by the bite of conscience. Of course, we can and do argue over such matters, just as people argued over slavery in the time of the Civil War. But these arguments are largely dependent on our moral sensibilities, and there is no forthright way to change the morally undeveloped sensibilities we often find in other people. Yet there is similar need for growth in our understanding of authoritative religious principles, and to this extent our understanding of authoritative revelations—religious principles—is subject to change. For no matter how absolute we might think that revealed truths might be, we can and do disagree about their interpretation, and these reinterpretations are typically motivated by the interest people have in deepening their faith. We often think that the authoritative teachings of faith must be followed, and that is true. That is what it means to accept them as articles of faith. Yet just what it means to follow them depends, of course, on their interpretation. Our disagreements can be more fundamental than interpretive conflicts, of course. Sometimes we refuse to accept one revelatory claim and adopt another in its place, and sometimes we reject all revelatory claims. When that happens we find ourselves advocating a new religion, or rejecting religious belief altogether. But for now I am concerned with changes in accepted revelations, which cannot involve the out-andout rejection of authoritative revelations. If a religious tradition is to retain its identity, the changes in its revealed dogmas must take place in more subtle ways, wherein the changes that are made are fashioned in the light of the tradition’s more basic revelations. Thus if most Christians, for instance, no longer believe that God is a jealous God, or that he takes sides in our military and political disputes, the revelations that once seemed to imply as much must either be reinterpreted or treated as ideas that have since been overcome by more fundamental revelations. People might say that the first claim attributes anthropomorphic predicates to God and therefore must be interpreted more deeply. Or they might say that the idea that God takes sides in political disputes might be challenged by the more fundamental truth that God loves us all. In both cases, the revelations in question call for a reinterpretation of their meaning or a downgrade in their status; but such changes must appeal to the original, normative, deposit of essential Christian teaching. Otherwise, those who reject various revelations will drift away from the conceptions that define the tradition. Much of the antipathy toward revealed religions arises because religious institutions are slow to change in this respect, whereas modern sensibilities tend to change more quickly. I don’t expect this process to end, but the character of this change deserves notice because there is an important distinction between those who simply reject revelations as having any authority, and those who argue that a re-interpreted revelation still bears the authority of the original, which is not cancelled but supposedly deepened by its reinterpretation. Some light can be shed on the process by comparing verbal revelations with visual ones. A visual experience requires an interpretation if it is to be turned into a revealed teaching, and this point represents an opening for changing the interpretation of traditional verbal revelations. Julian of Norwich, for example, experienced remarkable visions during a life-threatening illness early in her life; and she spent the greater part of her adult life trying to understand what these visions meant. Because these visions included religious imagery, she took it for granted that

13


179

they carried a religious message and described them as “shewings” that were meant to guide her spiritually. Yet what exactly did these “shewings” say? How was their secret to be identified? Eventually, she wrote two accounts of her visionary experiences, one an early and shorter version and the other a later and longer one. Both are translated as the Revelations of Divine Love.7 I doubt that any of her readers find it unusual to think of her shewings as revelations. They were obviously not the institutionally sanctioned revelations of official Christianity; they were, to be sure, private. Yet they have generally been accepted as revelations that illuminate Christianity’s own teachings. Again, however, this would not be the case if she had interpreted her visual experiences in a non-Christian manner, or if she had interpreted her revelations as predictions of coming events that did not occur, or if she had used them to deny the virtues of faith, hope, and love. To remain true to the spirit of Christianity, the way in which she interpreted her visions must divulge essentially the same healing advice that is enshrined in Christianity’s tradition. It also logically possible that a person might come to think of her own visual revelations as mistaken even when these revelations concern supposedly life-saving advice. Thus, Julian might have interpreted her experiences in her second account of the shewings differently than she did in the first. However, the way in a person comes to think of an earlier interpretation of a divine revelation as an erroneous interpretation differs categorically from the way in which objective mistakes are discovered. This is because a personal element is involved in the acceptance of spiritual truths, which determine the form in which individuals understand their own lives. Yet our self-understanding often changes as we age, or experience tragic events, or simply become more honest about ourselves. And as we undergo such changes, our estimation of what it takes to satisfy our true selves can also change. Thus, if a young person believes that he is divinely called to a certain profession, it is because he finds himself in this calling. He feels inwardly satisfied. But if he later becomes ill at ease in this calling, it makes sense for him to say that he was mistaken about his former sense of having a divine calling. Similarly, a person who believes that she has found herself in the sacramental forgiveness of Roman Catholicism might later think that she was not coming home to her true self but only trying to live up to a persona. As she returns to her old anxieties, she naturally begins to doubt the sacramental revelations of Catholicism. Individuals, in other words, use their own sense of themselves as a guide in trying to understand divine revelations. If these teachings lead them toward inner peace and happiness, their understanding can deepen; but if it leaves them lost and searching for themselves, then the revelations that they were taught to believe in their youth require another, perhaps a newer, interpretation. Such is the way that theology itself proceeds as it tries to distill the insights that bring ultimate healing to human life. For example, in the Christian tradition, it was once widely (though not exclusively) assumed that the truth of the Christian message rules out the possibility that any other religious tradition might be true. That was the traditional way of interpreting Jesus’ words, “I am the truth, the way, and the life; and no man comes to the father but through me”(John

7 Julian of Norwich (1998).

13

180


14:6). But now this way of interpreting what Jesus meant is becoming dubious if not offensive to many people, and believers now find themselves in the midst of controversy on the subject. Was Jesus advising believers to anathematize all who do not accept the descriptive adequacy of his words, as if his teachings, and his teachings alone, were correct hypotheses? Or are there other ways of interpreting Jesus’ words? Is it not perfectly possible that Jesus meant that true life was to be found by imitating his person and acquiring his virtues? Is that not the way that one finds true life by following Jesus? If so, then faithfulness is a not matter of believing in the intellectual truth of various formal opinions about who Jesus was (or is); it is primarily a matter of the believer’s self-transformation. No one comes to the father unless he acquires a new sense of selfhood, a new understanding of ultimate worth, and a new manner of being. Such a rebirth brings true life, and people are guided along the way to such life by the advice and example of Jesus. To interpret John 14:6 in this way need not mean that the revelation that Christianity finds in Jesus has nothing to do with beliefs. The point is that believers might change the way in which they understand Jesus’ words by changing their conception of the kind of beliefs that his teachings involve. These teachings are essentially truths to live by, and such truths are not heeded unless one makes the inward change in self-understanding that they require. On this more practical level of understanding, Jesus offers spiritual healing by way of different kind of non-creedal teaching; and it is by no means obvious that his words must exclude those who find their way from selfishness to self-giving service in another set of essentially life-changing ideas. After all, if heeding Jesus’ words by following his example is the medicine that heals our lives, how do we know, really know, that other medicines, delivered in other words, can not help others in comparable ways? On this issue, as I said, there is a cultural change in the way many people think. Some of those who have been reared in Christian traditions, in fact, now find less profundity in the words of John 14:6 than they do in the words of the Buddha, who said that “it is not wise for a man who protects the [highest] truth to come to the conclusion that this alone is the truth and everything else is false.”8 The highest truth is found in the freedom and joy of a changed life, but the Buddha did not presume to say that a similar joy is never to be found in other transforming truths by which to live. On this point, Christianity might re-interpret the words of Jesus along the lines that I have suggested. But if that happened—and I am not now arguing that it must happen—it would not change the revelatory status that Christians find in this teaching. Summary To summarize, perhaps we might list the ways in which authoritative revelations might be regarded as untruths. (1) If they are formally contradictory with themselves or with other truths one accepts, it makes perfectly good sense to reject them—although one must be sure about what they mean, and this is not easy when their subjects are held to be mysterious. (2) They can be rejected, and are rejected, when people find them 8 Rahula (1974), p. 10.

13


181

pointless and fail to appreciate their force. (3) They can be rejected, and indeed must be rejected, when they claim divine authority for a matter of fact; for in that case they must be determined by the standards that govern any purely factual assertion. (4) They can be rejected under one interpretation but rehabilitated under another, as seems possible in the case of John 14:6. (5) They can be rejected when God’s will is understood in relation to a specific vocation that the individual believer once thought was perfectly suited to his true nature, but which he later realizes is not what he really wanted for himself at all. In this case, the believer comes to doubt her understanding of what God’s revealed will is, but not the more general understanding that God wills the best for us. Finally (6) they can be revised when God’s general good will for the future is understood in terms of specific predictions of particular events, as trust in God’s good will is not a matter of banking on specific events but a matter of trusting that all things work together for good for those who share in God’s love. If we take the other side and imagine the positive reasons there might be for finding authoritative revelations credible, we might simply consider the opposite view on each of the preceding points. If the revelations that speak to a believer are not selfcontradictory; if they are not pointless as truths by which to live but serve to open up truly freeing and self-satisfying view of the world; if they do not pertain to matters of observable fact but suggest ways of thinking and living in transcendent peace with ourselves; if they are subject to revised interpretations; if they do not require believers to identify God’s revealed will with specific events and specific personal callings; and if they seem to have striking fit with the spiritual or existential problems that we know in ourselves, then they can be reasonably accepted as principles of faith. All of these epistemological points about religious judgment are not only compatible with the logical classification of revealed doctrines as conceptually defined principles, local to a distinctive religious way of thinking, they suggest just such a view. References Hymnal of the Episcopal Church. (1982). New York: The Church Pension Fund. Jaynes, J. (1990). The origin of consciousness in the breakdown of the bicameral mind. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Julian of Norwich. (1998). Revelations of divine love (trans: Elizabeth Spearing). New York: Penguin. Kierkegaard, S. (1998). The moment and late writings (trans: Howard and Edna Hong). Princeton: Princeton University Press. Langford, J. (1978). Galileo, science, and the Church. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press. Rahula, W. (1974). What the Buddha taught. New York: Grove Press. Tolstoy, L. (1987). A confession and other writings (trans: Jane Kentish). New York: Penguin Books. Whittaker, J. (2009). The Knowledge of God in the cloud of unknowing. In D. Ingolf (Ed.), The presence of God. Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck.

13


Disagreement Graham Oppy

Received: 4 February 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 6 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract There has been a recent explosion of interest in the epistemology of disagreement. Much of the recent literature is concerned with a particular range of puzzle cases (discussed in the “Cases” section of my paper). Almost all of the papers that contribute to that recent literature make mention of questions about religious disagreement in ways that suggest that there are interesting connections between those puzzle cases and real life cases of religious disagreement. One important aim of my paper is to cast doubt on that suggestion. More generally, the aim of my paper is to give a reasonably full account of the recent literature on the epistemology of disagreement, and then to give a serious discussion of some of the epistemological issues that are raised by real world religious disagreements. Keywords Disagreement · Doxastic peer · Epistemology of disagreement · Reasonable disagreement · Religious disagreement · Shared evidence Cases Here are some cases of peer disagreement in which nearly everyone supposes that it is simply wrong to hold fast—i.e., to fail to adjust credences to bring them closer to the credences of another. Restaurant: A number of philosophers go out to dinner after a seminar. When it comes time to pay the bill, they all agree to a 15% tip (plus rounding), and to split the whole cost evenly between them. With the bill clearly visible to all, two of the members of the party calculate the individual shares in the bill. One calculates $63, and, at this point, is confident that each owes $63. The other then tells the first the she has G. Oppy (B) School of Philosophy and Bioethics, Monash University, Clayton Campus, Wellington Rd., Clayton, VIC 3800, Australia e-mail: [email protected]

13

184


calculated $61. How should the first calculator react to this new information? We can add to the story that it is mutual knowledge that the group has a long history of eating out together; that the two in question always calculate the bill; that they’re equally reliable at performing this calculation—mostly they agree, but when they don’t, neither is more likely than the other to have things correct; that neither is especially tired or energetic; neither has consumed more coffee or wine than the other; neither has seemed particularly dull or sharp over the course of the evening; neither feels more confident than the other about the result of this particular calculation; and so forth. Given enough of this type of filling out of the story, it seems inescapable that the first should reduce his confidence that each owes $63 when he learns of the calculation of the other. Wrist Watch: Identical twin children have been given new watches for their birthday. They synchronise their watches before they go to bed. The next morning, one of the twins awakes and sees that her watch reads 6:45 a.m.; at this point, she is confident that the time is 6:45 a.m. Then the other twin awakes, and announces that her new watch says that the time is 6:51 a.m. How should the first twin react to this new information? We can add to the story further details that make it mutually known that it is incredibly unlikely that the second twin is lying, or misreading her watch, and the like. Given enough of this type of filling out of the story, it seems inescapable that the first twin should reduce her confidence that it was 6:45 a.m. when she first looked at her watch (and should give increased confidence to the proposition that one of the new watches is not working properly). Horse Race: Avid punters are gathered at the finishing line of the last at Caulfield. Two horses flash past the finishing line, with very little separating them. One of the punters leaps into the air, shouting that the horse that he has backed—No. 4—was first past the post. At this point, the punter in question is very confident that he has backed the winning horse. However, he immediately becomes aware that another of the punters has leapt into the air, shouting that the horse that he has backed—No.8— was first past the post. How should the first punter react when he obtains this new information? As in the previous cases, we can fill in details to the story—concerning the mutual knowledge of the two punters that each is no more likely than the other to have correctly determined the winning horse—that make it seem inescapable that the first punter should reduce his confidence that he has backed the winning horse when he observes the behaviour of the second punter. Perfect Pitch: Two musicians hear a note played on a violin. One judges that the note is a C. At this point, the musician is very confident that the note is a C. She then learns that the other musician thinks that the note was a C-sharp. How should the first musician react when she obtains this new information? As in the previous cases, we can fill in the details of the story—concerning the mutual knowledge of the two musicians that each is no more likely than the other to have correctly determined the pitch of the played note—that make is seem inescapable that the first musician should reduce her confidence that the note that she heard was a C when she learns of the judgment of the second musician. There are a number of features that these cases have in common. In particular, these are all cases in which it is plausible to suppose that, no matter what views they might have had some time ago about their relative abilities on the domains in

13


185

question, the people involved could have collected enough uncontroversial data to bring them to mutual knowledge that they are peers with respect to success at the relatively encapsulated task that is at issue: performing simple arithmetic operations, detecting the winners of horse races by visual observation, determining the time by reading a watch, identifying the pitch of a note simply by listening to it, and so forth. Moreover, these are also all cases in which it is plausible to suppose that, no matter what views they might have had some time ago about their relative abilities on the domains in question, the people involved could have collected enough uncontroversial data to bring them to mutual knowledge that it is quite common even for experts to make errors on the tasks in question, and even in quite friendly conditions: even mathematical experts do sometimes make errors in adding up columns of figures; even expert race callers do sometimes call the wrong horse; even brand new watches do sometimes fail to function properly; even those with perfect pitch sometimes get the identification of the pitch of a note wrong. Here are some cases of peer disagreement in which nearly everyone supposes that it is perfectly acceptable for one to hold fast—i.e. to fail to adjust credences to bring them closer to the credences of another. Elementary Math: Two people who have been colleagues for the past decade are drinking coffee at a café while trying to determine how many other people from their department will be attending an upcoming conference. One, reasoning aloud, says: ‘Well, John and Monima are going on Wednesday, and Karen and Jakob are going on Thursday, and, since 2 + 2 = 4, there will be four other people from out department at the conference’. In response, the other says: ‘But 2 + 2 does not equal 4’. Prior to the disagreement, neither party to the conversation has any reason to suppose that the other is evidentially or cognitively deficient in any way; and, we may suppose, each knows that none of the speech acts involved is insincere. Moreover, we may suppose, the one is feeling perfectly fine: the one has no reason to think that she is depressed, or delusional, or drugged, or drunk, and so forth. In this case, it seems plausible to suppose that the one should conclude that something has just now gone evidentially or cognitively awry with the second, and that the one should not even slightly adjust the credence she gives to the claim that 2 + 2 = 4. Perception: Three people who have been roommates for the past decade are eating lunch together in the kitchen in their apartment. One asks a second to pass the parmesan cheese to the third, whereupon the second announces that the third is not present. Prior to the announcement, neither the first nor the second has had any reason to think that the other is evidentially or cognitively deficient in any way; and, we may suppose, each knows that none of the speech acts involved is insincere. Moreover, we may suppose, the one is feeling perfectly fine: the one has no reason to think that she is depressed, or delusional, or drugged, or drunk, and so forth. In this case, it seems plausible to suppose that the one should conclude that something has just now gone evidentially or cognitively awry with the second, and that the one should not even slightly adjust the credence she gives to the claim that the third is sitting and eating in the dining room. Directions: I have lived in Glen Waverley all my life, and I am very familiar with the layout of streets in my neighbourhood. I regularly dine at the Rose of Thailand on Coleman Parade. My next door neighbour, Pat, has also lived in Glen Waverley all his

13

186


life, and he also dines often at the Rose of Thailand; indeed, it is not uncommon for me to bump into him at that establishment. Today, when I bump into him as I pass his front door, I tell him that I’m on my way to the Rose of Thailand. He says: ‘But the Pinewood shops are in the other direction.’ I say: ‘The Rose of Thailand is on Coleman Parade’; and he replies: ‘No, the Rose of Thailand is not on Coleman Parade—it’s at the Pinewood shops.’ Prior to this little exchange, neither I nor Pat has had any reason to think that the other is evidentially or cognitively deficient in any way; and, we may suppose, we both know that none of the speech acts involved is insincere. Moreover, I am feeling perfectly fine: I have no reason to think that I am depressed, or delusional, or drugged, or drunk, and so forth. In this case, too, it seems plausible to suppose that I should conclude that something has just now gone evidentially or cognitively awry with Pat, and that I should not even slightly adjust the credence I give to the claim that the Rose of Thailand is on Coleman Parade. Bird: While reading in the library with your best friend, you glance out the window, catch a glimpse of a bird flying by, and on this basis form the belief that a magpie just flew by. After saying to your friend who was looking out the window at the same time, that you enjoyed seeing the magpie that just flew by, your friend responds: ‘Nothing flew by the window’. Prior to this episode, neither you nor your friend had any reason to think that the other is evidentially or cognitively deficient in any way, and, we may suppose, each knows that none of the speech acts involved is insincere. Moreover, we may suppose, you are feeling perfectly fine: you have no reason to think that you are depressed, or delusional, or drugged, or drunk, and so forth. In this case, yet again, it seems plausible to suppose that you should conclude that something has just now gone evidentially or cognitively awry with your friend, and that you should not even slightly adjust the credence that you give to the claim that a magpie flew past the window. There are a number of features that these cases have in common. In particular, in each of these cases, an erstwhile peer evinces a judgment that conflicts with another’s cognitively basic judgments: judgments immediately grounded in memory, or perception, or elementary arithmetic, or the like. Of course, it is also true that, in each of these cases, an erstwhile peer evinces a judgment that conflicts with another’s very confident and highly justified beliefs—but it is worth noting from the beginning that what seems to drive intuitions about these cases is the basic nature of the cognitive judgements that they involve. How could any erstwhile epistemic peer be confused about whether 2 + 2 = 4 unless in the grip of some phenomenologically detectable cognitive misfortune? How could any erstwhile epistemic peer be unable to see what is right in front of his eyes unless in the grip of some phenomenologically detectable cognitive misfortune? How could any erstwhile epistemic peer be unable to recall uncontroversial and well-entrenched material from memory unless in the grip of some phenomenologically detectable cognitive misfortune? Etc.

Key concepts In order to draw lessons from the above cases, there are various concepts that we need to invoke. Some of these concepts are employed in the setting up of the above cases; other concepts are really only needed in the analysis of the cases.

13


187

Disagreement: People disagree when they have different doxastic attitudes towards a proposition. Thus, for example: (i) two people disagree about the proposition that p if one believes that p and the other believes that not p; (ii) two people disagree about the proposition that p if one believes that p and the other fails to believe that p; and (iii) two people disagree about the proposition that p if they give different credences to the claim that p (e.g. if one holds that it is very probable that p, and the other holds that it is only just more probable than not that p). People have a disagreement about a proposition when they disagree about that proposition, and it is mutual knowledge between them that they disagree about that proposition. Of course, when people have a disagreement about a proposition, those people typically have a disagreement about many propositions. In particular, if people are rational, and they have a disagreement about a proposition, then those people will typically have a disagreement about other propositions. For example, if A and B have a disagreement about whether that p, and if A and B have an agreement about whether that q, then, at least in the typical case, A and B will also have a disagreement about whether that p and q. Reasonable disagreement: People reasonably disagree about a proposition when they disagree about that proposition, and they are reasonable in their doxastic attitude towards that proposition. People have a reasonable disagreement about a proposition when they reasonably disagree about that proposition, and it is mutual knowledge between them that they disagree about that proposition. People reasonably agree to disagree about a proposition when they have a reasonable disagreement about that proposition in circumstances in which each believes that those with whom they disagree are also reasonable in their doxastic attitude toward the proposition in question. Of course, we could go on to make further definitions here: we could, for example, have a term to cover cases of reasonable disagreement about a proposition in circumstances in which each reasonably believes that those with whom they disagree are also reasonable in their doxastic attitude toward that proposition. But we should not multiply definitions beyond those that we will actually use in our discussion. Cognitive comparators: People are cognitive peers if they are cognitive equals: equally intelligent, equally adept at reasoning, equally good at memory recall, and so forth. One person is cognitively superior to another if the one is superior to the other across all cognitive domains: more intelligent, more adept at reasoning, better at memory recall, and so forth. (Perhaps we might also want to say that one person is cognitively superior to another if the one comes out ahead of the other on some appropriate weighting of comparisons on particular cognitive domains. However, there is no need for us to pursue that line of thought here.) If there are domain-specific cognitive skills, then we can relativise cognitive comparisons to domains of inquiry: we can say, for example, that people are cognitive peers with respect to a given domain of inquiry just in case they are cognitive equals on that domain of inquiry. Subsequent discussion is simplified if we ignore the possibility that there are domain-specific cognitive skills. Evidential comparators: People are evidential peers if they are evidential equals, i.e. if they are equally well-informed. Since informedness is clearly domain-specific, we do need here to relativise to domains of inquiry (and perhaps even to particular propositions): people are evidential peers with respect to a given domain of inquiry just in case they are equally well-informed about that domain of inquiry. If we suppose that it is possible for people to fully share their evidence, then we might suppose that

13

188


one way in which people could come to be evidential peers is through full sharing of evidence. However, on plausible conceptions of evidence, it is not possible for people to fully share their evidence—i.e. to fully exchange evidence through discussion. On the one hand, on plausible conceptions of evidence, people do not have the capacity to articulate all of the evidence that they currently possess. And, on the other hand, on plausible conceptions of evidence, people may well no longer be in possession of some of the total evidence upon which their views are founded. There are good grounds for thinking that it is no requirement of reason that people be able to keep track of the grounds for their beliefs: owing to limited storage capacity and so forth, people often quite properly form beliefs and then discard the evidence that constitutes the basis for their formation. (See Harman 1986 for further discussion of this kind of point.) Doxastic comparators: People are doxastic peers if they are both cognitive peers and evidential peers. Doxastic peers are equals in respect of both informedness and cognitive skills: intelligence, reasoning, memory recall, and so forth. It is standard in the literature to refer to doxastic peers as ‘epistemic peers’. However, it is clearly a controversial question—affected, for instance, by disputes between internalists and externalists about the nature of doxastic justification—whether, other things being equal, doxastic peers who believe alike also know alike. Some contributors to the literature—e.g. Elga (2007)—have insisted on a conception of doxastic peers that requires equal probability of formation or possession of true belief: A counts B as a doxastic peer with respect to an about-to-be-judged claim iff A thinks that, conditional on A and B having a disagreement about that claim, they are equally likely to be mistaken. However, Elga’s formulation greatly reduces the range of applicability of the notion of a doxastic peer, since it is simply silent on cases in which A and B assign prior probabilities to claims of interest, i.e. on cases in which A and B have already made judgments about a claim. And, of course, Elga’s formulation won’t admit of interesting extension to cases of already-judged claims, because A can only judge that B is equally likely to be mistaken if A supposes that B makes the same probability judgment that A makes. Belief: There are two different ways in which we might think about belief. On the one hand, we might think about belief as an all-or-nothing attitude: for any proposition that p, either one believes that p, or one believes that not-p, or one suspends judgment about whether that p, or one simply has not attitude at all towards whether that p. On the other hand, we might think about belief as a graded attitude, properly represented by a credence function, or a family of credence functions, or the like: for any proposition that p, one assigns a particular credence—or a particular range of credences, or the like—to that proposition, or else one has no attitude at all towards that proposition. While some of the literature on the epistemology of disagreement is couched in terms of all-or-nothing doxastic attitude—see, for example, Feldman (2007)—it seems to me desirable to couch discussion in the more general framework of graded doxastic attitudes. Reason: It is relatively easy to say what the sense of ‘reason’—’reasonable’, ‘rational’—that is operative in discussion of the epistemology of disagreement is not. As Feldman (2007) observes, we are not meaning to talk about general tendencies to thought and behaviour, or about escapes from flagrant unreason, or about prudential

13


189

values inherent in beliefs, or about features of behavioural choices. What we do have in mind is some normative standard to which belief revision and belief formation ought to conform. However, it is no easy matter to delineate this standard. Feldman thinks that what is at issue is ‘adequate evidential support’. But it seems to me that considerations about evidence are only one part of the canon that governs belief revision and belief formation. For now, I shall simply suppose that we do have a satisfactory shared conception of the norms that govern belief revision and belief formation; I think that it is a major theoretical undertaking to give an adequate account of the relevant norms. I shall further suppose that we have a good understanding of some of the ways in which these norms can be violated: in particular, we are reasonably good at recognising some kinds of cases of dogmatism—where subjects fail to revise their beliefs in line with the beliefs of others in circumstances in which they ought thus to revise—and some kinds of cases of servility—where subjects revise their beliefs in line with the beliefs of others in circumstances in which they ought not thus to revise. Positions Much of the very recent literature on the epistemology of disagreement is couched in terms of two extreme general positions. We are to imagine that A and B are doxastic peers [on a given domain], that they take each other to be doxastic peers [on that domain], that they form independent judgments about a particular proposition that p [belonging to the domain in question], and that they then learn that they disagree in their judgment about that proposition. The question we are to answer is: how should A and B adjust their credences when they learn that they disagree about whether that p? 1. The conformist or conciliationist answer to our question is that, in every case, A and B should each adjust his or her credence to bring it closer to the credence of the other party. Perhaps A and B should split the difference between their views; perhaps A and B should give equal weight to the view that they previously held and the view that the other person holds; perhaps A and B should somehow give proportional weight to the view that they previously held and the view that the other person holds (perhaps depending in some way upon the total evidence that each has). 2. The non-conformist or steadfast answer to our question is that, in every case, there is no requirement that either A or B adjust his or her credence to bring it closer to the credence of the other party. It may be that each of A and B should give no weight to the view of the other party, perhaps on the grounds that he or she possesses some insight that the other fails to have. Or it may be that, if one of A or B has right reasons for holding his or her own view while the other party does not, then the one ought not to revise his or her view in the face of his or her peer’s dissenting judgment. Given the cases introduced in “Cases” section above, it seems that neither of these extreme general positions can be correct. In the cases of Elementary Math, Perception, Directions and Bird, almost everyone supposes that it is perfectly acceptable for the one to hold fast—i.e. to fail to adjust credences to bring them closer to the credences

13

190


of the other. However, in the cases of Restaurant, Wrist Watch, Horse Race and Perfect Pitch, almost everyone supposes that it is simply wrong for the one to hold fast—i.e., to fail to adjust credences to bring them closer to the credences of the other. An obvious response to the failure of the two extreme positions is to look for an intermediate view. Those who are broadly sympathetic to the conformist or conciliationist view might suggest that what is needed is a clause that removes the obligation to shift credence in cases in which the one has good reason to—at least temporarily—retreat from the view that the other is a doxastic peer (as, plausibly, in the cases of Elementary Math, Perception, Directions and Bird). Those who are broadly sympathetic to the non-conformist or non-conciliationist view might suggest that what is needed is a clause that introduces an obligation to shift credences in cases in which one’s total evidence gives no stronger support to one’s own view than it gives to the view of one’s peer (as, plausibly, in the cases of Restaurant, Wrist Watch, Horse Race and Perfect Pitch). Those who have no particular sympathy for either of the extreme positions might look for a more evidently mixed view: perhaps, for example, a view that says: (a) if one has formed a very confident belief that is highly justified, then one need not adjust credence exactly if one feels oneself to be in good doxastic shape; and (b) if one has formed a belief that is either insufficiently confident or insufficiently well-justified, then one is required to adjust one’s credence in the direction of one’s peer (cf. Lackey 2009a,b). There are at least two different ways in which these kinds of responses might be criticised. On the one hand, it might be thought that there are more general theoretical standpoints that rule out all such responses. Thus, for example, Bayesians will say that there is a simple, general answer to the question of how to respond to evidence: one ought always to conditionalise! Simple inspection quickly reveals, I think, that none of the proposals that we have canvassed to date is consistent with this Bayesian advice. (See Gardner and Oppy, in preparation.) On the other hand, it might be thought that a better response to the failure of the two extreme positions is to reconsider the question that those positions are intended to address. In particular, one might choose to reconsider the implicit assumption that there is something interesting that can be said at this level of generality about this particular kind of doxastic disagreement. (Of course, it is also open to contest the responses on their own terms, i.e. to look for counterexamples, and so forth. Thus, for instance, one might think that the last of the proposals mentioned above cannot handle the following case. Extreme Horse Race: We’ve judged 20,000 horse races, and agreed every time, and been right every time, and we both know this. This time, we disagree. I (justifiably) feel myself to be in fine doxastic shape. Prior to learning that we disagree, I have a very high degree of justified confidence in my judgment. But surely the fact that I’m (justifiably) feeling in good doxastic shape is not enough to justify my simply ignoring your conflicting judgment.) Suppose that we do arrive at an answer to our initial question. That is, suppose that we do have a prescription governing the revision of the credences of A and B in circumstances in which A and B are doxastic peers [on a given domain] who take each other to be doxastic peers [on that domain], who independently form judgments about a particular proposition that p [belonging to the domain in question], and who then learn that they disagree in their judgment about that proposition. Is there any reason

13


191

to suppose that the answer to our initial question will generalise to cover other— more interesting—cases of peer disagreement (such as disagreements about religion, or politics, or the like)? I don’t think so. First, in many of the most interesting cases, the knowledge that one’s opinions are contested by peers antedates the formation of those opinions. (This is most obviously true in philosophy: I continue to arrive at new philosophical views even though I know that any philosophical views that I develop are controversial.) Learning that particular peers disagree with me seems to be typically and properly of little moment. Second, in many of the most interesting cases, there is nothing that one can point to that constitutes the evidence and reasons that led one to acquire the particular opinions that one holds (nor, in many cases, is there anything that one can point to that constitutes the evidence and reasons that justify one in continuing to maintain the particular opinions that one holds). Third, as we noted earlier, in most interesting cases, it makes no sense to talk about total sharing of evidence; the most that we can reasonably hope to claim is that people are roughly equally well-informed about particular questions. Fourth, in many interesting cases, it is very hard to know what to make of the requirement that the judgments that we have formed are independent. In cases like Restaurant, Wrist Watch, Horse Race and Perfect Pitch, it is easy to see that the key judgments are independent; but how are we to assess the claim that the beliefs of two who share particular philosophical—or religious, or political—views are independent? Further difficulties that arise here can be brought out by considering toy cases that lack some of the features of the test cases introduced earlier. Consider, for example: Weather Forecast: Two meteorologists at the Weather Bureau are making predictions about the likelihood of rain tomorrow. The meteorologists make a thorough study of the current weather data and apply the various models that they use in order to make their predictions. One of the meteorologists forms the view that the probability of rain tomorrow is 55%; the other meteorologist forms the view that the probability of rain tomorrow is 35%. If we suppose that each meteorologist is aware of the judgment of the other—and if we also suppose that each regards the other as a doxastic peer— should we also suppose that each ought to move towards the level of confidence of the other? Detective: Two very experienced and highly successful detectives—Dalgleish and Morse—have been investigating a crime. On the basis of their joint investigation, Dalgleish thinks that Mr. Big is the culprit, whereas Morse thinks that the crime is properly attributed to Dr. No. In the matter under investigation, some of the accumulated evidence points to each of the accused; and it is a very delicate matter to arrive at an all-things-considered judgment. If we suppose that each detective is aware of the judgment of the other—and if we also suppose that each regards the other as a doxastic peer—should we also suppose that each ought to move towards the level of confidence of the other? Diagnosis: Dr. Haggard and Dr. Wolf are both impeccably educated and highly respected physicians with 15 years of practising medicine under their belts. Ruby, who has been thoroughly examined by both doctors, has been suffering for months from extreme fatigue, swollen joints, muscle pain, memory loss, sensitivity to light, and persistent fevers. After running the same tests and receiving identical results,

13

192


Dr. Haggard is quite confident that Ruby has chronic fatigue syndrome, and Dr. Wolf is just as confident that she suffers from lupus. If we suppose that each physician is aware of the judgment of the other—and if we suppose that each regards the other as a doxastic peer—should we also suppose that each ought to move towards the confidence level of the other? In these cases, we are not considering relatively encapsulated tasks, and nor are we concerned with relatively basic cognitive judgments. On the contrary, we are considering complicated expert judgments that are grounded in protracted experience in the application of a diverse array of cognitive skills and capacities to the kind of question that is at issue. Because the judgments are grounded in protracted experience, there is a sense in which the two parties draw on very different bodies of evidence. True, the two parties may be able to share “the evidence” that belongs to the case in question: test results, lab reports, and so forth. But there is no way that they can share the rest of “the evidence” that contributes to the judgments that they make. (Apart from anything else, much of that evidence will simply have been forgotten.) However, that the two parties cannot share much of “the evidence” that contributes to their judgments does not yield a good reason for supposing that the two parties are not properly classified as doxastic peers: on the contrary, if we suppose that they are cognitive peers, that they have the same amount of experience, and that they have shared “the evidence” that belongs to the case in question—the test results, lab reports, and so forth—then we have a perfectly good sense in which the two parties are doxastic peers. To suppose otherwise would be to restrict questions about peer disagreement to a very narrow and relatively uninteresting class of cases. In cases like Weather Forecast, Detective and Diagnosis, there is, I think, no simple argument for the conclusion that the protagonists are rationally required to adjust their credences when they learn about the conflicting judgments of other equally qualified parties. However, there is a relatively simple argument that suggests that it might be rationally permissible for the protagonists to fail to adjust their credences when they learn about the conflicting judgments of other equally qualified parties. Suppose that, on a particular kind of judgment, we have two judges who follow methods that lead them to judge correctly in 95% of cases, but who get a different 5% of cases wrong. That is, in 90% of cases, they agree on the correct judgment; but, in 10% of cases, they disagree, and each is correct exactly half of the time. Suppose that we wish to use the judgments of these two judges—and nothing else but the judgements of these two judges—to arrive at a judgment of our own. How will we best proceed? Well, clearly enough, we should follow the lead of the two judges in the cases in which they agree: that gives us the correct answer 90% of the time. But, if we suspend judgment on the cases in which the judges disagree, we’ll end up with a lower success rate than either of the judges does separately. Of course, where the judges are right 95% of the time and wrong 5% of the time, we’ll be right 90% of the time, and suspending judgment 10% of the time. Will we be doing better? Well, it seems to me that that depends upon what you care about. There are at least two dimensions to good doxastic performance: avoiding error and gaining truth. Unless you think that any increase in avoidance of falsehood trumps any decrease in acquisition of truth, you’re bound to think that there can be cases in which you do better to follow a single judge of the kind under consideration than to follow the combined

13


193

strategy that requires suspension of judgment when the judges disagree. (Suppose, for example, that there are 20 such judges, each getting a different 5% of the cases wrong, and that you use the same strategy taking all 20 judges into account. Then you’ll be suspending judgment 100% of the time. Are you doing better than a judge who gets 95% of cases right, and 5% of cases wrong?) Suppose, now, that I am one of 20 judges, each of whom is a doxastic peer, and each of whom gets a different 5% of cases wrong. If I stick to my guns, I’ll be getting 95% of cases right, and 5% of cases wrong. If I follow the strategy of suspending judgment whenever one of my doxastic peers disagrees, then I’ll suspend judgment in every case: I’ll get 0% of cases right and 0% of cases wrong. It seems to me that there is at least some reason to suppose that I will be doing worse if I adopt the latter strategy. But, at the very least, that suggests that there is a prima facie case for the permissibility of failure to adjust credences in at least some cases of peer disagreement involving expert judgment.

“Real” cases The recent literature on the epistemology of disagreement provides a wide range of suggestions for dealing with the “real” or “hard” cases—say, disagreements about religion, or politics, or the like. Some of these suggestions are broached against the background of commitment to a conformist—or non-conformist—line on the cases of peer disagreement canvassed in the previous parts of this paper. Here, however, I propose simply to consider each of these proposals on its own terms. Hard line: Feldman (2007) canvasses—but does not endorse—the view that there are no cases of reasonable peer disagreement. On his version of this line, all disagreement traces back either to unequal possession of information, or else to irrationality on the part of at least all sides but one in any dispute. Thus, when I find myself in persistent disagreement with the views of others, I am required to think either that they lack information that I possess, or else that they are irrational in their beliefs. Feldman claims that the hard line is very difficult to accept, not least in cases in which people have been carefully reflective and have openly discussed their differing responses. However, it is not so clear to me that this is so. As I noted earlier, a sensible definition of ‘doxastic peer’ will allow that doxastic peers differ in the evidence that they possess. Consequently, it seems plausible to suppose that it is actually true that, in ‘real’ cases of disagreement, there are relevant differences in the evidence possessed by parties to the disagreement. But, if this is right, then perhaps there can be reasonable peer disagreement in ‘real’ cases simply in virtue of differences in the evidence possessed or relied upon by parties to the disagreement. Insight: Many authors—including van Inwagen (1995) and Plantinga (1995)— have supposed that, in cases of peer disagreement, I can only maintain that my own position is reasonable if I suppose that I have some kind of insight that other parties to the disagreement lack. On this line, I think, there can be cases of reasonable peer disagreement—but only because people can reasonably yet mistakenly believe that they possess insight that others do not have. For reasons given earlier, I do not think that appeal to insight is necessary to justify sticking to one’s guns in cases of peer

13

194


disagreement. Others—e.g. Feldman (2007)—have argued that appeal to insight is not sufficient to justify sticking to one’s guns in cases of peer disagreement. Granted that each party to the dispute takes himself to have insight, what reason could any one of the parties have to privilege his own purported insight above the purported insights of his peers? I am not sure what to say about this; it may be that this debate will also simply degenerate into a dispute about the proper characterisation of doxastic peers. Extreme philosophical scepticism: One extreme reaction to the possibility of peer disagreement would be to insist that all reasonable parties will withhold assent from any proposition about which there is the slightest possibility of peer disagreement. Perhaps one might suspect that this is one of the motivations that lay behind Pyrrhonian scepticism: if one never holds an opinion about any matter that is potentially controversial, then one will certainly avoid any of the possible pain and suffering that can come from being in states of conflict and disagreement. However, there are at least two obvious points to make in response to this suggestion. On the one hand, it is clearly extreme to give up any chance of arriving at true beliefs in order to avoid merely possible conflict with doxastic peers: surely one would do better to following a policy of withdrawing assent just in cases in which there is actual peer disagreement. And, in any case, on the other hand, it is not clear that extreme philosophical scepticism is a sustainable view: there are various reasons for thinking that it is self-undermining, or psychologically impossible, or the like. Moderate philosophical scepticism: Some—e.g. Feldman (2007)—have defended the claim that all reasonable parties should withhold assent from any proposition about which there is actually peer disagreement. That is: in any actual case in which doxastic peers disagree about whether that p, those doxastic peers ought all to suspend judgment about whether that p. Feldman thinks that, while moderate philosophical scepticism implies that many of us should give up many of our deeply held, well-considered beliefs, this conclusion is not distressing: “It calls for a kind of humility in response to the hard questions about which people so often find themselves in disagreement. It requires us to admit that we really do not know what the truth is in these cases.” (p. 213) However, if—as I suggested above—we can reasonably agree to disagree, then there are ways of being humble that do not require that we give up our deeply held and well-considered beliefs. (In order to ward off worries about self-defeat, perhaps we can follow Elga (2010) in claiming that fundamental doxastic principles are not required to apply to themselves: the moderate philosophical sceptic is permitted not to withhold assent from the claim that in any actual case in which doxastic peers disagree about whether that p, those doxastic peers ought all to suspend judgment about whether that p even in the face of peer disagreement about that claim.) Merely verbal disagreement: Sosa (unpublished) argues that “Perhaps the main reason why disagreements on controversial issues are often reasonable on all sides is that they are to some extent verbal. … Disagreement can be reasonable and interesting when its nature as verbal can emerge only through patient, extended analysis and discussion.” (p. 4) I agree that it can be unclear whether philosophical disputes are largely verbal. Some people think that the dispute between three-dimensionalists and four-dimensionalists is primarily a matter of book-keeping. Other people think much the same about the dispute between neo-Millians and neo-Fregeans on the semantics of propositional attitude ascriptions. However, I can’t help feeling that, if these people

13


195

are right, and those disputes do turn out to be largely verbal, then it also turns out that those disputes are not really interesting. It is not even prima facie plausible to suppose that very large debates in religion, politics, and so forth are significantly merely verbal (and the same can also be said for cases like Weather Forecast, Diagnosis and Detective). Even if there are some cases in which disagreements on controversial issues are reasonable on all sides because they are to some extent verbal, those cases are not the ones that deserve serious attention. Inscrutability of reasons: A reason that some might give for supposing that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree is that reasons and evidence can be inscrutable. The reasons why we believe as we do are often not transparent to us, and cannot be rendered fully transparent to us by any amount of further inquiry; the evidence that supports the formation of our beliefs is progressively discarded or otherwise forgotten. Moreover, the reasons that other people have for believing as they are do are less transparent to us than our own reasons, and even more resistant to fully transparent rendition by subsequent inquiry. Given these considerations about the inscrutability of reasons and evidence, surely we have good reason to be cautious in adjusting our beliefs in the face of mere peer disagreement. Or do we? If it is true that reasons and evidence can be inscrutable, then the consequences will be the same for everyone: that fact gives me no reason at all to suppose that my beliefs are more likely to be true than yours—so how can it be that that fact could support the idea that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree? Well, perhaps like this: While it is true that I have no good reason for thinking that I have more true beliefs than you, I do have good reason for thinking that, were I to suspend judgment on all the points on which we disagree, I would then have fewer true beliefs than you, unless you also followed me in suspending judgment on the points on which we disagree. I have no reason to suppose that I would do better by taking on your beliefs—and there would clearly be costs involved. However, I have good reason to suppose that I would do worse were I to suspend judgment where we disagree. So, I should stay where I am: we should agree to disagree! Difference in starting points: A related reason that some might give for supposing that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree is that we have differing prior probabilities (or differing presuppositions, or differing worldviews, or differing starting assumptions, or differing doxastic frameworks, or the like). Given these considerations about difference of starting points, surely we have good reason to be cautious in adjusting our beliefs in the face of mere peer disagreement. Or do we? As before, if it is true that we have different doxastic starting points, then the consequences are the same for everyone: that fact gives me no reason at all to suppose that my beliefs are more likely to be true than yours—so how can it be that that fact supports the idea that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree? (See Feldman 2007, p. 205f.) for a similar line of thought.) But, given the line that I ran in the previous case, it should be clear what I think might be said in response. If we think of our doxastic peers as those who are getting about as much of the truth as we are, and if what we care about is having the best ratios that we can of truth to falsehood and truth to suspension of judgment, and if we think that we and our doxastic peers are doing reasonably well in obtaining truth, then we actually have good reason to stick to our guns: we will not improve our views by suspending judgment where we disagree.

13

196


Insufficient agreement: Another related reason that some might give for supposing that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree is that, in interesting cases of ‘real’ peer disagreement, there is disagreement about a wide range of more or less related claims. Even in cases like Weather Forecast, Detective, and Diagnosis, it is not the case that the protagonists simply disagree about the judgment that is at issue. Rather, their disagreement on the judgment at issue is a manifestation of their disagreement on a range of related questions. And, in ‘real’ cases, this further disagreement is typically even more extensive. But, given these considerations about widespread differences in belief, surely we have good reason to be cautious in adjusting our beliefs in the face of mere peer disagreement. Or do we? As before, if it is true that there is widespread difference in belief, then the consequences are the same for everyone: that fact gives me no reason at all to suppose that my beliefs are more likely to be true than yours—so how can it be that that fact supports the idea that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree? Perhaps there is a practical problem in determining exactly how much one should stop believing in the face of peer disagreement on a particular issue—but, in principle, it might seem that one ought to withhold judgment wherever one has a doxastic peer who makes a dissenting judgment. Elga (2007) suggests that in cases in which there is insufficient agreement, there are good grounds for rejecting claims to doxastic peerhood. But, as I noted earlier, he works with a very restrictive notion of doxastic peerhood.) Of course, I think that this case is vulnerable to the same kind of response as I gave in the previous two cases. Alethic impurity: A final, rather different, reason for supposing that doxastic peers can reasonably agree to disagree is that, in interesting cases of ‘real’ peer disagreement, it is very hard to disentangle clashes in alethic attitudes from clashes in non-alethic attitudes. For instance, in disagreements about ethics and politics, it is not a straightforward matter to determine to what extent those disagreements concern desires rather than beliefs. But, given that there are uncertainties about the extent to which the disagreements concern desires rather than beliefs, there are reasons to resist taking a conciliatory approach to these disagreements. (That you want something other than what I want does not give me a reason to give up my own desire and take on yours.) Note that this suggestion does not involve a commitment to non-cognitivism about the matters in dispute; rather, it involves commitment to the idea that it is uncertain whether cognitivism is appropriate to the matters in dispute. Consequently, this suggestion, even if it works for some cases, will not extend to disputes that are unproblematically cognitive, or to disputes in which the cognitive elements can be satisfactorily disentangled.

Religion When we turn our attention to religious disagreement, it is clear that some of the proposals outlined in the “‘Real” cases’ section are not worthy of serious attention. In this section, I propose to examine a little more carefully the views about the epistemology of religious disagreement that seem to me to be worthy of further serious investigation. I will then close with a brief remark about the ways in which the issues for religion might be different from the issues that arise for politics.

13


197

It is not, I think, even remotely plausible to suppose that religious disagreement is primarily—or even in large part—a matter of merely verbal disagreement. Nor, I think, is it plausible to suppose that cognitive elements in religious belief cannot be satisfactorily disentangled from non-cognitive elements. However, it seems to me to be plausible to suppose that all of the following kinds of factors are present in at least some cases of religious disagreement between doxastic peers: (1) there are differences in starting points—i.e. differences in prior probabilities, doxastic presuppositions, worldviews, initial assumptions, doxastic frameworks, and the like; (2) there are differences in evidential bases for belief that are not amenable to full disclosure— of the kind envisaged by theorists such as Feldman (2007)—for the kinds of reasons mentioned earlier; (3) there is disagreement on a relatively wide range of topics—i.e. disagreement is not restricted to a relatively small number of related propositions— even though, of course, there is also wide agreement on a massive background of less relevant matters; (4) there is not total transparency of reasons for beliefs about religious matters—i.e. the reasons that one has for holding one’s beliefs about questions of religion are not fully transparent to oneself, and the reasons that others have for holding the beliefs that they do on questions about religion are not fully transparent to one either; (5) there are hard questions about the extent to which the judgments that one makes about questions of religion are independent of the judgments that other people make about questions of religion; and (6) there is mutual knowledge—prior to any particular religious disagreement between doxastic peers—that there is a very wide spectrum of peer opinion on many questions about religion. In the face of these—and other—considerations, it seems to me quite implausible to suppose that, for any given class of doxastic peers, there is at most one reasonable— rationally sustainable—position on each disputed question in religion. If there were only one reasonable—rationally sustainable—position on each peer disputed question in religion, then, plausibly, that position would involve suspension of judgment. However, it seems to me that even moderate scepticism about matters of religion based solely on grounds of peer disagreement would be a clear case of doxastic servility. So it seems to me that the kinds of considerations listed above do push in the direction of allowing that there can be reasonable—rationally sustained—peer disagreement on questions about religion. Of course, even if this is right, there are further questions that immediately come into view. If I grant that a doxastic peer reasonably disagrees with me on a question about religion, then what grounds do I have for supposing that I am right and my doxastic peer is wrong on that question? As we saw above, some theorists suppose that we need to say something like this: I have a special insight that is denied to my doxastic peer, and that explains why I am in the privileged position of getting things right. I think that I should say something else. I have reasons for holding the view that I do; given that I have reasons for holding the views that I do, I have reasons for supposing that my views are true (and that competing views are false). When I allow that you have reasons for holding the views that you do, I allow that you reasonably take yourself to have reasons for believing what you do. However, by my lights, while you reasonably take yourself to have reasons for believing what you do, your beliefs—insofar as they disagree with mine, and insofar as you are unable to furnish me with reason to change my mind and agree with you—are false. Of course, in the nature of the case, when I try

13

198


to give you reasons to change your mind, you find the reasons that I give insufficient (and reasonably so): but that you (reasonably) don’t change your mind in the face of putative reasons that I try to give to you simply doesn’t give me a reason to reconsider my own views. As I see it, it is just a mistake to think that, because there is a doxastic symmetry in our position that arises from our being doxastic peers, I cannot simply rest on my first order reasons for believing as I do in order to explain why it is that I am right and you are wrong. My grounds for believing that I am right and you—my doxastic peer—are wrong are just my grounds for believing as I do. Perhaps it might be objected that this just sounds like dogmatism: I’m right because I’m right. But that’s not what I said. In order for me to have a reason to change my mind, I need to be given a reason, i.e. something that interacts in the right kind of way with the reasons that I currently have for believing as I do, and that leads me to change my view. The mere fact that you disagree with me—even if you are my doxastic peer or my doxastic superior—does not give me a reason to change my view when it comes to questions about religion. Perhaps it might be objected that this still flouts conditions on proper explanations. Given that I recognise the doxastic symmetry of our situations, surely I need to be able to supply some further explanation of why it is that I ended up with the true belief. After all, you can certainly make the same response in justifying your refusal to change your view: your grounds for believing that you are right and that I—your doxastic peer— am wrong are just your grounds for believing as you do. However, at the very least, we need to distinguish questions here. In one sense, I can answer the question about how you ended up with false belief by telling an aetiological or historical story drawn from among the things that I believe. By my lights, I have good reasons for supposing that—at least in principle—in tracing out the aetiology of your beliefs, I would come across causes of your false beliefs that do not impugn the rationality of your holding those beliefs: here is where you blamelessly accepted that false testimony, etc. But, in another sense, there is no further answer to be given to the question about how you ended up with the false belief: given our presumptive doxastic symmetry, there is no story to be told that succeeds in breaking that presumptive symmetry. (By your lights, you have good reasons for supposing that—at least in principle—in tracing out the aetiology of my beliefs, you would come across causes of my false beliefs that do not impugn my rationality in holding those beliefs: here is where I blamelessly accepted the false testimony, etc.) And, of course, this is just how you would expect matters to lie if it is true that there can be reasonable disagreements amongst doxastic peers. Doubtless there is more to be said about the matters discussed in the previous couple of paragraphs. However, I close now with an observation about another “real” case of disagreement. In the literature, there are cases in which politics and religion are lumped in together. It is not clear that this is correct. In particular, it seems worth noting that it may be more plausible to suppose that alethic impurity has significance for political disputes than it does for disputes about religion. Whether there are supernatural beings seems to me to be an entirely cognitive question; who should govern seems to me to be a question that plausibly has a significant non-cognitive dimension. Perhaps that isn’t right; but, in any case, there is at least a prima facie case that there is an issue here that deserves further investigation.

13


199

References Aumann, R. (1976). Agreeing to disagree. Annals of Statistics, 4(6), 1236–1239. Christensen, D. (2007). Epistemology of disagreement: The good news. Philosophical Review, 116(2), 187–217. Christensen, D. (2009). Disagreement as evidence: The epistemology of controversy. Philosophy Compass, 4(5), 756–767. Elga, A. (2007). Reflection and disagreement. Noûs, 41, 478–502. Elga, A. (2010). How to disagree about how to disagree. In R. Feldman & T. Warfield (Eds.), Disagreement. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Feldman, R. (2006). Epistemological puzzles about disagreement. In S. Hetherington (Ed.), Epistemology Futures. (pp. 216–237). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Feldman, R. (2007) In L. Anthony (Ed.) Philosophers without Gods: Meditations on atheism and the secular life (pp. 194–214). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frances, B. (forthcoming). The reflective epistemic renegade. Philosophy and Phenomenological Research. Gardner, S., Oppy, G. (in progress). When Bayesians disagree. Genest, C., & Zidek, J. (1986). Combining probability distributions: A critique and an annotated bibliography. Statistical Science, 1(1), 114–135. Goldman, A. (2006). Social epistemology. Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy. http://plato.stanford. edu/entries/epistemology-social/. Goldman, A. (2010). Epistemic relativism and reasonable disagreement. In R. Feldman & T. Warfield (Eds.), Disagreement. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gutting, G. (1982). Religious belief and religious scepticism. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Harman, G. (1986). Change in view. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kelly, T. (2005). The epistemic significance of disagreement. In T. Gendler & J. Hawthorne (Eds.), Oxford studies in epistemology (Vol. 1, pp. 167–196). Oxford: OUP. Kelly, T. (2010). Peer disagreement and higher order evidence. In R. Feldman & T. Warfield (Eds.), Disagreement. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Kitcher, P. (1990). The division of cognitive labour. Journal of Philosophy, 87(1), 5–22. Lackey, J. (2009a). What should we do when we disagree?. In T. Gendler & J. Hawthorne (Eds.), Oxford studies in epistemology (Vol. 3). Oxford: OUP. Lackey, J. (2009b). A justificationist view of disagreement’s epistemic significance. In A. Haddock, A. Millar, & D. Pritchard (Eds.), Social epistemology. Oxford: OUP. Lehrer, K. (1976). When rational disagreement is impossible. Noûs, 10(3), 327–332. List, C., & Pettit, P. (2002). Aggregating sets of judgments: An impossibility result. Economics and Philosophy, 18(1), 89–110. Moffatt, M. (2007). Reasonable disagreement and rational group inquiry. Episteme, 4, 352–367. Oppy, G. (2006). Arguing about Gods. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pettit, P. (2005). When to defer to the majority testimony—and when not. Analysis, 66, 179–187. Plantinga, A. (1995). Pluralism: A defence of religious exclusivism. In T. Senor (Ed.), The rationality of belief and the plurality of faith. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Plantinga, A. (2007). Appendix: Two dozen (or so) theistic arguments. In D. Baker (Ed.), Alvin Plantinga (pp. 203–227). New York: Cambridge University Press. Rosen, G. (2001). Nominalism, naturalism, epistemic relativism. Philosophical Perspectives, 15, 69–91. Shogenji, T. (2007). A conundrum in Bayesian epistemology of disagreement, ms. www.ric.edu/tshogenji/. Sosa, E. (unpublished) The epistemology of disagreement. http://philpapers.org/rec/SOSTEO-2. van Inwagen, P. (1995). Quam Dilecta. In T. Morris (Ed.), God and the philosophers: The reconciliation of faith and reason. Oxford: Oxford University Press. van Inwagen, P. (1999). It is wrong, everywhere, always, and for anyone to believe anything upon insufficient evidence. In E. Stump & M. Murray (Eds.), Philosophy of religion: The big questions (pp. 273–285). London: Wiley-Blackwell. White, R. (2005). Epistemic permissiveness. Philosophical Perspectives, 19, 445–459.

13


Jonathan Edwards, God, and “particular minds” William J. Wainwright

Received: 2 April 2010 / Accepted: 1 June 2010 / Published online: 13 August 2010 © Springer Science+Business Media B.V. 2010

Abstract Although philosophical theologians have sometimes claimed that human beings are necessarily dependent on God, few have developed the idea with any precision. Jonathan Edwards is a notable exception, providing a detailed and often novel account of humanity’s essential ontological, moral, and soteriological dependence on God. Keywords Jonathan Edward · Phenomenalism · Occasionalism · Identity · Moral communities · Grace · Body of Christ · God’s indwelling

Philosophical theologians have sometimes claimed that the concepts of humankind and of God are inextricably linked since the former can be fully understood only in relation to the latter. The philosophers in question typically content themselves with an insistence on an entailment relation between humankind’s existence and God’s existence, however, without attempting to specify the logical connections between the two concepts more completely. Jonathan Edwards is an exception to this generalization, providing a detailed and often novel account of humankind’s necessary ontological, moral, and soteriological dependence on God. In Edwards’s view, we are not only necessarily causally dependent on God for our existence, we are also necessarily dependent on him for our ontological identity as selves. Furthermore, while it is necessarily true that we are moral agents, our moral agenthood is essentially constituted by our membership in moral communities in which God is head. Finally, not only does our final good causally depend on God’s gracious activity, it involves the very indwelling of God himself.

W. J. Wainwright (B) Department of Philosophy, University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee, WI 53201, USA e-mail: [email protected]

13

202


The ontological relation God as the mind’s only true substance and only true cause An early entry in Edwards’s notebooks purports to show that mental states or occurrences are not produced by past states or occurrences, or by some unknown and unknowable (finite) substance, but by God. The implication is that a “particular mind” is nothing more than a series of “thoughts”1 (mental phenomenalism) that are immediately produced by God (occasionalism).2 That Edwards retained his occasionalism is clear from Original Sin which was originally published in 1758 (Works, vol. 3, pp. 397–498, 1970). That Edwards also retained his phenomenalism is settled by an entry in “Notes on Knowledge and Existence” where he says “what we call spirit is nothing but a composition and series of perceptions, or an universe of coexisting and successive perceptions connected by. . .wonderful methods and laws” (Works, vol. 6, p. 395, 1980). Phenomenalism is a natural extension of Edwards’s occasionalism and views on substance. Just as Locke retained the notion of material substance, so he also retained the notion of an “individual, immaterial substance” to which consciousness is “annexed” (Locke 1959, II.xxvii.25). Edwards, however, thinks of substance (in the “philosopher’s” sense) as something “altogether hid” which “subsists by itself,” “stands underneath and keeps up” or “upholds” (known) properties (“Of Atoms”, Works, vol. 6, p. 215). His arguments for occasionalism purportedly show that God’s will is the only cause of material and mental phenomena. Edwards concluded that, in the case of bodies, either the notion of a substance behind physical properties is nonsense or the substance is God. By parity of reasoning, he should (and indeed does) also conclude that the notion of a mental or “spiritual substance” is either nonsense or denotes God, i.e., the “establishment” by which he determines that thoughts will come into being and pass away in a certain manner.3 A comparison with Malebranche and Berkeley is instructive. Malebranche was an occasionalist but didn’t question the existence of material and immaterial substances. Berkeley rejected material substance but accepted the notion of an immaterial substance or soul—a “simple, undivided, active being” which “as it perceives ideas. . .is called understanding, and as it produces or otherwise operates about them. . .is called the will” (Berkeley, Works, vol.1, p. 272).4 1 “Thoughts” is used in Descartes’ wide sense. The category includes feelings, sensations, volitions, and the like, as well as ideas. 2 Jonathan Edwards, “Miscellany 267” (Works, vol. 13, 1994), p. 373. Thomas A. Schafer dates this to 1726. 3 Of course Edwards (like Berkeley) is prepared to speak of substances if by “substances” one means no

more that sets of properties “which we conceive of as subsisting together and by themselves,” e.g., apples, human beings, or souls. Cf. “The Mind,” 25 (Works, vol. 6), pp. 349–350. 4 Of the principles of Human Knowledge, sect. 27. Cf. Sect. 141, where Berkeley speaks of the soul as

an “indivisible, incorporeal,. . .active, simple, uncompounded substance.” The substance in question is not an unknown occult entity since we are immediately conscious of it. (“I know or am conscious of my own

13


203

Edwards’s position is more radical than Berkeley’s, and I think more consistent.5 God and our self-identity Given the necessary truth of “God exists” and “If God exists, every other thing depends on him for its existence and properties” (both of which Edwards accepts), it is necessarily true that particular minds depend upon God for their existence and properties. Absolute dependence on God is thus an essential feature of particular minds6 and as such, part of their ontological constitution. But the ontological relation between God and particular minds is even tighter than that. For not only are we necessarily dependent on God for our existence and properties, we necessarily depend on him for our identity as the particular persons we are. Edwards contends that “created identity or oneness with past existence, in general, depends on the sovereign constitution and law” of God. “Some things, being most simply considered, are entirely distinct, and very diverse; which yet are so united by the established law of the Creator, in some respects and with regard to some purposes and effects, that by virtue of that establishment it is with them as if they were one” (Works, vol. 3, p. 397). If things are created anew each moment, as Edwards believes, then “what exists at this moment. . .is. . .simply and absolutely considered, not the same with any past existence, though it be like it, and follows it according to a certain established method. And there is no identity or oneness in the case but what depends on the arbitrary constitution of the Creator” who “treats them as one, by communicating to them like properties, relations, and circumstances; and so leads us to regard and treat them as one” (Works, vol. 3, p. 402f.). Edwards’s remarks are ambiguous. Sometimes he speaks as if God decides what the criteria of identity for various things will be; that he decides, for example, that such things as spatio-temporal continuity and qualitative similarity will be criteria for the identity of physical objects, or that memory will be a criterion for the identity of persons. At other times Edwards seems only to be saying that God brings it about that things meet these criteria. (For example, by successively producing “oak-tree stages” in such a way as to ensure that there will be spatio-temporal continuity, similarities between adjacent stages, etc.) The second claim isn’t especially controversial. By creating and preserving bodies and minds, God brings it about that things meet the appropriate criteria of identity. The first claim, on the other hand, may not even seem intelligible. The fact that spatio-temporal continuity and qualitative similarity are criteria of identity for Footnote 4 continued being. . .I know that I, one and the same self,” am distinct from all “ sensible things and inert ideas” [The Third Dialogue between Hylas and Philonous (Berkeley, Works, vol. 1, p. 450)].) 5

Occasionalism, together with the critique of substance, should lead to phenomenalism. Of course Berkeley believed that some of our thoughts are genuinely produced by us and not by God, and that we have immediate access to the substance of our own souls, but both may be doubted, and would in any case be rejected by Edwards.

6 P is an essential feature of x if and only if x possesses P in every possible world in which it exists.

13

204


physical objects or that memory is a criterion of personal identity appear to be logical facts. For example, it seems to be a conceptual truth that material objects exhibit spatiotemporal continuity and that persons can remember and anticipate. Edwards nowhere suggests that God constitutes logical facts. It might therefore seem that Edwards cannot coherently claim that God determines criteria of identity. Why, then, did he believe the claim to be not only coherent but true? It is plausible to suppose that the criteria of identity for a thing (an oak tree, a mind, a hydrogen atom) are determined by its kind or nature. Now in “The Mind,” Edwards argued that although “the various distributing and ranking of things, and tying of them together under one common abstract idea” is “arbitrary,” “yet there is much more foundation for some distributions than others” (Mind 7, Works, vol. 6, pp. 340–341). This foundation is “the common circumstances and necessities of mankind, and the constant method of things proceeding.” As a result of these factors, “most of the inhabitants of the earth” classify things in the same way (Mind 41, Works, vol. 6, pp. 359–360). “If the world had been created without any order or design or beauty, indeed, all species would be merely arbitrary,” but as a matter of fact, God has created a world in which things agree “either as to their outward appearance, manner of acting, the effects they produce or that others produce on them, the manner of their production, or God’s disposal concerning them, or some peculiar perpetual circumstances that they are in” (Mind 47, Works, vol. 6, pp. 366–367). Edwards’s position appears to be this: Kinds or natures (what Edwards calls “species”) are the ways we classify things. These classifications are arbitrary in the sense that we could have carved the world up differently. They are not capricious, however, since our classifications reflect our needs and interests and the character of the world we live in. But God has determined what we are like and the kind of world we live in. He has therefore determined how things will be classified, i.e., what will count as a kind or species. Since the criteria of identity for a thing are determined by its kind or species, it follows that God is the ultimate ground of these criteria.7

7 Up to a point, Edwards’s position may be defensible. Compare the concept of a material object with the

concept of a chair. If I remove the backs of my dining room chairs, shorten their legs, and use them as a place for setting drinks, magazines, and other objects, I will stop calling them “chairs.” Now there is a perfectly good sense in which the objects that were formerly picked out by “chair” continue to be the same objects. (I might point to one and say “I bought that at a K-Mart and then made a table of it.”) Nevertheless, they are no longer chairs. This suggests that the properties which define “chair” aren’t essential to the objects to which the term is applied but only to those objects being called “chairs.” However, if the same objects were to lose the properties which lead us to speak of them as material objects (extension, solidity, and the like), it is doubtful that we would be entitled to speak of the continued existence of the same entity. The properties which define “material object” thus seem essential to the things to which the term applies. They couldn’t lose these properties without ceasing to be. What these considerations suggest is that while the “essence” or “nature” expressed by a term like “chair” is conventional, the essence or nature expressed by “material object” is not. If this is correct then Edward’s account of criteria of identity is plausible only in certain cases. Where species are conventional, it makes sense to speak of constituting or inventing the criteria for the application of a term. (For conventions are constituted or invented.) Where species are not conventional, Edwards’s account is less convincing. (I am indebted for these thoughts to Richard Swinburne. See his The Coherence of Theism, Chap. 13, 1977.) The problem for Edwards’s account of our self-identity is that the essence or nature expressed by “mind” or “consciousness” seems no more conventional than that expressed by “material object.”

13


205

If he is, though, then God is the author of our self-identity, not only determining that we meet the criteria for being the unique continuants we are but fashioning those very criteria themselves. Yet if these criteria necessarily depend on God if he exists (as Edwards surely thinks they do), and if God necessarily exists, then our self-identity as well as our existence and properties is essentially God-dependent. If it is then this kind of God dependence, too, is part of our ontological constitution. Particular minds mere shadows of the universal mind Miscellany 135 suggests that the universal mind and particular minds only differ in degree. (“If we should suppose the faculties of a created spirit to be enlarged infinitely, there would be the deity to all intents and purposes” (Works, vol. 13, p. 295).) Miscellany 1340, on the other hand, emphatically asserts that God and particular mind differ in nature (Works, vol. 23, pp. 370–371, 2004). Why is this the case? God is a true cause and we are not. Furthermore, a phenomenalistic analysis of the divine mind is in principle impossible since a phenomenalistic analysis could not account for the divine mind’s unity. There is no being whose arbitrary decree determines the criteria of identity for the divine mind, or whose establishment brings it about that divine “thoughts” are connected in law like ways thereby ensuring that those criteria are fulfilled. God is simple or unitary in a way in which particular minds and bodies are not. Unlike particular beings, “the first Being” is absolutely simple and immutable (Works, vol. 1, p. 377). “The identity of created substance” is thus unlike “that absolute independent identity of the first being, whereby ‘he is the same yesterday, today, and forever”’ (Works, vol. 3, p. 399f.).8

The moral relation Men and women are “intelligent and voluntary agents” designed for “communion” or “converse” with a God who is himself an intelligent voluntary agent. God and humans constitute a moral community, a society of rational agents in communication with one another, defined by the rights and obligations of its members. “There can be no such thing maintained, as a communication between God and man, as between intelligent, voluntary agents, without moral government” (Miscellany 864, Works, vol. 20, p. 104, 2002) however; and there can be no moral government without “some supreme arbiter 8 If this is correct, how can Edwards say that particular minds are images of God, and minds, but not

bodies, are genuinely real? See, for example “Of Being” (Works, vol. 6, p. 206) and Miscellanies f and 383 (Works, vol. 13, pp. 166, 451–452). The answer, I believe, is this: particular minds reason and choose. They are agents in the ordinary or “vulgar” sense because (as Edwards argues in Freedom of the Will), their actions are expressions of their reasoned choices. In so far as they are agents, particular minds do “as that supreme principle does.” They alone “in this lower world” have “a power of action” within themselves, consciously pursue “some good,” etc. (Miscellany 383, ibid.). While particular minds aren’t true causes, they are agents in the ordinary sense, and as such are images of God in a way in which other things are not. Furthermore, Edwards distinguishes greatness of being from excellence of being and identifies the former with intelligence and power. (See for example, The Nature of True Virtue (Works, vol. 8, 1989), p. 346.) It follows that particular minds possess more being than bodies do.

13

206


of right, fitness and, and propriety” since without one “these things will be liable to fail and not take place in some instances” (Miscellany 1208, Works, vol. 23, p. 135). And because God has the authority to rule and the qualifications to rule well, he “has infinitely the greatest right to exercise the power of a moral governor” (Miscellany 864, Works, vol. 20, p. 99f.). The universal moral community is described in three ways. It is a “commonwealth and kingdom. . .all under one moral head, one law, and one government” (Miscellany 1007, Works, vol. 20, p. 337). Laws established and maintained for the “benefit of all that belong to this universal commonwealth” are promulgated, sanctions are declared (through reason and revelation), and judgment is publically executed (preeminently at the Day of judgment). God’s commands together with the sanctions attached to them (his “laws”) express his authority and majesty, and regulate “the commonwealth of intelligent. . .beings and moral agents,” providing a “measure for the subject’s actions, and for the “judge’s acting towards him as subject to that law” (Miscellany 779, Works, vol. 18, p. 442, 2000). The universal moral community is also a society whose well being is friendship in which “conversation” (God’s word as declared in scripture, and prayer) is the “special medium of union and communication” by which friendship is not only “maintained and nourished,” but its “felicity. . .is tasted and enjoyed” (Miscellany 1338, Works, vol. 23, p. 350). The society is finally compared to a family. Parents are the moral governors of their children, and God stands in a similar relation to us. Parents have been appointed “moral rulers” over their children because they “are wiser and stronger,” and because children have “received being” from their parents and are “dependent” on them, and are “preserved and maintained” by them. God, though, is not only “infinitely wiser and stronger” than we are, he is the ultimate source of our being and the “universal preserver,” who “maintains all, and provides all with. . .the necessaries and enjoyments of life.” He is thus our “universal father” and moral ruler (Miscellany 864, Works, vol. 20, p. 100). (It is worth noting that “the domestic treatises of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were directed mainly to” fathers who “were involved not only in the provisioning and medicating but in the catechizing, educating and disciplining of children from infancy onward. . .The father’s relationship to the child was not only close but full-time. . .Luther himself insisted that ‘when a father washes diapers and performs some other mean task for his child, and someone ridicules him as an effeminate fool. . .God with all this angels and creatures is smiling”’ (Gillis 1997, p. 186). In speaking of God as father, Edwards would presumably have had associations like these in mind as well as the father images of the Bible.) If these remarks are correct, men and women’s essential relations to God aren’t exhausted by causal dependency. For (1) Necessarily, “particular minds” are moral agents. (It is a necessary truth that finite rational agents are logically appropriate objects of moral praise and blame.) (2) Necessarily, our moral agency is constituted by the moral communities to which we belong. (A moral or immoral life is necessarily a life lived with others.) (3) Necessarily, if God exists, then if we were to exist God would be our king, friend, and father. (Edwards clearly thinks that given his own and our essential

13


(4) (5) (6) (7)

207

properties, God necessarily stands to us in these relations if both he and we exist.) It follows that Necessarily, if God exists, our moral selfhood is partly constituted by our membership in these communities9 (from 2 and 3). But God necessarily exists. Therefore, Necessarily, our moral selfhood is partly constituted by our membership in communities of which God is head (from 4 and 5). Hence, Membership in communities of which God is the head is essential to us (from 1 and 6).

The soteriological relation God stands in a special relation to the elect. “God Glorified in Man’s Dependence” explains how the redeemed depend upon God for all their good. (1) All is “of God. God is the great author of it; he is the first cause of it.” God “has provided a Savior for us. . .God chose and anointed him, appointed him his work,. . .sent him into the world,” and accepts his work. God also provides the means of grace, and is the cause of the faith by which we “close with” Christ so as to “have an interest in him” (God Glorified in Man’s Dependence, Works, vol. 17, p. 200, 1999). Not only do the saints depend wholly upon God for their wisdom and holiness, they wholly depend upon him “for every exercise of grace, and for carrying on the work of grace in the heart,. . .and [for] enabling [it] to bring forth fruit in good works” (ibid., p. 206). (2) All their good is “through” God. “God. . .is the medium of it. . .All we have. . .is from God by a Mediator; and this Mediator is God.” As a consequence, humankind is now more “immediately” dependent upon God than it was “in [its] first estate.” Although Adam’s righteousness was “from God,. . .it was his own,. . .inherent in himself.” “The righteousness that we are [now] dependent on,” however, “is not in ourselves but in God. We are saved through the righteousness of Christ” (ibid., pp. 206–207). (3) Finally, “the redeemed have all their good in God.” Our good “consists in him; he is all our good.” God is not only the saint’s “objective good,. . .that extrinsic object, in the possession and enjoyment of which they are happy,” he is also their “inherent good,. . .that [spiritual] excellency or pleasure which is in the soul itself” since the elect enjoy “both. . .by the gift of the Holy Ghost. . .and his dwelling in them”—i.e., “by a kind of participation of God” (ibid., pp. 207–208). The redeemed thus depend upon God in three ways. The first is a special instance of the absolute ontological dependence of all things upon God. If God is the sole and sufficient cause of everything, he is the sole and sufficient cause of every good the saint enjoys. The second involves a new moral relation to God, and is the foundation of a new moral community, the body of Christ. The third is the most problematic since it appears 9 But only partly since we also belong to moral communities of which God is not the head. Families, states, and voluntary associations of one kind or another are examples. (Which does not imply that these communities aren’t in some sense subject to God. Cf. The way in which families are subject to the state although the state isn’t their head.) Furthermore, we aren’t essentially constituted by our membership in these communities because we don’t necessarily belong to them if we exist.

13

208


to obscure the distinction between God and his creatures which Edwards clearly wished to maintain. We have discussed the ontological dependence of all things upon God in “The ontological relation” section. The second, and especially the third, types of dependence demand closer attention. The body of Christ In “Justification by Faith Alone,” Edwards says “there is some union or relation that the people of Christ, stand in to him, that is expressed in scripture, from time to time, by being in Christ, and is represented frequently by those metaphors of being members of Christ, or being united to him as member to the head, and branches to the stock, and is compared to a marriage union between husband and wife” (Works, vol. 19, p. 155, 2001). How should this relation be understood? Christ’s suffering and death (atonement) delivers us from guilt and sin while his obedience secures eternal life for us because both Christ’s satisfaction and obedience are imputed to us, “reckoned to our account” (as when a merchant transfers “debt or credit from one man’s account to another)” (ibid., p. 186). “Believers are represented in Scripture as being so in Christ, as that they are legally one, or accepted as one, by the Supreme Judge” (ibid., p. 191). Christ is thus “our surety or representative,” “our second federal head” (ibid., p. 187, 192).10 Through faith, the Christian soul “unites itself to him,. . .comes into. . .union or relation to him, . . .receives him,” or “closes” with him (ibid., pp. 157, 200f.). (Note that faith or “closing” with Christ is the ground or presupposition of imputation, and thus distinct from it. It is because the believer is united to Christ by faith that the latter’s satisfaction and righteousness are imputed to him.) The implication is clear. Not only do particular minds as such and the universal mind constitute moral communities in which God is head, redeemed souls and the universal mind make up a special moral community within the wider ones discussed in “The moral relation” section, and it is within this community (the body of Christ) that God’s “moral rectorship,” friendship, and fatherhood are most fully displayed. Moreover, the community in question is the penultimate end of all God’s “grand design:” 10 (Our first “federal head” was Adam.) Edwards argues that a person may reasonably forgive an offence

if (1) a dear friend who is nearly related to the offender undergoes great trouble and pain to procure his pardon, and asks the offended party to do so, and (2) the offender seeks forgiveness in his friend’s name with a deep appreciation of all that the friend has done for him. Again, it is fitting or reasonable to respect or esteem or further the interests of someone related to a person who especially deserves our regard for no other reason than that he or she is so related. Moreover, the closer the relation, the more fitting or reasonable this respect or esteem and these services become. Yet the closest relation obtains when a “patron’s” love of his “client” is so great that he not only acts for his client (by paying his debts, for example) but is willing to take the latter’s destruction upon himself, since this involves a complete identification of his client’s interest with his own. A relation like this is so close in fact that it is “most fitly and aptly. . represented by the client’s being taken by the patron to be as a part or member of himself, as though he were a member of his body. For men love each part of themselves as themselves” (Miscellany 1360, Works, vol. 23, p. 715). The application of these remarks to Christ’s redemptive activity and union with believers is both immediate and obvious. For the union to be complete, however, the client must “actively and cordially concur in the affair;” his heart must be “united” to his patron, “cleaving to him, committing his cause to him, and trusting in him” (ibid., p. 716).

13


209

“The children of God and the spouse of Christ, is more nearly related and more closely united to God than the angels. . .This spouse. . .is the completeness of him who filleth all in all, is that for which all the universe was made”11 (Miscellany 103, Works, vol. 13, p. 271). God’s indwelling God’s relation to the soul is even more intimate than that, however. The faith by which the soul closes with Christ consists in an assent of the “heart” as well as an act of “judgment” (“Saving Faith. . .,” Works, vol. 25, p. 510, 2006). It involves embracing and loving the truth and not merely believing it. Intellectual assent is involved but love is its essential expression, and God is love. The Holy Spirit “dwells” in the saints “as a vital principle in their souls [and] there produces those effects wherein he exerts and communicates himself in his own proper nature” (Works, vol. 2, p. 201, my emphasis, 1959). “True saving grace is no other than the very love of God; that is, God in one of the persons of the Trinity, uniting himself to the soul of a creature as a vital principle, dwelling there and exerting himself by the faculties of the soul of man, after the manner of a principle of nature.” The saints are thus “not only partakers of a nature that may in some sense be called Divine, because ‘tis conformed to the nature of God; but the very Deity does in some sense dwell in them” (Treatise on Grace, Works, vol. 21, p. 194, 2003a).12 (There were Puritan precedents for this. Calling “attention to Paul’s emphatic: ‘The Spirit itself’ or ‘the Spirit himself, auto to pneuma,”’ Samuel Petto says, “if it were only to pneuma,. . .it might be by a proxie, gifts and graces; but seeing it is auto to pneuma, the Spirit himself, this argueth it to be a peculiar work of the Spirit, requiring its own more immediate presence.” And Richard Baxter claims the “the Spirit itself is given to true believers, and not only grace from the Spirit. . .The Spirit itself is present as the immediate Operator; not so immediate as to be without means [e.g., preaching, scripture, feelings of love and consolation, etc. (?)], but so immediate as to be no distant agent, but by proximate attingency. . .performeth his operations” (Nuttall 1992, pp. 49–50.).) Edwards is making two claims. First, the new spiritual dispositions and tastes which God bestows on the soul are divine. The difference between God’s love and joy, and the love and joy he bestows on his saints is a difference of degree, not of nature or kind. Second, God does not act on the soul from without, but dwells within it, “as a principle of new nature,” living, acting, and exerting itself in the exercise of the soul’s faculties. What, though, is a principle of nature? Edwards sometimes describes it as a kind of “habit,” a settled character or disposition leading a person to exercise her faculties in a certain manner (Works, vol. 2, p. 206). The self-love of fallen humanity, for example 11 The ultimate end of creation, however, is the manifestation of God’s glory ad extra. 12 Cf. Discourse on the Trinity (Works, vol. 21, p. 124, 2003b) where Edwards says that in communicating

“divine love to the creature. . .God’s spirit or love doth but communicate of itself. ‘Tis the same love, so far as a creature is capable of being made partaker of it” (my emphasis).

13

210


is a “habit” or “second nature” disposing it to think, feel and act in sinful ways. By analogy, the new divine principle would be a habit inherent in sanctified souls disposing them to holy actions, thoughts, and feelings. But even though Edwards’s language often suggests this, the Treatise on Grace insists that it is misleading to speak of a “habit of grace” if by that we mean that, once redeemed, the soul is itself capable of bringing forth holy thoughts, feelings, and actions. For “the giving of one gracious discovery or act of grace, or a thousand, has no proper natural tendency to cause an abiding habit of grace for the future; nor any otherwise than by divine constitution and covenant” (i.e., by God’s graciously promising to do so). Rather, “all succeeding acts of grace must be as immediately and to all intents and purposes, as much from the immediate acting of the Spirit of God on the soul as the first; and if God should take away his Spirit out of the soul, all habits and acts of grace would of themselves cease as immediately as light ceases in a room when a candle is carried out” (Works, vol. 21, p. 196). We saw earlier that God is the only real or true cause of ordinary material and mental phenomena. We now see that God is also the only real or true cause of spiritual motions. In the same way that his settled determinations to produce physical or mental effects in a certain order just are the natures of ordinary physical and mental phenomena, so too God’s settled determinations to produce holy thoughts, feelings, and intentions in the redeemed in a certain order just are the new divine principles in the hearts of the saints. Edward’s occasionalism thus illuminates his doctrine of the Holy Spirit’s indwelling. But it also creates a problem. If God is the direct and only cause of everything, then how does his gracious indwelling in the saints differ from his direct and continuous creation of the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of the ungodly? The effects are different of course, but Edwards clearly wants to say more, namely, that the manner of God’s operation differs in the two cases. How does it do so? Miracles, “gracious operations on the mind,” and other things of that sort are “done in the most general proportion [or “harmony”], not tied to any particular proportion, to this or that created being; but the proportion is,” instead, “with the whole series of [God’s] acts and designs from eternity to eternity” (Miscellany 64, Works, vol. 13, p. 235). Ordinary physical and mental events stand in “rule bound connections” to immediately surrounding events. Miracles like the Resurrection do not. All works of God are done with fitness and propriety, and are ultimately part of his grand design— the history of humankind’s redemption from its beginnings in eternity to its final consummation. The harmonies into which natural events immediately fit are local, however, whereas the harmony to which the Resurrection and bestowal of the Spirit belong is “creation’s total history” (Jenson 1988, p. 69). “Common benefits,” as well as other ordinary objects and occurrences, “are as much immediately from God as man’s highest perfection and happiness; i.e., one is as much by the direct present exercise of the power of God as the other. But there is this difference: common benefits are statedly connected with previous things in the creature, so that they are in a sense dependent on the creature” (i.e., are uniformly or regularly connected with it law-like ways). But “the excellence and blessedness of the soul is connected only with the will of God, and is dependent on nothing else;” it isn’t a term in a natural regularity (Misc. 481, in Works, vol. 13, pp. 523–524).

13


211

It is doubtful that this fully disposes of the problem, however. On Edwards’s view, God is the immediate and only true cause of the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of the ungodly as well as those of the saints. To differentiate the latter from the former in the manner suggested, Edwards must show that the mental acts of the ungodly “are statedly connected with previous things in the creature” in a way in which those of the saints are not. It isn’t clear how Edwards could do this, though, since on the face of it, the mental acts of the ungodly seem no more tightly bound up with local regularities than the mental acts of the saints.13 The problem is solved, however, if “the Spirit of God. . .communicates and exerts itself in the soul [of the saint] in those acts which are its proper, natural, and essential acts in itself ad intra, or within the Deity from all eternity,” and “the act which is its nature, and wherein its being consists is. . .divine love” (Misc. 471, in Works, vol. 13, p. 513). There is therefore this difference between God’s relation to the thoughts, feelings, and intentions of the ungodly and his relation to those of the saints; the latter are God’s acts and the former are not. This also explains how benevolence is grounded in the nature of things as Edwards believes. If the love of the saints just is God’s love, and God’s love is the Holy Spirit, then any instance of true benevolence is an act of the infinite and omnipotent benevolence which lies at the heart of reality. All of this works, however, only if the saints’ acts (or love) are literally God’s acts (or love), and Edwards himself seems to sometimes express doubts on the matter. Thus, shortly after claiming that in communicating “divine love to the creature. . .God’s spirit or love doth but communicate of itself; ‘tis the same love, so far as a creature is capable of being made partaker of it,” he appears to qualify this by saying: “The scripture seems in many places to speak of love in Christians as if it were the same with the Spirit of God in them, or at least as the prime and most natural breathing and acting of the Spirit in the soul” (Discourse on the Trinity, Works, vol. 21, p. 123f., 125, my emphasis). Moreover, just how can the saints’ acts be God’s acts? Not just in the way an ambassador’s acts are the king’s acts or a viceroy’s acts are his emperor’s, or my agent’s acts are mine for the relation in these cases is juridical,14 and we are looking for something more ontological. A closer analogy may be provided by cases in which the principal’s intentions, purposes, and desire’s become the intentions, purposes, and desires of his or her ambassador, viceroy, or agent, i.e., don’t merely preempt the intentions, purposes, and desires of the latter but are existentially appropriated by them. But even this yields no more than a relation of imitation, not the identity relation that Edwards characteristically insists on. Still, a sufficiently close resemblance relation might be enough to not only distinguish God’s relation to the saints from his relation to the ungodly, but to also explain 13 Neither (pace Edwards’s determinism) can they be accounted for by purely empirical (i.e., scientific) regularities. Again, the acts of the ungodly are, on Edwards’s view, a necessary consequence of Adam’s sin and God’s decision to impute that sin to Adam’s descendants. But similarly, the spiritual motions of the saints are a necessary consequence of Christ’s obedience and sacrifice and God’s decision to impute Christ’s righteousness to the elect. 14 One’s acts count as the other’s.

13

212


why true benevolence is grounded in the nature of things. For the saints’ actions and temper mirror God’s action and temper in a way in which the actions and temper of the ungodly do not. The saints’ benevolence is appropriately related to objective reality because it resembles or is an image of it. Nature’s activity, on Edwards’s view is really God’s activity. Love is a “natural” or fitting reaction to reality because it imitates the action of nature itself. The necessity of the soteriological relation The sections on the ontological and moral relation have argued that, on Edwards’s view, God is logically implicated in our existence, ontological identity, and moral selfhood. If he is, then the concept of humanity implicitly includes the concept of God. The logical relations between humanity and its final good15 are less direct, however. Edwards shares the traditional view that humans don’t necessarily participate in this good. Nor does he clearly think it necessarily true that all humans are potential participants in the good in question since, on his view, our very ability to participate in God’s life is a free gift.16 On the other hand, it appears to be necessarily true that humans qua humans have the passive ability to receive this freely bestowed capacity.17 Moreover, the story of the world on Edwards’s view is the story of God’s redemption of fallen humanity through Jesus Christ and, as beneficiaries of that redemption, that God has freely restored the capacity to participate in God’s life that Adam lost is essential to us.18 But the connection may be even tighter than that. I have argued elsewhere (Wainwright 1996) that Edward’s metaphysical premises implicitly commit him to the claim that God necessarily creates this word rather than others he might have created instead. If they do, then Edwards is also committed to the view that everything that occurs in this world is metaphysically necessary.19 It follows that if (e.g.) Peter is saved, it is necessarily true that Peter is saved. If it is, then being saved is part of Peter’s essence, and so too is his membership in the Body of Christ, the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, and everything else that is essentially included in his everlasting participation in the Supreme Good. So even though salvation isn’t included in humanity’s essence, it is (on Edwards’s view) implicitly included in the individual essences of each member of the elect! 15 Namely, salvation understood as an everlasting loving union with God. 16 Traditional discussions of Adam’s fall are instructive in this regard since they often suggest that the

ability to share in the supreme good which Adam possessed in his unfallen state had been added to his human nature, not in included in it. See, for example, Edwards’s discussion in Original Sin (Works, vol. 3), pp. 380–388. 17 Or, in any case, the capacity isn’t inconsistent with their nature. 18 That is, the capacity in question is no longer merely logically consistent with our nature qua human,

it is a capacity that, because of God’s intervention in Christ, we now actually possess. 19 Edwards’s view in this respect is like Leibniz’s. This world can be exhaustively described by the con-

junction of all true propositions. God’s creation of this world is logically equivalent to his instantiation of this conjunction. Since Edwards’s metaphysical premises entail that he must instantiate this conjunction, its instantiation is metaphysically necessary. But if the instantiation of a conjunction is metaphysically necessary, then so too is the instantiation of each of its conjuncts.

13


213

References Berkeley, G. (1901). The works of George Berkeley (4 Vols.). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Edwards, J. (1957). In P. Ramsey (Ed.), The freedom of the will (The works of Jonathan Edwards, vol. 1). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (1959). In J. E. Smith (Ed.), Religious affections (Works, vol. 2). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (1970). In C. A. Holbrook (Ed.), Original sin (Works, vol. 3). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (1980). In W. E. Anderson (Ed.), Scientific and philosophical writings (Works, vol. 6). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (1989). The nature of true virtue. In P. Ramsey (Ed.), Ethical writings (Works, vol. 8). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (1994). In T. A. Schafer (Ed.), The “Miscellanies,” a-500 (Works, vol. 13). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (1999). God glorified in man’s dependence. In M. Valeri (Ed.), Sermons and discourses: 1730-1733 (Works, vol. 17). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2000). The “Miscellanies,” 501-832 (Works, vol. 18). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2001). Justification by faith alone. In M. X. Lesser (Ed.), Sermons and discourses: 1734-1738 (Works, vol. 19). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2002). In A. Chamberlain (Ed.), The “Miscellanies,” 833-1152 (Works, vol. 20). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2003a). Treatise on grace. In S. H. Lee (Ed.), Writings on the trinity, grace, and faith (Works, vol. 21). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2003b). Discourse on the trinity. In S. H. Lee (Ed.), Writings on the trinity, grace, and faith (Works, vol. 21). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2004). In A. P. Pauw (Ed.), The “Miscellanies,” 1153-1360 (Works, vol. 23). New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, J. (2006). Saving faith and Christian obedience arise from godly love. In W. H. Kimnach (Ed.), Sermons and discourses: 1743-1758 (Works, vol. 25). New Haven: Yale University Press. Gillis, J. R. (1997). A world of their own making: Myth, ritual, and the quest for family values. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Jenson, R. W. (1988). America’s theologian. New York: Oxford University Press. Locke, J. (1959). An essay concerning human understanding (2 Vols.). New York: Dover. Nuttall, G. (1992). The holy spirit in puritan faith and experience. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Swinburne, R. (1977). The coherence of theism. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Wainwright, W. J. (1996). Jonathan Edwards, William Rowe, and the necessity of creation. In J. Jordan & D. Howard-Snyder (Eds.), Faith, freedom, and rationality. Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield.

13

International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, Volume 68, Numbers 1-3, December 2010

International Journal of Diabetes Mellitus, December 2010

Canadian Journal of Philosophy, Volume 40, Number 4, December 2010

International Journal for Philosophy of Religion Volume 63, Numbers 1-3 February 2008

Drug Discovery Today, December 2010, Volume 15, Numbers 23 24

Oil & Gas Financial Journal - December 2010

Oil & Gas Journal - December 27, 2010

MSDN Magazine - The Microsoft Journal For Developers - December 2010

Nature Biotechnology 12 2010 (magazine journal; December 2010)

The Perl Journal (December)

Dr. Dobb's Journal (December)

International Review of Neurobiology Volume 13

Critical Journal of Philosophy

New Essays in the Philosophy of Education (International Library of the Philosophy of Education Volume 13)

National Geographic December 2010

Entrepreneur - December 2010

Consumer Reports - December 2010

Automobile December 2010

ArtReview Magazine, December 2010

Scientific American - December 2010

Circuit Cellar December, 2010

Algorithms and Models for the Web-Graph: 7th International Workshop, WAW 2010, Stanford, CA, USA, December 13-14, 2010, Proceedings

Journal of Chiropractic Humanities: Volume 16, Issue 1, (December 2009)

Esquire USA December 2010

Offshore Magazine - December 2010

Journal of Cardiology Cases (2010)

Introducing Philosophy of Religion

Philosophy of Religion

Kant's philosophy of religion

Introducing Philosophy Of Religion

Philosophy of Religion

International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, Volume 68, Numbers 1-3, December 2010

International Journal of Diabetes Mellitus, December 2010

Canadian Journal of Philosophy, Volume 40, Number 4, December 2010

International Journal for Philosophy of Religion Volume 63, Numbers 1-3 February 2008

Drug Discovery Today, December 2010, Volume 15, Numbers 23 24

Oil & Gas Financial Journal - December 2010

Oil & Gas Journal - December 27, 2010

MSDN Magazine - The Microsoft Journal For Developers - December 2010

Nature Biotechnology 12 2010 (magazine journal; December 2010)

The Perl Journal (December)

Dr. Dobb's Journal (December)

International Review of Neurobiology Volume 13

Critical Journal of Philosophy

New Essays in the Philosophy of Education (International Library of the Philosophy of Education Volume 13)

National Geographic December 2010

Entrepreneur - December 2010

Consumer Reports - December 2010

Automobile December 2010

ArtReview Magazine, December 2010

Scientific American - December 2010

Circuit Cellar December, 2010

Algorithms and Models for the Web-Graph: 7th International Workshop, WAW 2010, Stanford, CA, USA, December 13-14, 2010, Proceedings

Journal of Chiropractic Humanities: Volume 16, Issue 1, (December 2009)

Esquire USA December 2010

Offshore Magazine - December 2010

Journal of Cardiology Cases (2010)

Introducing Philosophy of Religion

Philosophy of Religion

Kant's philosophy of religion

Introducing Philosophy Of Religion

Philosophy of Religion

Recommend Documents