Notes for a Conversation with My Friends, the Atheist Respecters of Transencence, Part I

My dear friends, even though you are all basically agnostic or atheistic in your thinking and I am a Christian (and a pretty theologically conservative or orthodox one at that,) I do so appreciate and enjoy our discussions on the idea of transcendence and the philosophical categories involved in thinking about it, I would like to delve deeper into that conversation here.

You have quoted approvingly Wittgenstein's statement that "what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence." [1] I would happily agree that there is an important truth in this statement not just for the atheist respecter of transcendence but also – or even especially – for the Christian. (Another part of me bristles at the presumption of Wittgenstein’s ‘must’. Whence comes his right to make such an authoritative claims? But I’m getting ahead of myself.) Since I have assumed that you are either atheist or agnostic [2] with respect to belief in god, but have this idea of an ineffable transcendence, I have decided to call you atheist respecters of transcendence. [3]

There are a few points I want to develop here. In this Part I posting, I will try to describe, as far as possible, the common ground we seem to share in our view of transcendent reality and the attendant difficulties that inhere in using finite language to talk about it. Then I will try to describe how postmodern thought – insofar as it undermines any strict dichotomy between faith and reason – makes religious speech, knowledge and thus the religious life, more not less tenable. In subsequent posts, I will address further outcomes of this paradigm change in epistemology.

First, in Part II, I will flesh out the argument touched on here that the only understandings truly troubled by the postmodern turn, are those based upon a purportedly neutral view of truth. I will look especially at the idea of atheism’s alleged ethical superiority using the arguments of the current crop of apologists for atheism: Dawkins, Dennett, Harris and Hitchens, as case studies.

In Part III, I will explain a possible Christian response to postmodern thought, namely, how the way past the impasse of the apophatic impulse is to be more, not less, open to tradition-based teachings, institutional understandings and in-credible stories of transcendence. Included in this, I will discuss the paradoxical nature of Christian teaching, arguing that it essentially always incorporates into its positive theological assertions, strong negative theological elements.

If I’m able to continue on to a Part IV, it will be on how, a trajectory parallel to that of the postmodern critique of modernity and resultant re-opening to tradition would be exactly the path required of any post/modern human commitment robust enough to undo the imprisonment of the self from its own bubble of narcissism.

Now, we have discussed the idea of transcendence but not what transcendence means. So before I explore how the postmodern outlook affects the discussion, we have to stake out some common ground in our views of the nature of transcendence. One of the difficulties with the conversation though, is that its very possibility is a big part of what needs to be discussed. I’m not assuming that everyone would immediately agree with the picture I describe, nihilism is still a live option, I am just trying to cautiously lay out a shared sense or intuition we, and many others, all seem to have. To pin down a reason isn’t my goal here, but just to give outlines of what we seem to share, experientially or phenomenologically, in order to move forward to the topic of how one could talk about any possible transcendent reality.

To explain my use of the word transcendence, I will use a few examples of ways or even degrees that something can be described as transcendent. To begin with the most mundane: as I look at a three-dimensional object, say a cup, the far side of the cup transcends me perceptually, but not essentially, I can simply turn the cup around and that transcendence is flattened. [4]

To skip ahead a little, there is a deeper way in which the past, even my own past experience, transcends me. It is not present to me for perception in any first-hand way, thus any views I have on it are at best theories and partial reconstructions. This transcendence is no longer accidental, able to be undone like the far side of the cup, but essential to the nature of what is experienced.

For my purposes, the really interesting step occurs when we talk about the experience of other persons. To encounter another person is to encounter some’thing’ which, no matter how familiar, or known or even studied, will always, and essentially exceed my comprehension. [5] Imagine the most brilliant psychologist in the world who also happened to be in possession of a machine which could scan an individual’s body and brain in a way as far beyond today’s MRI as an MRI is beyond an x-ray. Then make the person under observation the scientist’s spouse of 50 years. We would still say that, beyond the amazing amount of detail available, there is an essential something that cannot be grasped. As much as we might think the mind arises or emerges from the brain’s functioning and personhood from the interaction of the brain and the body, most of us would say that you or I cannot be merely reduced to these things. To put it another way: another’s stream of consciousness can never fully overlap with one’s own. We are always, irreducibly, mysteries to one another.

I think we are on common ground so far, but I also believe that we can go one step further. It also seems to me that we find ourselves believing that there is some type of existence or some quality of experience that is more essentially transcendent of us; something from which these other instances of transcendence derive their transcendence; something that is at the very least phenomenologically and ethically transcendent, but that also defies description in any human categories including, but not limited to, current scientific, philosophical or religious categories, but probably also any imaginable future category. Some might describe this as a god or God, but to others it might be a philosophical notion anywhere from a Platonic form like Truth or Beauty, all the way to Derrida’s idea of the undeconstrucible, in the name of which deconstructions are carried out (i.e. the Justice in the name of which all particular instantiations of justice are deconstructed). This would mean that whatever concepts one could bring to bear on whatever is behind this experience of transcendence, those concepts would even more so than for the above categories of transcendence, essentially and always fail to completely capture what they are pointing to. [6]

John Caputo (perhaps another atheist respecter of transcendence) wrote, in an intensification of Wittgenstein’s sentiment, that “by the time one has said that something is ineffable, that one cannot say a thing, one has already been speaking for some time and one has already said too much.” [7] On this view, not only is every interpretation of the absolute imperfect insofar as it misses something, the very act of predicating something to that which is beyond predication is a mistaken undertaking. Caputo notes the difficulty of remaining faithful to this insight in thinkers from contemporary philosophers to Christian mystics like Meister Eckhart, who all want to insist on the absolutely indescribable nature of the absolute but who also spend gallons of ink and reams of paper saying exactly why this is the case. It feels a bit like the bind one finds oneself in claiming “the only rule is that there are no rules.” Is this just hypocrisy or paradox or both?

It’s clear that both atheist respecters of transcendence and Christian namers of the ineffable together, contra Wittgenstein and the apophatic impulse generally, seem to be compelled somehow to speak on this subject, even if it is only to make negative statements. My own wrestling with this issue has been specifically over whether this type of via negativa, can also incorporate any positive pronouncements on the nature of transcendence. If we agree that every truth claim made about the ultimate is wrong, I want to add that some are clearly more wrong than others, which means that some are more right. (See my earlier post on Deb Rienstra’s beautiful way of putting this.) So the question really becomes whether purely apophatic thinking is even humanly possible, leave alone desirable. I take it as a matter of deductive logic that any statement of the form “God is not…” or “the transcendent is not…,” if true, reveals knowledge of the transcendent. This might appear a simplistic conclusion, but the implications for how to think and speak of ultimate things are broad.

We all feel, not just comfortable in pointing to different social orders and saying “this is not just!” We would insist on it as a right, even perhaps a duty to do so. When asked to define Justice itself though, we are at a loss to do justice to it. (Try to imagine yourself as a character in a Socratic dialogue making this attempt and succeeding in a way that would compel the great gadfly to agree with you and you’ll know what I mean.) So too, I’m comfortable saying God is not the flying spaghetti monster, Thor, Zeus, myself, nature or even just the the Prime Mover. But in the name of what or whom do I say this?

It’s not fair to, on one hand, commit (or submit?) to a belief in a positive understanding of Justice through critiquing fallible instantiations of the ideal, and then on the other hand argue that it’s incoherent to believe there is a God, who is by definition conceptually transcendent, just because one isn’t able to provide a proper definition. I am not making the argument (at least at this point) that if you believe there is such a thing as Truth, you have to agree with me that there is a God who is the source of it. But, it is only fair that if you find it credible to set the bar at one level for thinking about one class of transcendent ideas you can’t suddenly jack it up for another. If we can muddle about making our provisional theories about the nature of Truth, Justice, Beauty, and Love, and even act upon them, then we are at least as justified epistemically to proceed in like manner with respect to the divine.

To insist on speaking about the unspeakable “is not a matter of ‘giving up the infinite’ but rather of giving up the assumption that the only way to ‘do justice’ to the infinite is to speak of it in its infinity - which, of course, is impossible.” [8] Perhaps it is a better service to Justice to make our best attempts at bringing it about according to our limited understanding than to just sit on our hands out of false humility, and perhaps it is more respectful of the transcendent to name it God and worship him, than to just feign absolute ignorance.

Thus far I’ve been trying to deal with the background of approaching the infinite with finite words. Now what does postmodernism have to do with this picture? First, let me provide some tentative definitions. When I use the word modern or modernism, I refer roughly to the period immediately following the Enlightenment, up to and possibly including today. The Enlightenment itself is of course at least as complex a phenomenon as postmodernism, but I will rely on a terribly simplistic working definition to function as a launching point: that of Hans-George Gadamer’s characterization of the Enlightenment as having a basic “prejudice against prejudice”. [9] The paradigmatic example is, as always, Rene Descartes and his 'discovery’ of hyperbolic doubt as the way to true knowledge. The idea is that we should doubt everything (again, says who?) until compelled to belief on pure, objective, rational grounds. Doubt, in other words, is given the benefit of, well, doubt. All beliefs are guilty until proven innocent. All prejudices are prejudicially swept aside. Descartes famously comes to all kinds of conclusions, including the existence of God, as if out of thin air, and while his success is not very accepted, his method and standard of what counts as success have stood as the ideals behind most of western philosophy ever since.

One of the key elements in the formation of the Enlightenment was its reaction to the confessional wars. The Catholics were fighting the Protestants, the Protestants were fighting Radical Protestants, all (apparently) over theological differences. So it made some sense then – since it seemed to be these stories and prejudices which were dividing us – to have thought that we needed to get beyond them in order to establish peace. It is no accident that the seeds of postmodernism, already perhaps sowed in the 19th century, began to sprout in the aftermath of the World Wars which were seen in many quarters as a signal of the failure of the Enlightenment project. The time period that saw the rise of postmodern thought was also defined by the Cold War, a conflict which, while threatening the very extinction of the species due to the facing-off of two superpowers, was carried out by the nations which were most thoroughly rooted in and defined by modernist philosophies. Both communism and capitalism can be easily described as different versions of the story that humanity is on a march of progress toward inevitable utopia. The nations that had the strongest beliefs about their representation of objective justice and morality seemed the most bent on killing each other with the real danger of taking the rest of the world with them.

To turn the discussion to this emerging postmodern thought, it is first necessary to distinguish postmodernism from postmodernity, the latter of which I take to be a cultural context while the former is more a philosophical sensibility. While the two inevitably have an intertwining cause-and-effect relationship, I limit my comments to postmodernism. Even cutting the matter down in this way still leaves a huge topic. But since I’m not attempting an exhaustive study, I’m just going to jump in head-first again and go with the definition used by Lyotard who described postmodernism as “incredulity toward metanarratives.” [10]

The crux of this definition is obviously in how one defines a metanarrative. Many responses to postmodernism implicitly assume that religions like Christianity are metanarratives par excellence and thus, depending on who’s doing the reacting, either Christianity or postmodernism is to be rejected. I do not take this view. Christianity does have an explicit teaching on the past, present and future, not only of every human being’s life, but also of humanity, life and the world itself. If Christianity is true, then it affects everything.

So how can this not be a metanarrative? Maybe the misunderstanding arises from a lack of Greek vocabulary. The “meta” of metanarrative basically means beyond, so a metanarrative is beyond a narrative in a way roughly analogous to the way metaphysics (dealing with the nature of reality – determining what kinds of things exist) is beyond physics. The story goes that the librarians at the ancient library in Alexandria were categorizing the works of Aristotle and when they got to the philosophical works they didn’t have a word for, simply labeled them metaphysics, because they were shelved after, and were obviously different from, the works on physics. Now it would be nonsensical if a physicist felt he had to give up his understanding of the world gained from Newton, Einstein and Hawking because he read yet another philosopher declare the end of metaphysics. But this is the reaction that some Christians have, or others expect them to have, toward their beliefs in the light of postmodern thought.

Jamie Smith writes that in defining metanarratives, “what is at stake is not the scope of these narratives but the nature of the claims they make. For Lyotard, metanarratives are a distinctly modern phenomenon: they are stories which not only tell a grand story (since even premodern and tribal stories do this), but also claim to be able to legitimate the story and its claims by an appeal to universal Reason. On Lyotard’s account, the Enuma Elish, though telling a story that is universal or grand in scope, is nevertheless not a metanarrative because it does not claim to legitimate itself by an appeal to scientific Reason. On the other hand, Lyotard sees classical Marxism as a metanarrative insofar as it claims to be a system legitimated by Reason, and therefore to be universally accepted on that basis.” [11] So much for postmodernism.

To connect the two ideas, I take it that the Enlightenment began as a heightened suspicion of local narratives; any particular or historically-based tradition which claimed to connect to Truth. Postmodernism then is really a kind of extension of, or even hyper-modernity, as it turns suspicion toward the Enlightenment itself, seeing it as merely the tradition of being against traditions, or as just another story about the origins and ends of mankind. (Once upon a time, say the objective philosophers, there was the state of nature where there was a war of all against all. Since then, we have been steadily marching forward in progress – with the occasional setback - and we will one day live happily ever after.)

Enlightenment thinkers doubted faith in order to seek knowledge, postmodern thinkers have doubts even about doubt and either give up on attaining real knowledge of the world, becoming nihilistic, or recognize that some sort of leap of faith is the necessary beginning of knowledge. But it’s not so much that postmodern theories of interpretation imply one needs to make a leap of faith, but that even to hold out on faith is itself a faith-like commitment. What the break-down of the dichotomy between faith and reason entails is that any interpretive, hermeneutic commitment, including of course moral ones, are always already faith commitments.

When doubt is made the primary means of attaining knowledge, we should hardly be surprised when we only end up with more doubts. It seems like the path of doubt, once begun, works like a kind of Chinese finger trap: the harder one tries to free oneself, the more stuck one gets.

So there are really two moves going on here. The first is, in pointing to the fundamental faith commitments of all interpretations, postmodernism levels the playing field for all modes of discourse, whether they be scientific, rationalistic or religious. [12] The second is to point out the fundamental difference between self-consciously, narratively-based belief systems, like religions with a founding myth which they need not be embarrassed about unabashedly proclaiming, and stories whose very tale seeks conceal its basic narrative character, like modernist beliefs in Truth, Justice, Humanity and Freedom.

Another way to look at this is through the claim made in modern society and politics that what is needed is a naked public square. To extend the image, it is as if the emperor of modernity has mandated a neutral space where everyone must shed the clothing of their respective presuppositions and faith commitments before entering. Postmodernity is like the child pointing out, “The emperor has clothes! Everyone in this square is still fully clothed and just pretending to be naked.” The emperor, himself luxuriously clad, and his followers are all duly ashamed. [13] The Christian is not troubled by this, she knows, at least when properly reminded, that her belief in God is not arrived at from an objective standpoint but always and only through faith seeking understanding. If the Christian thought there were some basis on which to believe in God other than God himself, they would obviously be worshipping in the wrong direction.

In conclusion, though my Christian beliefs are not dependent upon postmodern philosophy, I do find myself compelled by some of its ways of viewing the world and ways of human knowing in the world. I find in postmodernism a peculiar kind of ally; a sort of enemy-of-my-enemy, contingent alliance. Insofar as I find myself in dialogue with atheist thinkers who are still wedded to modernist epistemological assumptions, postmodernism is a useful tool not only because it deflects some of their more strident criticisms of faith in general and Christianity in particular, but also because it ironically makes those criticisms seem even less tenable than ever on their own terms! I will turn to the question of how criticisms of faith commitments backfire on the more militant atheists in Part II.

For now, Adieu and Goodbye (God-Be-With-Ye)!


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notes
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1. Wittgenstein, Tractacus Logico-Philosophicus, proposition 7

2. I’m taking up atheism as the more appropriate term. Agnosticism – without knowledge – is to me not an interesting middle ground between theism and atheism. Even vocal atheists admit the possibility that there could be a God, they don’t claim certain knowledge that there is no God, they just don’t believe in one, they lack theistic belief: a-theism. The orthodox Christian is really agnostic about God as her belief is based on faith and not the pure and certain knowledge to which the modern definition of agnosticism seems to oppose itself. It’s also important to remember the arch-enemy of orthodoxy in ancient and modern times, was and is Gnosticism. So it would make sense that orthodox Christian belief is in an important sense agnostic as well.

3. I apologize if this nomenclature feels limiting and I will happily refine it if you think it's a mischaracterization. But you see, I just can't help using labels, imperfect approximations of reality, as a means of moving forward. I also understand that I'm speaking to multiple people and that there are differences in your opinions. But I'm doing my best to address what seem to be common elements in your thinking.

4. I don’t remember which particular professor of mine used this analogy, it was probably more than one. (Maybe all philosophy professors use something like it.) I’ll just cite my reference as: Calvin College philosophy department, 2002-2004

5. I’m relying here on my understanding of Levinas & Derrida’s treatment of what they call the essential Otherness or alterity of human persons one to another.

6. Trying to describe the phenomenological transcendence of the four examples I’m dealing with is difficult because I’m trying to describe different levels of qualitative difference. A rough analogy would be to say that to go from black-and-white to color is one qualitative change, but to go then to 3-dimensional moving images is a greater qualitative change.

7. Caputo, Against Ethics, p. 75

8. Smith, The Fall of Interpretation, p. 129

9. Gadamer, Truth and Method, p. 273

10. Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge, xxiv

11. Smith "A little story about Metanarratives" In Christianity and the Postmodern Turn, p. 125

12. This leveling of the playing field does not mean an anything-goes relativism of interpretations.It just means there is no neutral or objective perspective on any class of knowledge. I guess a conclusion one could take is that “I’ll just think whatever ever I please”, and believe, for example, that the earth is in the center of the universe because the Bible says so. It’s true, this probably couldn’t be proven false. But this would be a silly conclusion. It would be to give up on the task of hermeneutic discernment, missing the other half of the statement that some conclusions are better than others.

13. I thought I made this up, but later (re)discovered that the source for this metaphor is from Smith, Introducing Radical Orthodoxy: Mapping a Post-Secular Theology, p. 182-83

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Gotta problem with your religion? Good.

"Just on a theoretical level there is a mistake in going from the background you come from to an entirely fresh background. The way you know that a religion is your religion is that you have problems with it. If you don’t have problems with it, it’s not your religion."

This quote is from an interview with Philip Groening about his new film Into Great Silence. I liked it so much because I think it succinctly addresses a topic that is often on my mind: the problem of shopping around for a religion, or for that matter, a denomination or congregation.

Lord, I pray that I will never cease having problems with the religion through which I find myself being reached by you.

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Hermeneutical Headaches or, Why Libraries Make Me Dizzy

I love to read. I also find reading excruciating. I'm usually reading a number of books at a time which is nothing unusual, but what might be different about me - and which my wife, Marie, at least finds insane - is that I usually know how many pages I have left to the next chapter and to the end of each book. It's a cliché for avid readers to say they're sad when a good book comes to an end. I do have that experience, but usually I can't wait until I finish a book so I can start another one.

The root source of my impatience (let's call it what it is) arises from the combination of my wanting to read every beautiful, informative, clever, important, in short: every worthwhile book, while, having worked in bookstores for seven years, being pretty well aware of just how many worthwhile books are out there. It's a lot. But this is only the beginning. The main reason libraries (my shorthand for the sum of human knowledge) are prone to having deleterious effects on me is that not only do I want to read so many books, but I want to already have read them.

Mark Twain said that "A classic is something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read". I take his meaning to be that people want the cachet of having-read the classics: showing off a degree of education, name-dropping esoteric authors and making highfalutin literary references (I think 'highfalutin' is the language Huck would use - [that was a shameless ploy to show I've actually read Twain]). I may be as guilty of this literary snobbery as the next person but that's not the real reason I want not just to read, but to have-read, well, everything.

The first reason is that what I enjoy even more than reading a book is discussing an already-read book with another. The opportunities for that are few and far between these days though, so that's not really it either. More than anything else, what makes my head spin around stacks of books is the hermeneutical circle involved in making one's way through them. The hermeneutical circle as applied to a particular work is the idea that one understands the work as a whole in terms of its constituent parts, and understands each part in terms of one's understanding of the whole. If we take a book like the Bible for example, we would obviously say that one doesn't understand it until one has read the whole thing. The concept of the hermeneutical circle would add that one can't have a full understanding, even of Genesis, till one has gotten through Revelation. But once we've done that, we have to re-read Genesis in light of our new understanding, which changes our view of everything else, and so on and so forth ad infinitum. Suffice it to say that if we read through a book once, we've only just begun.

If this picture isn't daunting enough, we have to add in all the knowledge outside of the book that is required to read (understand) it more fully.( Notice I didn't say outside the text! [Oh shame on me, another "look-at-how-smart-I-am" reference.]) So let's say I want to read a certain novel I've heard great things about. So I read it. Then I read it a few more times, studying all angles, the beginning in light of the ending and vice versa etc. Then I think, I should read it in the original French. So I learn French and read it again. But the novel is set in the Sixteenth century, so I should read everything I can about that period. But the author wrote it during World War II, so I should read everything I can about that period to understand the author's context. But what if I'm not sure how this whole reading and learning thing works at all? I need to read books on linguistics, hermeneutics, the philosophies of language and interpretation, learn those work's original languages, historical contexts etc. etc. The rabbit hole goes pretty far down.

Tentative Conclusion:

Perhaps if one were able to fully read any one text, one would by definition have read every text; one would be - omniscient.

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The Sopranos: Science & the Meaning of Life

In season 6, episode 4 of The Sopranos, Tony's in the hospital recovering from a gunshot wound and the resulting surgery. He's been reading a kid's book on dinosaurs, the only reading material around, when he turns to his nephew Christopher, and says, "Get this. It says here if the history of the planet was represented by the empire state building, the time that human beings have been on earth would only be a postage stamp at the very top. You realize how insignificant that makes us."

Christopher replies matter of factly, "I don't feel that way" gets up and walks away.

What a humorous lesson on how to elegantly deal with the tendency of some scientists and scholars to overinterpret the facts. Beautiful.

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Kierkegaard on Monasticism

Soren Kierkegaard is quoted as the epigraph of Nancy Klein Maguire's An Infinity of Little Hours, as saying:

"Of this there is not doubt, our age and Protestantism in general may need the monastery again, or wish it were there. The 'monastery' is an essential dialectical element in Christianity. We therefore need it out there like a navigation buoy at sea in order to see where we are, even though I myself would not enter it. But if there really is true Christianity in every generation, there must also be individuals who have this need..."



I love reading Kierkegaard. He's not always the easiest on his readers, but the reward is always well worth the work. He is also one of the few philosophers that regularly makes me laugh out loud. I was surprised though to read him with anything like the above positive appraisal of monasticism in the light of his emphasis on the individual's conversion experience and his trenchant critique of Christendom.

Monasticism can be two different, though not necessarily mutually exclusive, things. On the one hand it can be an individual's path of intense devotion and zealous attempt at attaining perfection. This is the only thing most people picture when they imagine the life of a monk. On the other hand, at least in its oldest, largest and most influential form, the Benedictine tradition practices communal sanctification and communal salvation. It emphasizes what is true of Christian teaching in general: that there is no salvation for any individual apart from the body of believers.

I'm not sure which conception of the monastic Kierkegaard would have had in mind, but I wholeheartedly agree with his sentiment on its continued necessity to those within and without its cloisters.

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