The following is based on some thoughts I shared during the Zoom webcast of the "Faith at Eight" service at our (online) church, during the COVID-19 pandemic, on Sunday, June 15th, 2020. This was in the aftermath of the murder of George Floyd (on May 25, 2020) and the subsequent wave of protests that swept across the country.
I'm not sure whether Christian theology is adequate for the present moment, and whether it's really attuned to the suffering of those protesting that "I Can't Breathe," and "Black Lives Matter."
In the lectionary readings of the Episcopal Church the last two months, we've had a steady stream of readings that tell us that suffering is good for us, and that it builds character.
On May 3rd, the Fourth Sunday after Easter, we had a reading from 1Peter 2: 19-25: "It is a credit to you if, being aware of God, you endure pain while suffering unjustly. If you endure when you are beaten for doing wrong, what credit is that? But if you endure when you do right and suffer for it, you have God's approval. For to this you have been called, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example, so that you should follow in his steps."
On May 17th, the Sixth Sunday after Easter, we had another reading from 1Peter 3: 13-22: "Now who will harm you if you are eager to do what is good? But even if you do suffer for doing what is right, you are blessed...For it is better to suffer for doing good, if suffering should be God's will, than to suffer for doing evil. For Christ also suffered for sins once for all, the righteous for the unrighteous, in order to bring you to God."
On May 24th, the Seventh Sunday after Easter, we had still another reading from 1Peter 4:12-14, 5:6-11: "Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal that is taking place among you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you, But rejoice insofar as you are sharing Christ's sufferings, so that you may also be glad and shout for joy when his glory is revealed."
And on June 15th, the Second Sunday after Pentecost, we had a reading from Romans 5:1-6, which said, "Since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us."
I think we should be very suspicious of biblical teachings telling us that suffering is good for us, and that we should rejoice and feel blessed in our suffering. I can see that perhaps we could feel blessed while we suffer, but how can we really feel blessed that we suffer?
I think we may need do some critical reevaluation of the Christian concept of suffering.
I also think we should be particularly suspicious when Christianity tells black people that it's good for them to suffer. There's been a long history of Christianity being used as an instrument of subjugation and oppression, and of its telling blacks, Hispanics, Native Americans, and other people of color that suffering is good for them.
James Baldwin, in an essay entitled "Letter from a Region in My Mind," published in The New Yorker in 1962, talks about what we can do about suffering. He doesn't seem to see suffering as simply a yoke on our backs, but rather as something from which we as a country can be redeemed. He says,
"This past, the Negro's past, of rope, fire, torture...rape, death and humiliation; fear by day and night...doubt that he was worthy of life, since everyone around him denied it...this past, this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity...yet contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful. I do not mean to be sentimental about suffering...but people who cannot suffer can never grow up, can never discover who they are. That man who is forced each day to snatch his manhood, his identity, out of the fire of human cruelty that rages to destroy it knows, if he survives his effort, and even if he does not survive it, something about himself and human life that no school on earth--and indeed, no church--can teach..."1
So there may be a dynamic between, or question about, whether suffering is empowering or disempowering.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in his writings, sermons, and speeches, emphasizes the redemptive aspect of suffering. In an article for The Christian Century (1960), he says,
"My personal trials have also taught me the value of unmerited suffering. As my sufferings mounted I soon realized that there were two ways that I could respond to my situation: either to react with bitterness or seek to transform the suffering into a creative force. I decided to follow the latter course. Recognizing the necessity for suffering I have tried to make of it a virtue. If only to save myself from bitterness, I have attempted to see my personal ordeals as an opportunity to transform myself and heal the people involved in the tragic situation which now obtains. I have lived these last few years with the conviction that unearned suffering is redemptive."2
I think we need to be very wary, however, of the tendency in Christian theology to see suffering as good in itself.
The German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, in On the Genealogy of Morality (1877), distinguishes between master morality and slave morality, and he describes Christianity as an example of slave morality. Christianity, by attempting to "improve" us, actually weakens and subjugates us, he says. By emphasizing self-sacrifice and self-denial, Christianity represents a denial of the will to live.
Nietzsche was interested in saying "Yes" to life, and in affirming the will to live. Thus, he rejected anything he saw as life-denying or as denying the will to live. For Nietzsche, the Christian concept of God is a concept of nothingness. God is dead. And in On the Genealogy of Morality, he says,
"What actually arouses indignation over suffering is not the suffering itself, but the senselessness of suffering: but neither for the Christian, who saw in suffering a whole, hidden machinery of salvation, nor for naive man in ancient times, who saw all suffering in relation to spectators or to instigators of suffering, was there any such senseless suffering. In order to rid the world of concealed, undiscovered, unseen suffering and to deny it in all honesty, people were then practically obliged to invent gods" [or God] in order to explain or make sense of senseless suffering.3
So there may also be a dynamic between master morality and slave morality, for those trying to make sense of their suffering.
I think white America would like nothing better than for black America to accept a kind of slave morality, and for black Americans to rejoice and feel blessed in their suffering. Maybe that's why we have black theology, feminist theology, womanist theology, queer theology, and other liberation theologies, because we need a faith that liberates us from suffering and oppression. We need a faith that speaks to us, that recognizes us for who we are, that sees that Christ suffers with and for us, and that recognizes that Christ came to us to free us from suffering.
The German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, whose concept of the will to live influenced Nietzsche, also has some interesting things to say about suffering. In The World as Will and Representation (1818), Schopenhauer describes a theory of the human will, according to which all representations of the world are manifestations of the will. An individual or person is a knowing subject whose will is manifested in the world as representation. The world is an idea insofar as it is an object of perception, but the world is the will insofar as all our perceptions are acts of conscious or unconscious will. The will is the ultimate reality or being-in-itself of the world.
According to Schopenhauer, life is suffering. Suffering is caused by unfulfilled or frustrated volition. All volition arises from a state of deprivation, and no satisfaction is lasting. Thus, satisfaction is always merely the starting point of a new striving.4 The only way to overcome suffering is by denial of the will. True salvation, or redemption from suffering, cannot even be imagined without total denial of the will.5 Christ, as a symbol and personification of self-sacrifice and self-denial, therefore symbolizes and personifies the denial of the will.6
What is suffering? Dr. Eric Cassell, Professor Emeritus of Public Health at Weill Medical College of Cornell University, has written extensively about the medical treatment of suffering, and he defines suffering as "a state of distress associated with events that threaten the intactness or wholeness of a person."7 He explains that pain is often associated with suffering, but that they are not the same. He says,
"patients may tolerate severe pain without considering themselves to be suffering, if they know the source of the pain, that it can be controlled, and that it will come to an end. However, even apparently minor pain or other symptoms may cause suffering if they are believed to have a dire cause...if they are viewed as never-ending, or if patients consider the symptoms (and themselves) to be beyond help, or if their condition is considered hopeless. Suffering may occur in the absence of any symptoms whatsoever, e.g., when one is forced to witness helplessly the pain of a loved one. Indeed, helplessness itself may be a source of suffering."8
Perhaps we should keep in mind, when interpreting a biblical text like Paul's Letter to the Romans, that we should consider the audience to which it was addressed. The early Christians were a persecuted and oppressed people. However, the meaning of Paul's letter for the early Christians in 57-58 CE may be quite different (for many reasons) from its meaning for us today.
On the other hand, if the readings in the church lectionary aren't addressed to us, to a modern audience, then why are we reading them? Why are they part of the liturgy? Are we reading them merely out of historical interest? If so, then they might be suitable for academic study, but they seem rather useless in practice. Who chooses the lectionary readings that we read in church each Sunday? I assume it's someone in the hierarchy of the Church. So why did that person (or those persons) decide to include in the lectionary, week after week, readings that tell us to rejoice and feel blessed in our suffering? To whom are these readings being addressed?
Cari Jackson (2013), a religious scholar, teacher, and minister in the United Church of Christ, asks the following questions:
"The dilemma is this: if suffering is redemptive, how do black Christians, especially given the socio-historical experience of blacks in America, become equipped to use their human agency and moral authority when they are encouraged by sermons to acquiesce to and endure suffering? How are they to determine which social hardships they are divinely called to endure and which to transform? Instead of contributing to liberation, a theology of suffering as commonly used in black preaching contributes to a social conditioning of black Christians to accept and acquiesce to oppressive power relations they may experience within black denominational churches or in the broader U.S. society."9
Thus, some writers have proposed humanism as an alternative to theism as a response to the problem of suffering.
Anthony Pinn (2006), a Professor of Religion at Rice University, distinguishes between "weak humanism," which doesn't call God's existence into question, and which responds to oppressive power relations by emphasizing the right of the oppressed to claim equal human dignity in relation to those who oppress them, and "strong humanism," which denies the existence of a God who sanctions or encourages human suffering, and which responds to social oppression by expressing a radical commitment to human interests, values, and dignity.10
Sophie Menconi (2018) notes the doctrine of redemptive suffering may have harmful effects for victims of domestic abuse and violence, insofar as it may encourage them to believe that their suffering is God's will, and that they should endure suffering in order to become closer to God.11
Colin Bossen (2010), a Unitarian minister, writer, and social justice activist, says that black humanism's response to suffering is that "suffering is not redemptive; [rather] we must take responsibility for eradicating. it." He also explains that according to humanism, suffering is not the result of some divine plan, and it is not God who has the power to end suffering, rather, it is humanity that can reduce or limit suffering.12
Scott Samuelson (2018), a philosophy professor at Kirkwood Community College in Iowa City, Iowa, describes seven ways of looking at pointless suffering, including three modern ways: (1) we should eliminate pointless suffering, (2) we should embrace pointless suffering, (3) we must take responsibility for pointless suffering, and four perennial ways: (4) pointless suffering reveals God, (5) pointless suffering atones us with nature, (6) pointless suffering evokes our humanity, and (7) pointless suffering inspires art.
Samuelson also describes two basic responses to suffering: the "fix-it" attitude, and the "face-it" attitude. In some cases, we may try to fix suffering without really facing it, and in other cases we may try to face suffering without really trying to fix it. A third response, however, the "forget about it" attitude, may (unfortunately in many cases) be the most common one, he says.13
I think a crucial point to consider in examining the perspectives of various philosophers and theologians regarding the meaning or purpose of suffering is that suffering may or may not be voluntarily chosen. In some cases, we may have a choice of whether or not to endure suffering. In other cases, we may have no choice but to endure suffering, and we may only be able to choose how best to accept, alleviate, survive, or transform it. However, it may be pointless to voluntarily endure suffering for no good purpose or reason. Thus, some rational purposes or reasons for voluntarily enduring suffering may include: (1) if by enduring suffering, we can alleviate the suffering of others, (2) if by enduring suffering, we can express our support for and solidarity with those who have been unjustly subjected to suffering, (3) if by enduring suffering, we can make a stand for truth, compassion, and justice, and can resist falsehood, cruelty, and injustice, and (4) if our resistance to suffering would only make that suffering worse.
What kinds of physical or mental suffering can it be rational to willingly accept or voluntarily choose to endure? Can extreme acts of self-inflicted suffering (such as mutilating oneself as an act of atonement or setting oneself on fire as an act of protest) be rational under some conditions? Is there a rational basis for religious practices such as self-flagellation or body piercing that involve self-inflicted suffering? When can acts of self-inflicted suffering truly be described as pious or altruistic, and when can they be described as merely attention-seeking, self-destructive, deluded, or masochistic? The answers to these questions may vary according to the aims, attitudes, and motivations of the individual, and according to the particular circumstances involved. But it may be irrational to voluntarily choose to endure suffering when such an act is obviously useless, futile, or counterproductive with regard to the ends that are sought.
I think we should resist the notion of a (cruel and vengeful) God who requires us to suffer or who demands that we suffer in order to achieve our salvation. I think we should also resist the notion of a God who approves human suffering, injustice, and oppression. If believing in God means believing in love and thus being able to free ourselves from suffering, then looking at suffering as something good in itself is wrong, and we should reject any theological doctrines that tell us to ignore, accept, or celebrate the world's suffering.
FOOTNOTES
1James Baldwin, "Letter from a Region in My Mind, The New Yorker, Nov. 17, 1962 issue, online at https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1962/11/17/letter-from-a-region-in-my-mind.
2Martin Luther King, Jr., "Suffering and Faith," in The Christian Century, April 27, 1960, online at https://kinginstitute.stanford.edu/king-papers/documents/suffering-and-faith.
3Friedrich Nietzsche, On the Genealogy of Morality [1877], edited by Keith Ansell-Pearson, translated by Carol Diethe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 44.
4Arthur Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Idea, edited by David Berman, translated by Jill Berman (London: Orion Publishing Group, 1995), p. 195.
5Ibid., p. 250.
6Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Representation, Volume I, translated by E.F.J. Payne (New York: Dover Publications, 1966), p. 405.
7Eric Cassell, "The Relief of Suffering," in Arch Intern Med, Vol. 143, March 1983, 522-523.
8Ibid., 522-523.
9Cari Jackson, For the Souls of Black Folks: Reimagining Black Preaching for 21st Century Liberation (Eugene, OR: Pickwick Publications, 2013), p. 135.
10Anthony Pinn, Why Lord? Suffering and Evil in Black Theology (New York: Continuum, 2006), p. 141.
11Sophie Menconi, "Carrying the Sins of Others: The Theology of Redemption and Experiences of Black Womanhood in Pauline Hopkins' Contending Forces," in Articulate, Vol. 23, 2018, P. 47.
12Colin Bossen, "Black Humanism's Response to Suffering," in UU World: July 19, 2010, online at https://www.uuworld.org/articles/black-humanism-response-suffering.
13Scott Samuelson, Seven Ways Of Looking at Pointless Suffering: What Philosophy Can Tell Us about the Hardest Mystery of All (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018), p. 8.
Sunday, July 26, 2020
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Bad Philosophy
What is bad philosophy? What makes for a bad philosopher or a good philosopher gone bad? What's the difference between a bad philosopher and someone who makes groundless, unjustified, or nonsensical philosophical claims and isn't really a philosopher at all?
A bad philosopher may be one who proposes logically unsound or invalid arguments for the truth of propositions. Thus, a bad philosopher may be one who, under the guise of working as a philosopher, actually works in a careless, illogical, uncritical, and non-rigorous manner.
A bad philosopher may be one who says they are doing philosophy but actually fails to engage in any meaningful way with philosophical arguments that have already been made about the particular philosophical subjects they are investigating.
A bad philosopher may be one who may more accurately be called a pseudo-philosopher (working on pseudo-philosophical problems, and doing pseudo-philosophy).
A bad philosopher may also be one whose writing is needlessly vague, obscure, impenetrable, pretentious, pedantic, and full of technical jargon or unnecessary neologisms for rather trivial, empty, or meaningless concepts.
A bad philosopher may also be one whose writing is repetitive, redundant, unintelligible, or simply incoherent.
A bad philosopher may be one who implicitly or explicitly endorses racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, fascism, eugenics, genocide, or some other morally objectionable or repugnant social viewpoint, ideology, or political agenda.
A bad philosopher may also be one who takes the term "philosophy" to mean only "Western philosophy," and who ignores non-Western philosophical traditions. A bad philosopher may be one who ignores and attempts to marginalize the philosophical thought and contributions of women, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, indigenous peoples, LGBTQ people, and other historically underrepresented groups in academic or professional philosophy.
Bad philosophy may be philosophy that violates or deviates from the generally accepted norms, principles, and standards of philosophy (as long as those norms, principles, and standards are sufficiently justified, and are not arbitrary). If philosophy involves a search for truth, then bad philosophy may be characterized by epistemic vices (such as intellectual dishonesty, unscrupulousness, and inconsistency), rather than epistemic virtues (such as intellectual honesty, conscientiousness, and consistency).
Bad philosophy may present unpersuasive and unconvincing arguments for the positions it takes. It may be poorly argued and easily refuted.
On the other hand, it may be skillfully argued for detestable purposes or reprehensible moral positions. It may be "bad," in this sense, insofar as it arises from "bad" motives or has "bad" aims or purposes (where being "bad" is taken to mean being morally wrong, blameworthy, or evil). So there may be more than one sense in which bad philosophy may be "bad."
Bad philosophy may employ specious arguments in order to deceive or mislead those whom it attempts to persuade. It may knowingly employ flawed or fallacious reasoning in order to defend a particular position, regardless of whether that position is actually justified, viable, or rational. Rather than trying to rectify our misjudgments or misconceptions about things, it may try to reinforce them. So sophistry may be a form of bad philosophy, not in the sense of being unpracticed or unskillful, but in the sense of being meretricious and unconcerned with the truth of things.
Bad philosophy may also misread the texts of other disciplines or philosophies. It may misquote or misattribute textual sources, and it may misapply or misappropriate the terms of other disciplines.
A bad philosopher may be one who proposes logically unsound or invalid arguments for the truth of propositions. Thus, a bad philosopher may be one who, under the guise of working as a philosopher, actually works in a careless, illogical, uncritical, and non-rigorous manner.
A bad philosopher may be one who says they are doing philosophy but actually fails to engage in any meaningful way with philosophical arguments that have already been made about the particular philosophical subjects they are investigating.
A bad philosopher may be one who may more accurately be called a pseudo-philosopher (working on pseudo-philosophical problems, and doing pseudo-philosophy).
A bad philosopher may also be one whose writing is needlessly vague, obscure, impenetrable, pretentious, pedantic, and full of technical jargon or unnecessary neologisms for rather trivial, empty, or meaningless concepts.
A bad philosopher may also be one whose writing is repetitive, redundant, unintelligible, or simply incoherent.
A bad philosopher may be one who implicitly or explicitly endorses racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia, transphobia, xenophobia, fascism, eugenics, genocide, or some other morally objectionable or repugnant social viewpoint, ideology, or political agenda.
A bad philosopher may also be one who takes the term "philosophy" to mean only "Western philosophy," and who ignores non-Western philosophical traditions. A bad philosopher may be one who ignores and attempts to marginalize the philosophical thought and contributions of women, blacks, Hispanics, Asians, indigenous peoples, LGBTQ people, and other historically underrepresented groups in academic or professional philosophy.
Bad philosophy may be philosophy that violates or deviates from the generally accepted norms, principles, and standards of philosophy (as long as those norms, principles, and standards are sufficiently justified, and are not arbitrary). If philosophy involves a search for truth, then bad philosophy may be characterized by epistemic vices (such as intellectual dishonesty, unscrupulousness, and inconsistency), rather than epistemic virtues (such as intellectual honesty, conscientiousness, and consistency).
Bad philosophy may present unpersuasive and unconvincing arguments for the positions it takes. It may be poorly argued and easily refuted.
On the other hand, it may be skillfully argued for detestable purposes or reprehensible moral positions. It may be "bad," in this sense, insofar as it arises from "bad" motives or has "bad" aims or purposes (where being "bad" is taken to mean being morally wrong, blameworthy, or evil). So there may be more than one sense in which bad philosophy may be "bad."
Bad philosophy may employ specious arguments in order to deceive or mislead those whom it attempts to persuade. It may knowingly employ flawed or fallacious reasoning in order to defend a particular position, regardless of whether that position is actually justified, viable, or rational. Rather than trying to rectify our misjudgments or misconceptions about things, it may try to reinforce them. So sophistry may be a form of bad philosophy, not in the sense of being unpracticed or unskillful, but in the sense of being meretricious and unconcerned with the truth of things.
Bad philosophy may also misread the texts of other disciplines or philosophies. It may misquote or misattribute textual sources, and it may misapply or misappropriate the terms of other disciplines.
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Storytelling and Narrativity
The following is a reflection I delivered at church during the 8:00 am service, on Sunday, May 26, 2019. The "Faith at Eight" service is usually a small gathering of people, including the rector and about ten parishioners, who come together to sing hymns, say prayers, participate in a reflection period (during which we talk about that day's readings from the lectionary), and share Holy Communion. This reflection was inspired by a reading from The Acts of the Apostles (16:9-15).
In the lectionary readings from the last few weeks we've been reading stories about the lives of the Apostles. So I had some thoughts I'd like to share about the nature of storytelling and narrativity.
In one of my favorite movies, Lawrence of Arabia, there's a sequence in which Lawrence (played by Peter O'Toole), is crossing the Nefud Desert with a band of warriors, who are led by Sherif Ali (played by Omar Sharif), in order to launch an attack on Aqaba, a port on the Red Sea. The attack takes place during the Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire in 1917. The warriors must reach a well at the edge of the desert by midday or their camels will start to die of thirst. But one of the warriors, Qasim, falls asleep during the night while they are riding across the desert, and falls off his camel. The rest of the group doesn't realize he's missing until dawn, when they've almost reached the edge of the desert. Lawrence insists they go back to rescue Qasim, but Sherif Ali says, "Qasim's time is come, Lawrence. It is written."
Lawrence says, "Nothing is written!" and starts to turn back toward the desert.
Sherif Ali starts to get angry, and says, "You will not be at Aqaba, English!"
Lawrence says, "I shall be at Aqaba. That is written" ("in here," he says, pointing to his forehead). And thus he heroically rides back into the desert to rescue Qasim, who has lost his camel and is nearly dead of heat exhaustion. Later, when they return to the rest of the group at the edge of the desert, Sherif Ali admiringly says, "Truly, for some men nothing is written unless they write it."1
So we're presented with the idea that we can write our own stories, and that our destinies are not predetermined. The phrase, "it is written" is an appeal to scriptural authority, but if we want to be able to write our own destinies into being, without ignoring what the scriptures have to say, then we must somehow be able to write for and about ourselves without simply retelling what's already been written.
When we read the Gospels, we're often reading stories or narratives of the life of Jesus, and when we read The Acts of the Apostles, we're often reading stories about the lives of the apostles. Jesus used storytelling and parables as a means of teaching his disciples. But the only time in the Gospels we hear of Jesus writing anything is in John 8:3-7, which says:
"3 The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and placing her in their midst, 4 they said to him, "Teacher, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery. 5 Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone adulterers. What do you say about her?" 6 This they said to him to test him, that they might have some charge to bring against him. But Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground, 7 and as they continued to ask him, Jesus said to them, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.""
We're also presented with the idea that our actions constitute a kind of speech or writing to others. In 2 Corinthians 3:2-3, Paul says, "2 You yourselves are our letter, written on your hearts, to be known and read by everyone. 3 And you show that you are a letter from Christ...written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone, but on tablets of human hearts."
In what other ways can we speak or write ourselves into being? We may also speak or write ourselves in being when we tell others our stories as disciples of Christ.
What's the importance of telling our story? It's a way in which we can share our faith. The narratives of each of our lives have a beginning, middle, and ending. To tell others about ourselves is to tell them the stories of our lives, and to narrate events that we have witnessed or, in one way or another, participated in.
To share our faith in Christ with others is also to tell them why we believe in Christ as Lord, Redeemer, and Savior. To witness to or give personal testimony about our faith is to tell others what or where we were before we found Christ, and to tell them how we found Christ. To witness to Jesus as our Lord and Shepherd is also to confess our faith in Jesus, to serve and obey him, and to tell others how Jesus has entered our lives. We each have a story to tell, a narrative to share with others. But this implies that we can also write or tell our own stories. We can become whoever or whatever we want to be by writing new narratives about our own lives, and by changing the narratives that have been written for us by those who want to subjugate, oppress, manipulate, or control us.
H. Porter Abbott, Professor Emeritus of English at the University of California, Santa Barbara, says in The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (2008) that
"Narrative is found not just in the arts but everywhere in the ordinary course of people's lives, many times a day...We are all narrators, though we may rarely be aware of it...As we seek to communicate more detail about events in time, we become involved in increasingly complex acts of narration...We are also the constant recipients of narrative: from newspapers and television, from books and films, and from friends and relatives.2...Narrative is present in almost all human discourse."3
Alasdair MacIntyre, Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at Notre Dame, says in his well-known book After Virtue (1981), however, that the narratives through which we retell and reconstruct the events of our lives are always co-authored. "We are never more (and [are] sometimes less) than the co-authors of our own narratives. Only in fantasy do we live whatever story we please," he says.4
McIntyre also says,
"What the narrative concept of selfhood requires is thus twofold. On the one hand, I am what I may justifiably be taken by others to be in the course of living out a story that runs from my birth to my death. I am the subject of a history that is my own and no one else's, that has its own peculiar meaning. When someone complains--as do some of those who attempt or commit suicide--that his or her life is meaningless, he or she is often and perhaps characteristically complaining that the narrative of their life has become unintelligible to them, that it lacks any point."5
MacIntyre goes on to say,
"To be the subject of a narrative that runs from one's birth to one's death is...to be accountable for the actions and experiences which compose a narratable life."6 ...The other aspect of narrative selfhood is correlative. I am not only accountable, I am one who can always ask others for an account, who can put others to the question. I am part of their story, as they are part of mine. The narrative of any one's life is [therefore] part of an interlocking set of narratives."7
So we are not only the subjects of our own narratives, but also the subjects of others' narratives. We are not only constantly in the act or process of writing our own narratives, but also are simultaneously contributing directly or indirectly to others' writing of their own narratives. In a sense, I think that's what we're doing here today, in this reflection period--sharing narratives about our experiences, thoughts, and feelings, sharing our narrative interpretations of the scriptures, and writing a kind of collective interpretation of the readings in our minds and hearts.
So I'd like to thank my wife Carol for being co-author of my own life story, and I'd like to thank each one of you for also being co-authors of my life story.
FOOTNOTES
1Lawrence of Arabia, directed by David Lean, produced by Sam Spiegel, screenplay by Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, Columbia Pictures, 1962.
2H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), p. xii.
3Ibid., p. 1.
4Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), p. 213.
5Ibid., p. 217.
6Ibid., p. 217.
7Ibid., p. 218.
In the lectionary readings from the last few weeks we've been reading stories about the lives of the Apostles. So I had some thoughts I'd like to share about the nature of storytelling and narrativity.
In one of my favorite movies, Lawrence of Arabia, there's a sequence in which Lawrence (played by Peter O'Toole), is crossing the Nefud Desert with a band of warriors, who are led by Sherif Ali (played by Omar Sharif), in order to launch an attack on Aqaba, a port on the Red Sea. The attack takes place during the Arab revolt against the Ottoman Empire in 1917. The warriors must reach a well at the edge of the desert by midday or their camels will start to die of thirst. But one of the warriors, Qasim, falls asleep during the night while they are riding across the desert, and falls off his camel. The rest of the group doesn't realize he's missing until dawn, when they've almost reached the edge of the desert. Lawrence insists they go back to rescue Qasim, but Sherif Ali says, "Qasim's time is come, Lawrence. It is written."
Lawrence says, "Nothing is written!" and starts to turn back toward the desert.
Sherif Ali starts to get angry, and says, "You will not be at Aqaba, English!"
Lawrence says, "I shall be at Aqaba. That is written" ("in here," he says, pointing to his forehead). And thus he heroically rides back into the desert to rescue Qasim, who has lost his camel and is nearly dead of heat exhaustion. Later, when they return to the rest of the group at the edge of the desert, Sherif Ali admiringly says, "Truly, for some men nothing is written unless they write it."1
So we're presented with the idea that we can write our own stories, and that our destinies are not predetermined. The phrase, "it is written" is an appeal to scriptural authority, but if we want to be able to write our own destinies into being, without ignoring what the scriptures have to say, then we must somehow be able to write for and about ourselves without simply retelling what's already been written.
When we read the Gospels, we're often reading stories or narratives of the life of Jesus, and when we read The Acts of the Apostles, we're often reading stories about the lives of the apostles. Jesus used storytelling and parables as a means of teaching his disciples. But the only time in the Gospels we hear of Jesus writing anything is in John 8:3-7, which says:
"3 The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and placing her in their midst, 4 they said to him, "Teacher, this woman has been caught in the act of adultery. 5 Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone adulterers. What do you say about her?" 6 This they said to him to test him, that they might have some charge to bring against him. But Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground, 7 and as they continued to ask him, Jesus said to them, "Let him who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her.""
We're also presented with the idea that our actions constitute a kind of speech or writing to others. In 2 Corinthians 3:2-3, Paul says, "2 You yourselves are our letter, written on your hearts, to be known and read by everyone. 3 And you show that you are a letter from Christ...written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone, but on tablets of human hearts."
In what other ways can we speak or write ourselves into being? We may also speak or write ourselves in being when we tell others our stories as disciples of Christ.
What's the importance of telling our story? It's a way in which we can share our faith. The narratives of each of our lives have a beginning, middle, and ending. To tell others about ourselves is to tell them the stories of our lives, and to narrate events that we have witnessed or, in one way or another, participated in.
To share our faith in Christ with others is also to tell them why we believe in Christ as Lord, Redeemer, and Savior. To witness to or give personal testimony about our faith is to tell others what or where we were before we found Christ, and to tell them how we found Christ. To witness to Jesus as our Lord and Shepherd is also to confess our faith in Jesus, to serve and obey him, and to tell others how Jesus has entered our lives. We each have a story to tell, a narrative to share with others. But this implies that we can also write or tell our own stories. We can become whoever or whatever we want to be by writing new narratives about our own lives, and by changing the narratives that have been written for us by those who want to subjugate, oppress, manipulate, or control us.
H. Porter Abbott, Professor Emeritus of English at the University of California, Santa Barbara, says in The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (2008) that
"Narrative is found not just in the arts but everywhere in the ordinary course of people's lives, many times a day...We are all narrators, though we may rarely be aware of it...As we seek to communicate more detail about events in time, we become involved in increasingly complex acts of narration...We are also the constant recipients of narrative: from newspapers and television, from books and films, and from friends and relatives.2...Narrative is present in almost all human discourse."3
Alasdair MacIntyre, Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at Notre Dame, says in his well-known book After Virtue (1981), however, that the narratives through which we retell and reconstruct the events of our lives are always co-authored. "We are never more (and [are] sometimes less) than the co-authors of our own narratives. Only in fantasy do we live whatever story we please," he says.4
McIntyre also says,
"What the narrative concept of selfhood requires is thus twofold. On the one hand, I am what I may justifiably be taken by others to be in the course of living out a story that runs from my birth to my death. I am the subject of a history that is my own and no one else's, that has its own peculiar meaning. When someone complains--as do some of those who attempt or commit suicide--that his or her life is meaningless, he or she is often and perhaps characteristically complaining that the narrative of their life has become unintelligible to them, that it lacks any point."5
MacIntyre goes on to say,
"To be the subject of a narrative that runs from one's birth to one's death is...to be accountable for the actions and experiences which compose a narratable life."6 ...The other aspect of narrative selfhood is correlative. I am not only accountable, I am one who can always ask others for an account, who can put others to the question. I am part of their story, as they are part of mine. The narrative of any one's life is [therefore] part of an interlocking set of narratives."7
So we are not only the subjects of our own narratives, but also the subjects of others' narratives. We are not only constantly in the act or process of writing our own narratives, but also are simultaneously contributing directly or indirectly to others' writing of their own narratives. In a sense, I think that's what we're doing here today, in this reflection period--sharing narratives about our experiences, thoughts, and feelings, sharing our narrative interpretations of the scriptures, and writing a kind of collective interpretation of the readings in our minds and hearts.
So I'd like to thank my wife Carol for being co-author of my own life story, and I'd like to thank each one of you for also being co-authors of my life story.
FOOTNOTES
1Lawrence of Arabia, directed by David Lean, produced by Sam Spiegel, screenplay by Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, Columbia Pictures, 1962.
2H. Porter Abbott, The Cambridge Introduction to Narrative (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), p. xii.
3Ibid., p. 1.
4Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), p. 213.
5Ibid., p. 217.
6Ibid., p. 217.
7Ibid., p. 218.
Friday, April 10, 2020
Why I Don't Own a Gun
(1) I'm not fascinated by guns.
(2) No one has ever encouraged me to own one.
(3) I don't feel the need to own one for personal protection.
(4) If I owned a gun, I'd have to devote enough time to ensure that I knew how to use it properly, and to ensure that I wouldn't unintentionally endanger someone.
(5) I don't think I'd have enough time for the amount of practice that would be required in order to be skilled at firing a weapon.
(6) Even if someone threatened me with bodily harm to the extent that I felt my life was in danger, I'm not sure I'd be ready to shoot them in self-defense. (However, I think that, under certain circumstances, I'd probably be prepared to shoot someone in order to protect the life of a family member, friend, or other innocent person.)
(7) If I owned a gun, I'd probably be more likely to be arrested on some gun charge, regardless of whether I'd actually broken any laws or intended to do anything unlawful.
(8) I've spent my life trying to be a healer, not a destroyer, of people. I believe in peace and not violence. So why would I ever want to own something that can be used to kill people?
(9) Would Jesus have owned a Glock or an AK 47? I don't think so. So I'm not going to own one.
(10) I don't believe in killing ducks, deer, or other wildlife simply for the sake of sport.
(11) Owning a gun wouldn't make me feel any safer, unless I'd been a victim of assault, armed robbery, or some other violent crime (and fortunately, I haven't).
(12) If I owned a gun, I might be more likely to shoot myself if I got really depressed.
Why Maybe I Should Own a Gun
(1) Because there are a lot of white supremacists who're looking for an excuse to terrorize or kill black people.
(2) Because there are a lot of unarmed black people who've been shot or killed on fabricated pretexts by police officers.
(3) Because it shouldn't be just right-wing people who own guns. There should be some left-wing people who own guns too, so that gun-owning right-wingers have to think twice before trying to intimidate them.
(4) Gun control laws are designed to keep guns out of the hands of black people. So maybe I should own a gun, simply as an act of protest against laws that are designed to arm white people but not black people.
(5) There are some far-right white hate groups who see it as their mission to commit acts of terrorism and violence against black people. So why, by not owning a gun, should I make it any easier for them to accomplish their mission?
(6) It might be fun to go to a firing range and practice my shooting.
(2) No one has ever encouraged me to own one.
(3) I don't feel the need to own one for personal protection.
(4) If I owned a gun, I'd have to devote enough time to ensure that I knew how to use it properly, and to ensure that I wouldn't unintentionally endanger someone.
(5) I don't think I'd have enough time for the amount of practice that would be required in order to be skilled at firing a weapon.
(6) Even if someone threatened me with bodily harm to the extent that I felt my life was in danger, I'm not sure I'd be ready to shoot them in self-defense. (However, I think that, under certain circumstances, I'd probably be prepared to shoot someone in order to protect the life of a family member, friend, or other innocent person.)
(7) If I owned a gun, I'd probably be more likely to be arrested on some gun charge, regardless of whether I'd actually broken any laws or intended to do anything unlawful.
(8) I've spent my life trying to be a healer, not a destroyer, of people. I believe in peace and not violence. So why would I ever want to own something that can be used to kill people?
(9) Would Jesus have owned a Glock or an AK 47? I don't think so. So I'm not going to own one.
(10) I don't believe in killing ducks, deer, or other wildlife simply for the sake of sport.
(11) Owning a gun wouldn't make me feel any safer, unless I'd been a victim of assault, armed robbery, or some other violent crime (and fortunately, I haven't).
(12) If I owned a gun, I might be more likely to shoot myself if I got really depressed.
Why Maybe I Should Own a Gun
(1) Because there are a lot of white supremacists who're looking for an excuse to terrorize or kill black people.
(2) Because there are a lot of unarmed black people who've been shot or killed on fabricated pretexts by police officers.
(3) Because it shouldn't be just right-wing people who own guns. There should be some left-wing people who own guns too, so that gun-owning right-wingers have to think twice before trying to intimidate them.
(4) Gun control laws are designed to keep guns out of the hands of black people. So maybe I should own a gun, simply as an act of protest against laws that are designed to arm white people but not black people.
(5) There are some far-right white hate groups who see it as their mission to commit acts of terrorism and violence against black people. So why, by not owning a gun, should I make it any easier for them to accomplish their mission?
(6) It might be fun to go to a firing range and practice my shooting.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Kant's Distinction between the Transcendent and the Transcendental
According to Kant (1781), immanent principles are those whose application is confined within the limits of possible experience, while transcendent principles are those whose application transgresses the limits of possible experience. Transcendental principles are those concerned with our mode of cognition of empirical objects, insofar as this mode of cognition is possible a priori. Thus, transcendental principles do not transcend or transgress the limits of possible experience, but rather make knowledge of experience possible.
A.C. Ewing (1938) describes the distinction between the transcendent and the transcendental by saying that the transcendent refers to what is not a possible object of experience, and that transcendent knowledge is therefore impossible. The transcendental, on the other hand, refers to the necessary conditions of experience, and transcendental knowledge is therefore certainly possible.1
Transcendental idealism, as described by Kant, is the theory that all objects of possible experience are merely representations having no self-subsistent existence apart from human thought. Transcendental realism, on the other hand, is the theory that objects of possible experience are things subsisting in themselves, which are real independently of their representations in human thought.2
Faculties of cognition, according to Kant, include intuition, understanding, judgment, and reason. Intuition is a lower faculty of cognition, while understanding, judgment, and reason are higher faculties of cognition. Intuition is the faculty of receiving impressions. Understanding is the faculty of producing rules or concepts. Judgment is the faculty of determining whether a rule or concept is subsumed under other rules or concepts. Reason, the highest faculty of cognition, is the faculty that produces principles.
While the categories (of quantity, quality, relation, and modality) are conceptions of pure understanding, transcendental ideas are conceptions of pure reason. While the objective employment of pure conceptions of understanding is always immanent, the objective employment of pure conceptions of reason is always transcendent.3 Reason never applies directly to experience or to any empirical object. Its object is rather the understanding, to the manifold cognition of which it gives unity a priori by means of conceptions.4
The principles of pure understanding are immanent but not transcendent principles, insofar as they are applicable to objects of possible experience, but not to objects beyond the limits of experience.5
Thus, transcendental illusion may occur when immanent principles are mistaken for transcendent principles.
The pure conceptions of understanding apply a priori to (empirical or non-empirical) objects of intuition.6 Transcendental ideas, on the other hand, are conceptions of pure reason whose objects are not empirical, but are objects of pure understanding.7 Transcendental ideas are also transcendent, insofar as they transgress the limits of possible experience. Their objects are cognitions to which no actual experience ever fully attains. No object can ever be perfectly adequate to a transcendental idea.
Thus, the transcendental employment of reason is not objectively valid, since all a priori cognitions are given their objective validity by their possibility of experience.8
When we mistakenly regard transcendental ideas as conceptions of actual things, their mode of application is not only transcendent, but also delusive. However, it is not a transcendental idea itself, but only its application, in relation to possible experience, that is immanent or transcendent. A transcendental idea is applied immanently when it is applied only to an object within the limits of experience. It is applied transcendently when it is applied to an object beyond the limits of experience or to an object falsely believed to be adequate with, and to correspond to, it.9
Principles of pure understanding may be classified as (1) axioms of intuition, (2) anticipations of perception, (3) analogies of experience, and (4) postulates of empirical thought. While the first two classes may be described as mathematical, the second two may be described as dynamic.10 The mathematical principles are constitutive principles of understanding, while the dynamic principles are regulative principles of understanding.
Transcendental ideas may be regulative principles of understanding, but they are not constitutive principles, since they are not based on empirical intuition. Indeed, contradictions may arise when they are confused with constitutive principles. However, they may still guide our understanding of the empirical world, and pure reason may therefore act as a regulative principle to guide the production of rules and concepts.
FOOTNOTES
1A.C. Ewing, A Short Commentary on Kant's Critique of Pure Reason (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1938), p. 25.
2Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, translated by J.M.D. Meiklejohn (Amherst: Prometheus Books, 1990), p. 278.
3Ibid., p. 205.
4Ibid., p. 191.
5Ibid., p. 205.
6Ibid., p. 61.
7Ibid., p. 205.
8Ibid. p. 97.
9Ibid., p. 360.
10Ibid., p. 114.
A.C. Ewing (1938) describes the distinction between the transcendent and the transcendental by saying that the transcendent refers to what is not a possible object of experience, and that transcendent knowledge is therefore impossible. The transcendental, on the other hand, refers to the necessary conditions of experience, and transcendental knowledge is therefore certainly possible.1
Transcendental idealism, as described by Kant, is the theory that all objects of possible experience are merely representations having no self-subsistent existence apart from human thought. Transcendental realism, on the other hand, is the theory that objects of possible experience are things subsisting in themselves, which are real independently of their representations in human thought.2
Faculties of cognition, according to Kant, include intuition, understanding, judgment, and reason. Intuition is a lower faculty of cognition, while understanding, judgment, and reason are higher faculties of cognition. Intuition is the faculty of receiving impressions. Understanding is the faculty of producing rules or concepts. Judgment is the faculty of determining whether a rule or concept is subsumed under other rules or concepts. Reason, the highest faculty of cognition, is the faculty that produces principles.
While the categories (of quantity, quality, relation, and modality) are conceptions of pure understanding, transcendental ideas are conceptions of pure reason. While the objective employment of pure conceptions of understanding is always immanent, the objective employment of pure conceptions of reason is always transcendent.3 Reason never applies directly to experience or to any empirical object. Its object is rather the understanding, to the manifold cognition of which it gives unity a priori by means of conceptions.4
The principles of pure understanding are immanent but not transcendent principles, insofar as they are applicable to objects of possible experience, but not to objects beyond the limits of experience.5
Thus, transcendental illusion may occur when immanent principles are mistaken for transcendent principles.
The pure conceptions of understanding apply a priori to (empirical or non-empirical) objects of intuition.6 Transcendental ideas, on the other hand, are conceptions of pure reason whose objects are not empirical, but are objects of pure understanding.7 Transcendental ideas are also transcendent, insofar as they transgress the limits of possible experience. Their objects are cognitions to which no actual experience ever fully attains. No object can ever be perfectly adequate to a transcendental idea.
Thus, the transcendental employment of reason is not objectively valid, since all a priori cognitions are given their objective validity by their possibility of experience.8
When we mistakenly regard transcendental ideas as conceptions of actual things, their mode of application is not only transcendent, but also delusive. However, it is not a transcendental idea itself, but only its application, in relation to possible experience, that is immanent or transcendent. A transcendental idea is applied immanently when it is applied only to an object within the limits of experience. It is applied transcendently when it is applied to an object beyond the limits of experience or to an object falsely believed to be adequate with, and to correspond to, it.9
Principles of pure understanding may be classified as (1) axioms of intuition, (2) anticipations of perception, (3) analogies of experience, and (4) postulates of empirical thought. While the first two classes may be described as mathematical, the second two may be described as dynamic.10 The mathematical principles are constitutive principles of understanding, while the dynamic principles are regulative principles of understanding.
Transcendental ideas may be regulative principles of understanding, but they are not constitutive principles, since they are not based on empirical intuition. Indeed, contradictions may arise when they are confused with constitutive principles. However, they may still guide our understanding of the empirical world, and pure reason may therefore act as a regulative principle to guide the production of rules and concepts.
FOOTNOTES
1A.C. Ewing, A Short Commentary on Kant's Critique of Pure Reason (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1938), p. 25.
2Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, translated by J.M.D. Meiklejohn (Amherst: Prometheus Books, 1990), p. 278.
3Ibid., p. 205.
4Ibid., p. 191.
5Ibid., p. 205.
6Ibid., p. 61.
7Ibid., p. 205.
8Ibid. p. 97.
9Ibid., p. 360.
10Ibid., p. 114.
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