Walter Kaufmann’s

Critique of Religion and Philosophy

In his 1978 preface to the Princeton paperback edition, twenty years after the text’s first publication, Kaufmann writes that his Critique “is very different from most scholarly books,” and that he wished “to write only in the spirit in which Rembrandt had painted,” that is, without clients or pay in mind and moving their hands (ix).  He also reflects that “It is a voyage of discovery in which the author comes to grips with a multitude of points of views that seemed to call for a response” (xii). 

This reflection begins our semester well, for we, too, are undertaking a bit of a voyage here, one where there will be many, many perspectives, and all of which, as well as the idea of our undertaking itself, “the philosophy of religion,” call for response. 

So, who was Walter Kaufmann (1921-1980)?

Kaufmann was born in 1921 in Freiburg, Germany, converting from Protestantism to Judaism at twelve years old (and, of which, he began very rigorous study).  History reminds us that this was not a wise time and place for conversion, yet, it was not his own religious choice, but the discovery (to his and his family’s surprise) that all of his grandparents had been Jewish that condemned the family in the eyes of the Nazi regime.  His family fled to England, and he to the United States (in 1939).  Around this time, he experienced what he called a mystical experience that caused him to realize his religious error; he had converted because of a belief in God, yet not the divinity of Jesus, and now realized he both believed and did not.  The rest of his life, but mainly the next twenty years up to the publication of his Critique, his study of the philosophy of religion was intense.  He graduated with honors from Williams College (1941), with a Masters from Harvard (1942), and a Doctorate also from Harvard (1947), with a brief interlude of 15 months of military duty in WWII, before becoming a professor of philosophy at Princeton University.  Fulbrights and visiting positions take him Heidelberg to The Hebrew University in Jerusalem to Australia over the next thirty years as he translates, writes, and publishes widely, primarily on Nietzsche, existentialism.  He passes away at the age of 59 after becoming ill while travelling in Egypt and then Europe; he returned to Princeton only to die the next morning of an aneurysm, likely due to a parasite contracted Africa.

Kaufmann was a philosopher, as well as a philosophy professor, a translator on notable renown, and a poet and photographer.  He nearly singlehandedly corrected English-speaking thinkers of their misconceptions of Nietzsche’s ties to Nazism and, with his first and remarkable book Nietzsche (1950), led them to rebegin critical exploration of this maligned philosopher.  We also thank him for his door-opening translations of Martin Buber, Hegel, Goethe, and more (much, much more; his c.v. from 1962-78 lists over 17o publications).  His writings are remarkable in being both rigorous and scholarly as well as personal and provocative; throughout, his prose flows.  He enjoyed provocation.  He challenged readers. 

Perhaps a good end to the question of who he was is his own remark on the life he preferred: “Let people who do not know what to do with themselves in this life, but fritter away their time reading magazines and watching television, hope for eternal life .…  The life I want is a life I could not endure in eternity.  It is a life of love and intensity, suffering and creation, that makes life worth while and death welcome.  There is no other life I should prefer.  Neither should I like not to die” (Walter Kaufmann, The Faith of a Heretic, 386).

Additional Resources:

A Site on Kaufmann

Kaufmann’s 1960 lectures on Nietzsche, Kierkegaard, and Sartre

Walter Kaufmann, “The Faith of a Heretic,” Harper’s Magazine (Feb. 1959)

(Highly recommended)

Moving towards Kaufmann’s Critique of Religion and Philosophy:

“Critique:”

Before we begin looking to his text, it may be valuable to reflect ourselves for a moment on that key word in his title: “Critique.”  Most literally, as any dictionary will tell us, a “critique” is a detailed analysis and assessment of something and its verb form is doing precisely that work, or, as etymology suggests, doing that art of analysis and assessment, that is, to critique is to evaluate something.  “Critique” also summons to mind “critical,” which means at times something of utter importance and, at others, something disapproving.  It is easy to be too quick to conflate all critique as negative, disapproving critique.  This is a mistake, unless, of course, we also add greater nuance to what it means to think negatively.  Consider your frequent classroom assignment to write a paper.  On the most basic level, a well-written paper is one that turns the critical eye to an issue or theory or text or problem.  You think through whether it works or where and how and fails.  Even if your paper tears it to pieces, your careful address is doing the idea an honor.  You are paying attention to it.  And, even further, consider how you take up a text or theory or argument and seek to understand it.  A well-read idea or book is one where you have considered it personally, which means letting it affect you, which is an act of applying it to yourself: your ideas, experiences, your critical analysis and evaluation.  Again, even if you find the result negative in the sense of dislike, you have still done it honor by paying it the attention ideas deserve.  And, if you like it, and are moved by it, it still is negative in a different sense in being a modification; it has changed, in itself or by encountering you and you encountering it—this is something of critical importance, just as any change has critical import. 

Another way to see the positivity of negativity is to consider apopthatic theology, which we will learn about as the semester progresses.  Apopthatic theology is also call negative theology.  This is a method of negative thinking in philosophical theology to get to an understanding the positive application of thought would distort.  For example, in the attempt to name, thus know God, He who is beyond all possible knowledge by his superessential being, negative theology names god by unnaming Him: instead of saying “God is Good,” it says “God is Not Good;” instead of “God is Light,” it says “God is Not Light”—because God is more than what we can possibly understand by the name “Good” or “Light.”  It is more truthful, it argues, to say that God is not these things, and thus is more honorific to his superessentiality.  Negative thinking is, then, a constructive tool to approach truth.  Critique, then, by extrapolation, is what we do when we think carefully, reverent of our content and activity. 

Critique of Religion and Philosophy:

Addressed, below: Kaufmann’s Critique, §§27-8, pp. 78-82; §§33-6, pp. 100-14; §§38-41, pp. 120-34; §§50-1, pp. 173-83; §59, pp. 243-55; §§71-76, pp. 314-31; and §§81-83, pp. 354-68.

Link to Important Study Questions

§§27-8, from: Chapter III:

“Truth, Language, and Experience,” §§22-32, pp. 62-99:

§27. Words and Experience (pp. 78-9):

From one perspective, the point of this section can be summed up by tearing a sentence from its nicely-written context: “But every general concept is a norm” (78).  A norm?  Yes, let us think of norms in the ethical sense: the standard that is expected and/or required; a rule.  Call that snarling thing leaping at your companion in the jungle a “tiger” and you have now set the scene as something that calls for evaluation: compare the ‘idea’ of “tiger” to that thing.  Names, then, are means of judging; our use of names sets us up as judges.  “A noun is not the name of a thing but an attack on a thing …” (78).  Names, then, prompt us to compare, judge, critique; pronouns may even be worse: “A pronoun is like a suit one gives a prisoner after he has been stripped of his identity” (78).  A conjunction is our manipulator (79). 

A few reflections/questions to consider:

Besides being attacks, consider another perspective on names: that they are that by which we know and the evidence of what we know—much of medieval philosophy concerns itself with the necessary and honorific task of naming God so as to know God—how do we think this success from names (naming/knowing) along with this attack (naming/judging)? 

What do you think about the emotive or affective dimension of language?  Can we name without judgment?  Can we name with objectivity?  Can we name without changing that which we name by changing our relationship to it?  

Back to the text:

However … there is another side to Kaufmann’s section 27.  He writes: “Beginning with Impressionism, modern art is a revolt against the noun—an attempt to experience the world ungrammatically, whether more reverently or more cynically” (78). 

And, he also notes that there are some words—“… or, but, if, because, when, and, unless …”—that break open the confines of grammar, that come from the “world of sense,” rather than the “world of reason,” that “populate it [the world] with endless possibilities” (79). 

A few reflections/questions to consider:

Impression: the 19th c. movement in art, originally based in Paris, known for the shadowy, reflective, almost blurred plays of paint that capture plays of light and movement (sometimes the ripple of water, sway of grasses, or often the actual movement of time, a capture of day fading to night, or autumn into winter, etc.); they went out into the open air for their subjects and broke all the rules of rigid form and carefully mixed colors, they more or less dotted and daubed their paints, ignoring clean lines.  The most recognizable impressionistic artists include: Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919), Claude Monet (1840-1926), Alfred Sisley (1839-1899), Camille Pissarro (1830-1903), Paul Cézanne (1839-1906), Vincent van Gogh (technically called a “post-impressionistic” painter, 1853-1890), etc. 

Claude Monet’s La cathédrale de Rouen, le portail et la tour Saint-Romain, plein soleil, harmonie bleue et or (Rouen Cathedral, the West Portal and Saint-Romain Tower, Full Sunlight, Harmony in Blue and Gold), 1893-4, Oil on canvas, approx. 42 x 28”, in the Musee d’Orsay, Paris.

Click the following for more examples:

Renoir’s Bal du Moulin de la Galette, 1876

Paul Cézanne’s Les Grandes Baigneuses, 1898-1905

Alfred Sisley’s Small Meadows in Spring, 1881

Camille Pissarro’s Entrée du Village de Voisins, 1872

Vincent Van Gogh’s Starry Night, 1889

Kaufmann identifies Impressionism, and modern art to follow, as a “revolt against the noun”—consider not only how these many artists were radicals and rule-breakers, but also the fact that Kaufmann turns to artists for the best example.  This art shows a breaking free from traditions and rules, from the norms that govern art content and making, and also offers products, the artworks, that are a visual embodiment of the shivering or blurring of precision, an un-focus that makes it harder to compare and judge.  Impressionism ‘speaks’ to us in some other language, one really more from this “world of sense” that he speaks of, than a world of reason or calculation or drafting skills. 

Art ties in with best with Kaufmann’s closing lines to the section—it opens possibility: we see, hear, feel, think, make, and do the world differently from the artistic perspective.  We will see developed, over the semester, this thematizing of an intimate relationship between art and religion.  Both concentrate on a translation of almost untranslatable experience into something that communicates meaning and value. 

§28. Language and Emotion (pp. 79-82):

To what degree can out language capture our emotions?  Do you know what you feel?  The last section gave us the idea of concepts (conveyed in and through language) being norms; here, we know of the concepts of feelings as norms: “We know the behavior, the facial expression, there stereotype” of the emotions (79).  We know the names of these feelings; this gives us some rough idea of what they are; but do we really know what we feel? 

It is clear that the clearest communication of feelings violates basic social norms (e.g., “How are you?” “Fine, thanks.”  If you say more, it is a bit inappropriate).  And, as Kaufmann notes, most people do not truly wish to really know about the feelings of others (we may perhaps add, albeit cynically, that most do not really care to or take the time to really even question their own emotions).  According to Kaufmann, William Faulkner perhaps has accomplished the greatest account of feelings. 

1. William Faulkner (1897-1962): American author, 1949 winner of a Nobel Prize and two Pulitzer Prizes (1954, 1963), perhaps one of the most distinguished Southern writers (born in Mississippi).  His writing often has the sound of a stream of consciousness, yet perhaps more dense and complex, and is thoroughly cerebral and emotional.  His most notable works include: The Sound and the Fury (1929), As I Lay Dying (1930), Absalom, Absalom! (1936), as well as numerous short stories.  (Read and/or hear his Nobel Prize acceptance speech, ~~here~~.)
   

How does Faulkner accomplish this account?  “… he misuses words, ravishes syntax, and outrages grammar” (80).  (Note the similar subversion to Impressionism, from the last section.)  Being firmly against imprecision, he does not tell us of emotions, but, instead, “… he tells us what the man thinks, of what he is aware—a smell, a sound, a memory, some associations” (80).  (Note the very sensuous awareness of experience.) 

§§33-6 and §§38-41, from: Chapter IV:

“Religion, Faith, and Evidence,” §§33-42, pp. 100-36:

§33. Definitions of Religion:

“In discussions of philosophy it is usually—and quite rightly—taken for granted that there is no need of beginning with a definition. …  Discussions of religion, on the other hand, begin typically with definitions.  But not one of these definitions has won wide acceptance, nor is it likely that any ever will” (Walter Kaufmann, Critique of Religion and Philosophy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1958), 100).

Kaufmann identifies two types of “pseudo-definitions” and then three types of “serious definitions”—all of which he identifies to have shortcomings.

Pseudo-Definitions of “Religion:”

1. Figurative Definitions: using “religion” in a figurative way, e.g. “coffee is my religion,” etc.  The obvious shortcoming here is that we do not mean anything literal about religion.
   

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3. Propagandist Definitions: using a definition to advance one’s cause or ideas and sway others to one’s particular point of view, e.g. “all that is fine in man,” “the opiate of the people,” etc.  The obvious shortcoming here is that “… neither does justice to the phenomenon at hand” (101).
   

Serious Definitions of “Religion:”

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2. Intellectualist Definitions: “… defines religion as a kind of knowledge or identifies it with a body of propositions” (101), e.g., scientific knowledge versus religious knowledge, or the tenets of X make up religion.  He identifies the main shortcoming here to be the blindness to emotional dimensions and attendant moral and ritualistic practices.  In addition, he also shows how the “essence” of religion identified in these definitions often purports the author’s particular philosophical or religious positions.  There are also other shortcomings that appear in the various instantiations of these types of definitions.
   

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4. Affectivistic Definitions: a definition of the essence of a religion as an emotion, e.g., Frederick Schleiermacher’s famous definition in The Christian Faith: “The essence of religion consists in the feeling of an absolute dependence” (102).  Shortcomings here, like in the previous types, include biases for the author’s own particular philosophical or religious positions and, perhaps most important, the idea that the elevation of an affect as the essence of religion is going to fail to hold equally true for all the many religions. 
   

5. In explaining the shortcoming, Kaufmann quotes Freud’s The Future of an Illusion: “It is not this feeling that constitutes the essence of religiousness, but only the next step, the reaction to it, which seeks a remedy against this feeling.  He who goes no further, he who humbly resigns himself to the insignificant part man plays in the universe, is, on the contrary, irreligious in the truest sense of the word” (102).  In other words, the essence of religion is, more so at least, one’s reaction to the emotion—what one then does or is motivated to do or … (however, can’t one’s reaction to an affect simply be a new state of affect, one wherein there is a collision of feelings, perhaps a state of being that is unclear …?  This would remain an affective definition, but be far more universal than simply an identifiable emotion …)
   

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7. Voluntaristic or Practical Definitions:  a definition of the essence of religion as a practice or set of practices, e.g., Lord Raglan’s definition: “Religion is the quest of life by means of symbols” (102) or religion is going to Church/Temple/etc., taking sacrament, living by set rules, etc.  Shortcomings here are like those above; the main one being that practices are diverse amongst the different religions and even if one was found general enough to apply to all, the varying degree to which this is the very central import of a religion or religion itself renders the definition insufficient.  As Kaufmann puts it: “A visiting anthropologist from some South Sea island might consider eating bread and drinking wine the essence of Christianity.  In fact, no practice as such is at all religious: it is only religious in the context of certain beliefs and emotions” (102-3). 
   

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Shortcomings of all Definitions:

“The chief lesson of a survey of attempted definitions or religion is that, in religion, practice, feeling, and belief are intertwined, and every definition that would see the essence of religion in just one of these three facets is too partial” (103).  And, we will still fail, it is suggested, if we simply compound them together, too.  Although Kaufmann doesn’t say that definition itself is impossible, he clearly shows how the traditional attempts fail.  Because there are many religions, yet we use the one word to speak of them all, any definition should be true for all the members thereunder. 

§34.  Religion at the Bar:

Kaufmann doesn’t mean the sort where one can get a drink, but the legal bar.  Following from the question of definitions, one often then asks about truths.  Religions contain many things—rites, emotions, etc.—including truth claims. 

1. Context: Earlier in the text (beyond our reading), Kaufmann wrote about the universally driving aspiration for truth—felt most strongly in philosophy—as a “… fire that consumes this public world, constructed badly by others.  It represents a bold effort to create a public world that is ours,” and “… involves self-assertion and rebellion” (65).  We place such an idea of truth as higher than mere correctness, showing us, through quotation by Shakespeare, that we elevate truth to the same level that we do divinity (cf. 66).  However, our use of the word “true” often misleads us into thinking that there are so many different types of truth.  One of Kaufmann’s examples quotes the last line of Shakespeare’s Sonnet XCIV, “Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds,” and then points out how to a botanist this may not be true, but to the poet and poem’s reader, this is a metaphor intending to point towards a truth.  We also tend to use the word “truth” to mean one’s sincerity or adequate expression of one’s personal experience; however, if this is all that truth means, than there would be no conflict—truth would never be universal and only ever relative, and thus never capable of “objective” “proof” (cf. 66-7).  Instead of these positions, Kaufmann leans towards a promotion of truth as correctness—which does imply right and wrong, thus also principles by which to judge.  However, he acknowledges the exceeding difficulty of actually determining the truth of propositions (cf. 68-9).  The greatest trouble with propositions is that they can say (mean) many things without these things meaning the same as each other, thus, to communicate truth, something is needed that is more than a proposition (72-3).  He explores the different theories of truth (namely the correspondence theory, the coherence theory, and the pragmatic theory) to argue how they must overlap and none are wholly correct by themselves; thus, we are left with the idea that we really must do this work ourselves—use parts of these theories sometimes and continually do the critical and careful work of philosophy all of the time to pursue the question of truth along with our pursuits of truth itself (cf. 74-8).   (The sections §§27-8 that we read immediately follow, presenting how words and emotions play the greatest stumbling blocks to our concretization of truth.)
   

Kaufmann is now raising the question of truth again because it is very commonplace to assume that religious truths are a different type of truths.  Ultimately, he argues that, no, there are not ‘types’ of truths in this sense.  Religious truths may seem different because, as he argues, they are treated so very differently by those who hold them than how a philosopher, scientist, or historian would treat truths, that is, place them under close scrutiny.  In fact, he proposes, the more important one holds a truth, the more scrutiny one ought to subject it to, whereas religious truths, deemed most important, are those with the least scrutiny. 

He compares the attitude to and treatment of religious truths to that activity of a legal defense attorney: “… the counsel for the defense is expected to use all his ingenuity as well as passionate appeals to the emotions to gain credence for a predetermined conclusion—namely that his client is innocent.  He may ignore some of the evidence if he can get away with it, and he is under no obligation to carry out investigations which are likely to discredit his conclusion … and if necessary he will rest content with a reasonable doubt that his position might be true” (105).  The reason for this behavior is understandable within the context of a legal trial, but in terms of a position that one takes to other matters, outside of courts, it is not a sufficient way of seeking truth and engaging in investigation and argument.  Kaufmann is careful to show that this is not a different type of truth.  This is a poor way to approach matters of religion.  “We have here two different attitudes toward truth, but not two different types of truth” (106). 

‘Reasonable doubt,’ in this interpretation, is not legitimate for questions of religion and philosophy.  Just because one could show that position X is not wrong, does not make it true.  “Neither the jury’s attitude nor that of the counsel for the defense is at all appropriate when we are asked if a religious proposition is true or not true” (107).

§35. “Subjective” Truth:

We also have the frequent tendency to want to differentiate “objective” truths, like those in the sciences, from “subjective” truths, which are supposed to be true in different contexts, “for me.”  Kaufmann’s initial pronouncement is clear: “‘Subjective’ truth is a found nickname for self-deception” (107).

What does one mean, then, by “Subjective Truth:”

1. 1) Certainty—but, then one should use “certain” instead of “true,” it is clearer; one can feel certain of X and X may still be false.
   

2. 2) Sincerity—but, being sincere is not being true; one can be sincere in belief X, and yet X is false.
   

3. 3) Happy—just because X makes you happy, and you wish X were true, does not make it true.
   

Kaufmann accuses Kierkegaard of falling prey to all three confusions in his explication of his premise: “truth is subjectivity” (Concluding Unscientific Postscript).  [This topic will surface when we read his Fear and Trembling later in the semester, too.] 

“Talk of ‘subjective’ truth suggests that ‘objective’ truth is, after all, not everything; and that is true enough.  But it is all the truth there is” (108).

1. Note: Here is the key that sets Kaufmann’s argument apart from many similar ones … he IS admitting that ‘truth’ is “not everything”—that is, there is more to meaning, value, life, interpretation, etc.—but that we should not try to include everything into a single term by bifurcating or otherwise multiplying the very idea of truth so as to include things that simply are not ‘truth’ by definition.  So, if we want to talk about the sincerity of one’s beliefs, we shouldn’t discount sincerity as less valuable than truth, but we should recognize that it does not mean the same thing. 
   

§36. Knowledge, Belief, and Faith:

Kaufmann now moves to the classic philosophical distinction between “knowledge” and “belief,” which were said to differ in their objects (i.e., the object of knowledge is different than the object of belief).  “Knowledge was held to be the apprehension of what is eternal and immutable, while belief was identified with apprehension of the changing objects of out sense experience.  This distinction was accompanied by the conviction that belief is inferior to knowledge because knowledge is certain while belief is not” (108-9).

1. A good way to begin to understand this distinction is to consider Plato’s forms—the eternal, immutable, universal truths, of which all things are imitations, e.g., consider a form for “circle:” mathematically, we know the perfect circle is wherein every point on its circumference is equidistant from the center, and that the perfect circle does not exist here in nature, where all will be a little imprecise and different from one another, yet we know all these things here to be circles because they imitate the ‘idea’ of circle that we access through the mind alone.  So, “knowledge” is like what we have of the forms—the perfect truths.  Belief, on the other hand, is what we have about all the instantiations of the forms here around us and accessible to us through our sensory apprehension. 
   

“Christianity inverted this position.  The Christian holds that knowledge is apprehension of changing sense objects, while belief alone can grasp what is eternal and immutable; and belief is held to be superior because it alone is certain” (109). 

Christianity’s inversion of the objects and consequent valuing has become the norm of how we consider knowledge and belief.  Knowledge has become what we have and gather and learn through the sensory apprehension.  Christians consider this to be incomplete; belief has become that which is ‘true,’ more complete because it extends beyond what we can ‘know’ here on earth. 

1. Note: Modern science, too, often purports this position, considering knowledge to be the information that we ‘see’ and can demonstrate here, around us, whereas belief can be that which is not borne out here and now, although, typically, science will not then uphold this belief to be superior, like the Christians.
   

Doxa: for the Greeks, this was belief, educated opinion.

Pistis: for the Christians, “the conviction of the truth of anything, belief; in the NT [New Testament] of a conviction or belief respecting man’s relationship to God and divine things …” (Strong’s The New Testament Greek Lexicon, 4102).

“Clearly, the customary notion that belief, unlike knowledge, always implies uncertainty is untenable [to the Christians].  In the religious usage, and in other usages that have been influenced by this, belief is quite compatible with certainty and may even imply it” (109). 

Kaufmann, however, wants to stress the utter difference between certainty and knowing.  “What distinguishes knowledge is not certainty but evidence” (109).  When one says, “I know this proposition to be true,” one is asserting that s/he thinks proposition X is true and that s/he has evidence to support the claim (and evidence that is sufficient enough to have all reasonable people agree).  If both conditions are met, than yes, s/he does know that X is true.  If his/her evidence does not exist or is not provided or is not adequate, then, even if it is true, s/he does not know that X is true. 

Kaufmann spells this confusion out with reference to a seminal essay “Other Minds” by the analytic philosopher, J. L. Austin, who analogically links knowing with promising.  Kaufmann’s trouble with this is that while knowing is often used to imply a guarantee, a promising, or something another can rely upon, that this is actually not what is meant by “to know” (cf., 109-10). 

Kaufmann proposes (against custom) that one can say “I know” and admit the possibility of being wrong without contradiction.  Whereas philosophers have held that one can say “I believe” and have the possibility of being wrong, but that one cannot hold that possibility if one says “I know.”  Religious thinkers, however, use “I believe” to prohibit error, whereas “I know” permits the possibility of being wrong. 

Kaufmann’s proposition is to show that one can say, “I know X,” and actually be wrong, and that this is not analogous to making a ‘promise,’ as Austin argues.  Essentially, what Kaufmann is doing is showing that knowledge and belief are hard to pin down with utter accuracy in order to call our attention to the many times we mistakenly use the terms and lead us to think through such claims more carefully. 

“Belief has a wider sense in which it includes knowledge and a narrower sense in which it is contrasted with knowledge.* …  When I say that I know that a proposition is true, I say that I think that it is true; that in fact it is true; and that there is evidence sufficient to compel the assent of every reasonable person. …  In the absence of any universally acknowledged rules of evidence, the determination whether the evidence is sufficient to prove a proposition involves judgment—personal judgment” (112). 

1. *: “Belief in the narrow sense, in which it is contrasted with knowledge, is distinguished by the lack of evidence sufficient to compel the assent of every reasonable person” (113).
   

Faith: “Faith is belief—usually belief in the narrow sense—that is held intensely, with some emotional involvement; and almost all statements that begin ‘I have faith that …’ fulfill one further condition: one would be disappointed if one should be wrong” (113).  He further notes that this disappointment need not be utter breakdown, but can be a mild disappointment that passes; we do/should not, he argues, reserve the word only for the strongest emotional connection because, “… faith, being an intense and confident belief, is not necessarily closer to knowledge than any other belief” (114).  Faith does not presume a closer or higher relation to knowledge. 

[§37. Faith, Evidence, and James: …]

§38. Three Types of Religious Propositions:

There are many types of religious propositions, but Kaufmann begins by explaining three types:

1) Historical Statements:

1. These propositions have evidence to substantiate them, e.g., eyewitness accounts, written documents, etc., which can be vetted and otherwise investigated as to accuracy and reliability.  Literally, many religious claims (e.g., “Jesus rose from the dead,” “Jesus said …,” etc.) are of this type.  They have evidence.  However, their evidence is not the same as that which we may supply for propositions like, “Lincoln was shot in 1865.”  Religious historical statements do not have eyewitness accounts, as the record was composed long after the events; the composers of the record had historical, cultural, etc., motivations; and the historical community’s standards for evidence have changed. 
   

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3. Kaufmann notes how: “Many a claim that is a stumbling block to the contemporary Christian was a powerful aid to belief when it was first presented …” (121).  Note how this reflects our contemporary stances and valuation of knowledge and belief.
   

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5. “Ascriptions of qualities to a historical figure are also historical statements, provided that the quality is defined independently of the ascription …” (122). 
   

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7. “The point regarding all such statements that is too often forgotten is that there is evidence supporting them, and in some instances also evidence against them, and all this evidence has to be evaluated” (122).  We must keep in mind the importance of evaluations—no propositions, especially ones we hold to be more or most important than others, should be deemed above or beyond evidence and question, for this prevents their being knowledge, let alone truth. 
   

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2) Generalizations:

1. The standard procedures of verifying or falsifying any statements that are generalizations is widely known, yet we are sometimes hesitant to subject religious generalizations to these same basic standards of investigation.  Not subjecting these claims to rigorous scrutiny and, in fact, often protecting them to the degree of inculcating them as unquestionable truths, has made Christianity (or any guilty party) into “… fountainheads of anti-intellectualism and opposition to critical thinking” (124).  This brings harm to the parties and prevents them (all of us) the opportunity to benefit from what critical questioning can provide. 
   

3) Speculative Propositions:

1. These types of statements, e.g., “The center of the earth is fiery, and some of the dead are frying there,” “Consciousness survives death,” etc., “… require corroboration or refutation of a kind different from that appropriate for generalizations or historic statements” (124).  The procedure for corroborating or refuting this type of statements will also differ.
   

The point of distinguishing these three of many different types of religious propositions is to show that when we study and evaluate religious claims, we must pay close attention to the types of propositions we are investigating—what type they are will determine how we go about considering them.

§39. Recourse to Revelation or Miracles:

Revelation is held by some to be a conclusive and irrefutable type of evidence to support religious propositions.  Kaufmann challenges us (like John Locke did) to consider carefully the following: even if we grant the existence of God and the truth of His revelation of truths to humankind, there are two questions that cannot but follow: “… How do we know in any given instance whether what confronts us is a true revelations? and how do we know that we understand it right?” (125). 

1. These are fundamental questions for all propositions; and, note, to ask these questions is not to deny the possibility of their truth or value—this is the most important point to take away from this first reading of Kaufmann: questioning is not impious or vicious, but necessary and right and honorific to the activity of thinking that we are capable of as ‘rational animals.’ 
   

The first question—“How do we know in any given instance whether what confronts us is a true revelations?”—asks about the criteria by which we judge the trustworthiness of revealed propositions and, Kaufmann adds, “… has never been answered at all adequately” (125).  We attempt to address it, typically, by proposing five criteria (which, Kaufmann claims, are inadequate):

1) Subjective Certainty: almost all will note this to be insufficient to then pronounce truth, but is it a necessary condition?  The danger in saying yes, absolutely, or to go further and claim its utter sufficiency, opens the door to having to accept all fanaticism.  And, a further danger in saying it may be insufficient by itself, but necessary, is the contradiction we would then find in the many, many accounts (in diverse scared texts and religious traditions) of doubt.

2) “… the ‘fruits’ of the alleged revelation must be good” (125): this is meant as a safeguard against having to affirm all fanaticism (e.g., ‘god wills me to kill everyone,’ etc.), but its inadequacy is not recognizing the value judgment that must be made as to what is “good?”  Not to mention the ambiguity of “fruits:” for the person receiving the revelation, the consequent actions, the other parties affected, etc.?  Sometimes a person may be charged to do something ultimately capable of being deemed ‘good,’ yet terribly hard and painful for the agent, etc.  

3) Non-Conflict with Accepted Tradition: this is deemed indispensible in most cases, but also utterly inadequate as a criteria for judgment because the various traditions are each ambiguous in themselves that evidence can almost always be supplied for and against at the same time.  Further, consider how almost every great religious figure has been a challenge against tradition, be it Buddha against fundamental principles of Hinduism or Jesus against fundamental principles of Judaism, etc.

4) Non-Conflict with Reason: proposed strongest by St. Aquinas and Paul Tillich, this criteria is said to have genuine revelations necessarily accord with reason, even if they add to rational knowledge.  Kaufmann points out how this may keep propositions like ‘five plus ten now equals 17’ from being accepted, but it would not prevent propositions deeming former sins to now be good acts, which would not be accepted by the masses, authority, and other criteria.  Also, the difficulty arises here as to how we define “reason,” for revelation of such claims like the trinity, for it to be rational, would need a definition of reason that is quite distinct from how we typically treat reason. 

5) Inexplicable in Naturalistic Terms: the three main points that Kaufmann raises are: 1) it is quite debatable as to whether any ordinary conscious-involved experience is wholly explicable in naturalistic terms, and 2) why is it that explicable experiences are barred from being revelations?, and 3) there does not seem to be any significant correlation between inexplicable experiences and revelations. 

Independently, none of these criterions are sufficient proof for some event or proposition being revelation.  Perhaps in conjunction they could be?  This would certainly make a stronger case for the probability, but, Kaufmann shows, even the most religious would likely say no, even if all conditions are met, this is no absolute guarantee that X is or was a revelation.  This is seen even more clearly if we consider the object being questioned an entire text. 

Thus, Kaufmann notes, considering the above inadequacies, Locke’s second question is obviously assured to still and always remain a question to revelation.  Historical and contemporary survey of religious traditions that accept any revealed truths are rife with disagreement as to the interpretation of the revealed material (cf., 128).

Miracles: miracles are often held as evidence to confirm belief.  Kaufmann refers to Hume’s classic attack against miracles:

1. Cf., esp., Hume, An  Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, ch. 10 “Of Miracles:” “A miracle may be accurately defined, a transgression of a law of nature by a particular violation of the Deity, or by the interposition of some invisible agent,” which results in the consequence that there is no testimony sufficient to establish the truth/knowledge of a miracle, which means, according to Hume, that if someone tells me he witnessed a miracle, I weight the probability of his miracle against the probability that he is deceiving me or he has been deceived himself.  The least likely option must be rejected, which means that deception is more probable (Hume, 149).
   

2. Hume writes: “Upon the whole, then, it appears, that no testimony for any kind of miracle has ever amounted to a probability, much less to a proof….  It is experience only, which gives authority to human testimony; and it is the same experience, which assures us of the laws of nature.  When, therefore, these two kinds of experience are contrary, we have nothing to do but subtract one from the other, with that assurance which arises firm the remainder …” [i.e., look for the greater probability] … But, “… with regard to all popular religions, [this] amounts to an entire annihilation; and therefore we may establish it as a maxim, that no human testimony can have such force as to prove a miracle, and make it a just foundation for any such system of religion” (Hume, 163—emphasis mine).
   

Kaufmann more or less agrees with Hume, and adds supplemental evidence that, for the most part, miracles are not what actually sway the faithful to belief, nor would these faithful ascribe their faith to the accounts of miracles.  In sum, his point is that: “A miracle, in other words, is not a brute fact, and the word is not coterminous with ‘wonderful event’” (128).  And, in addition to miracles not being the foundation of proof for the faithful, further, it is no proof to those without faith: “A miracle requires faith: to those who lack faith it is not a miracle.  Appeal to miracles as evidence to prove beliefs is therefore circular” (129). 

§40. Faith and Its Causes: Contra James:

Typically, the identification of the causes of one’s beliefs is held to be the “negative evidence” that is used to discredit the beliefs.  Kaufmann shows how William James presents the classic rejection of this move.  James argues that the genealogical search for an origin is used destructively, instead of constructively, as is in the case of medical materialists (e.g., consider how a neurologist would say no, X was not a mystical experience, actually it was a hallucinogenic event that is the causal consequence of this act of the person’s brain). 

Kaufmann agrees that sometimes this genealogical approach—seeking origins of beliefs in psychological, biological, chemical, etc., processes—is used to destruct a proposition, but that we should not dismiss the genealogical approach as always being destructive and wrongly used.  Instead, we should recognize that “What is wrong with psychological analyses of men like these [religious figures] is that so often they are substituted for philosophical analysis.  Psychological analysis cannot take the place of other kinds of criticism; but as one approach among others it is not only justifiable but often of considerable importance” (130).

When James, nobly, upholds the “right to believe,” he does a vast disservice to critical thinking.  He, according to Kaufmann, confuses a legal right with an intellectual right.  Legally, we are permitted to believe things that are false; intellectually, we do not have this right.  “And while a great deal can be said against tolerance of irrationality by the state, no less can be said against the tolerance of irrationality by philosophers” (131).  Such people who believe, knowingly, wrong things may be kind, etc., but we do not challenge their kindness, etc., when we challenge their irrationality. 

Then, in a great attack against a relativistic-free-for-all, Kaufmann argues: “Beliefs are legion, and we cannot give equal consideration to all” (132).  If we are most generous, and we considerately ask a patently ill-supported belief the question ‘why would one believe this?’, we may learn a great lesson, broader than about the specified content of the belief—one about human nature, perhaps.  This is not destructive; this is valuable thinking. 

§41. Seven Causes:

We can differentiate seven causes why a belief (religious or not) is held:

1) Because Arguments have been Adduced in its Support: this reason, Kaufmann notes, is in a different category than the other causes.  Critique, then, will proceed by examining these arguments, and, finding them to be good, the philosopher may carry forward, or, finding them flawed, the philosopher may investigate why, if they are improvable, why, etc. 

(The following are not mutually exclusive:)

2) Because it was encountered (orally, written, etc.) and nothing spoke against it: when these beliefs are more trivial, and something contrary is encountered, we are often more likely to challenge the origin as legitimate for actually determining our beliefs; when the beliefs are very important to us, we may be less likely to want to challenge their legitimacy on the basis of it having such origins.

3) A Belief may not be traceable to a single source: e.g., traditional and cultural beliefs we simply absorbed by being in an environment. 

4) Because it fits well with one’s prior beliefs: higher education corrects much of this, but it is very common that we hold beliefs and are reluctant to question them just because it fits so nicely with everything else we accept.

5) Because there are penalties for not holding the belief: e.g., our history chronicles plenty of instances of capital punishment, torture, concentration camps, etc., resulting from disobedience in holding beliefs.

6) Because there are rewards for holding the belief: e.g., social acceptance, etc.

7) Because it gratifies us or answers a psychological need: e.g., it qualms fears or gives a sense of happiness, etc.

§§50-1: Chapter VI:

“God, Ambiguity, and Theology,” §§50-7, pp. 173-227:

§50. God and Ambiguity (pp. 173-181):

“Propositions about God pose an important problem which is often overlooked: What do they mean?  What does ‘God’ mean?” (173).  The meaning of “God,” in large part, comes from the Bible. 

First, we take it as a proper name.  But, even on this level, there are numerous differences that arise and complicate our understanding of what it means (sometimes “God” is identical to “Methusaelah,” “Moses,” “Paradise,” “Love,” etc.; sometimes it is a genus which contains these other names; sometimes it is opposed to or contrasted with these other names). 

Sometimes, we mean “God” as the subject of a direct address; these addresses may be simply expressions of joyous emotion, etc.

Sometimes, we mean “God” as the descriptor of the emotions associated with and involved in the expressions using the word, e.g. “God-fearing,” etc.

And, many more ways … all of these help to inform the meaning of “God,” and thus reveal the ultimate ambiguity of “God.”  This obviously plays an important role in the consideration of religious truth claims (i.e., all of what we have previously read).  If the meaning of “God” is ambiguous, so much more so are the many propositions that we put forth about “God.” 

Two approaches deal with how we treat such propositions (without even getting to the question of proofs of God’s existence):

1. 1) treat them how we treat claims about humans, i.e., as if the question was ‘did Moses say X,’ etc., and consult the record; or,
   

2. 2) say that such propositions belong to a realm of discourse that has its own conventions and then determine if they are in accord with that set of conventions (cf., 175). 
   

Both of these methods may end in the same answer, but they are very different and, importantly, many conventions may be found to be in contradiction with the record/holy writings.  The differences we may uncover are not to discount truth claims or values, but, instead, are very meaningful to our best understanding of the question.  “Much discourse about God is therefore meaningful and even verifiable in an important sense without implying that God does in fact exist” (176). 

Now, when we get to the question of whether God exists, this is of a very different nature.  It, too, is ambiguous—it may be asked without any reference to whether God really exists.  In other words, we can ask the question in regards to a tradition or community, and not be asking whether He does in general or for all (e.g., according to the Bible or the Christian community, does God exist?  Yes.)  It is legitimate in these circumstances to say “yes,” “by definition.” 

However, there is another level of interpretation—the “really” level, whereupon we are asking about the truth of a proposition beyond a particular realm of discourse.  Here, we can get an answer that agrees with the one from within the discourse, or one that disagrees with that answer, and either way, the accordance or discord may not make some ultimate pronouncement about the proposition’s truth in and of itself.  That is, either way, the answers are meaningful, and do not automatically, causally, discount or affirm or otherwise place a valuation on the question in all aspects for all purposes. 

To illustrate this, Kaufmann asks if Moses ever killed a man.  Within the context of the tradition, the answer is “yes”—i.e., in Exodus, and for those who accept this book as part of the canon of Scriptures, there is evidence that Moses killed a man.  If we ask if Moses really killed a man, that is, beyond that specific context, we are asking if there was a historical figure named Moses who we can say and support with historically legitimate evidence killed a man, which is likely asking, is Exodus an historically reliable instance of evidence by which we can judge the truth of the man and event?  In this case, we may find that the record suggests its truth, but the certainty is highly questionable (e.g., what if claims in Leviticus, Numbers, etc., differ from those in Exodus?, etc.). 

Now, considering how difficult this type of answer is, consider how much more difficult is the answer concerning whether God really exists!  When we investigate Moses, there is name to hold on to—for the most part, what and who Moses is is far more uniform and clear across all accounts.  When we investigate God, we haven’t a name to hold on to.  Thus, we must acknowledge that: “… the question whether God really exists has no clear meaning” (177). 

1. Important:  This is not saying, to repeat, that suddenly we must all become atheists!  To say that it “has no clear meaning” is not to say, thus it is not true, thus God doesn’t exist.  This would be to use the lack of clarity as identical with falsity, and this is unfounded due to its being an ‘apples and oranges’ comparison.  To acknowledge ambiguity is not to dismiss, devalue, or denigrate anything.  In fact, it is an honest and honorific stance.  –We will encounter this theme repeatedly this semester.
   

A further factor contributing to ambiguity: what we mean by “exists” is equally ambiguous.  Reason (as well as religious doctrine) tells us that God does not exist in the way that a book or chair exists, so, if we mean existence in that sense, we would say that God does not exist, but this does not impinge upon a claim that He really does exist. 

A consequence that we must deal with, following from this further ambiguity of “existence,” is that many then claim that there must, then, be “different modes of existence” (178).  This claim then launches us into a similar problem that we saw when entertaining whether there were different types of truths.  Kaufmann reserves deep doubts as to whether any such claims aid our think at all, or if they actually only serve to generate conceptual confusions. 

1. His main point, in brief: Plato et al do not offer us different types of definitions and have no problem permitting one definition of existence incorporate material and ‘mathematical’ (i.e., like the Forms) forms; however, if we did bifurcate “existence” into these two types, it would still raise religious ire, for it is equally inappropriate to limit God’s existence to the ‘mathematical’ sort alone; thus, making many types of existence does not fix any problem.
   

Using Paul Tillich and Martin Heidegger, Kaufmann elaborates on one of the ways that this problem of existence has been addressed—these are impressive, insightful, and rather beautiful works of thought, which could be addressed at length, but, their purpose here is to allow Kaufmann to show that, for these addresses to the problem: “… terms applied to God do not mean what they generally mean. … But if terms applied to God do not mean what they generally mean, if they have a unique meaning when applied to God, then all such talk about God is conducted in a peculiar language with rules of its own” (179).  In other words, if we need to appeal to different meanings of terms, we are then working within an exclusive framework and can then only make judgments whose truths are valid within that framework, and not in the broad sense of saying X really is the case. 

We should accept the fact that “… assertions about God depend entirely on their ambiguity …” (179) and stop seeing that as some sort of attack or demotion or as anything negative. 

When challenged, the defenders of religious propositions often appeal to explanations that take their propositions into specific realms … these may be ‘safer’ in some regard, but ultimately harmful because it prohibits them from arguments conducted in the ‘general’ (the really) realm, wherein, if they stray, they appear nonsensical at best and delusion at worst.  Why this insight may be particularly reviled by many is that it identifies all of the vast philosophy offering philosophic / rational explanations—be it Scholasticism specifically or all theology generally—as guilty.  Kaufmann argues: “To understand such peculiarities of theology [i.e., any rational explanations of religious propositions that try to argue what is valid within context to be valid outside of that context, too], one must remember that theology, and indeed any systematic discussion of God, was born as a defensive maneuver.  It is the product of a distinctive historic situation” (180). 

1. Note: To better understand Kaufmann’s claim, we may want to think about how a “defense” of belief does not have to be restricted to a faithful defending X against a non-believer; one may actually conduct this “defense” against oneself, for example, if you believe X “in your heart,” as the medievals often put it, you may very well have that part of you we call “reason” speak up and ask, ‘why do I believe this?’  At which, one attempts to translate belief into an acceptable form for reason to accede it.  This example offers a temporally non-specific historical situation for this origin of ‘theology.’
   

Specifically, Kaufmann elucidates, in this origin of theology, “The theologian defends his religious heritage by sacrificing its plain exoteric meaning” (180). 

1. Note: “Exoteric” being a meaning intended for or understood by the public, something clear, as opposed to “esoteric,” that which is understood by a few, typically those with specialized knowledge.  In other words, one takes these propositions that aid others in understanding the meaning of a religious idea as it is used practically and productively within the realm of a specific context of meaning outside of those bounds and claim that they are really true.  Now, if one did not do this, and instead said, when challenged: ‘no, no, no, these are not meant to be literal truths in all bounds of knowledge’—this would likely head off bad consequences of the overreach of propositions, but would also violate the actual, underlying desire of the theologian: they want to claim their propositions as universal truths, even when they are simply not the type of propositions that validly are subject to such determinations.  Essentially, the theologians fall prey to—as much as everyone does—the presumption that universal truths are more valuable than truths that hold in a specified context, no matter the fact that we have shown that these should not be such a hierarchy of value.  What we really must remember is that “ambiguity” is not a condemnation; propositions that are essentially ambiguous do not univocally translate, and this is not a judgment of their worth (cf., 180).
   

Thus, what is the conclusion of all this?  Recognizing that propositions about God are essentially ambiguous, “They cannot be called true or false” (181).  Keep in mind, again, that this means that we would simply be doing something invalid by trying to claim religious proposition X is really true or really false … much like if we assumed that the proposition ‘this apple is red,’ is true therefore the proposition ‘this feeling is red’ could be evaluated to be true according to the same rules and in the same sense as the first; not only cannot it not be, it does not make sense to think of such a claim as one that can be true or false. 

Kaufmann concludes: “The propositions themselves defy translation” (181). 

1. 
   

2. Note: this really is a radical claim … most philosophy of language wants to utterly, utterly deny the possibility of ever having a proposition that cannot be translated.  For more on this, cf. Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations and Lyotard’s The Differend for one of the best encounters of this debate.
   

§51. The Ambiguity of Dogma (pp. 181-3):

What does “dogma” mean? Here, Kaufmann is using the term to mean: “… definitively formulated propositions of which a religious institution says authoritatively that salvation depends on belief in them” (181).  And, he notes that not all religions are religions of salvation, for instance, Judaism.  Buddhism, in its reliance on the Four Noble Truths,* is a religion of salvation, as is Christianity, which has many dogmas, but were defined over time to preclude their contradiction. 

When we ask what does a Christian dogma mean, there are many ways that we use the word “mean,” the two most important of which are: what construction of a dogma is most profound and/or edifying, and what did the people who framed the dogma mean (which asks for historical information).  For both of these meanings of what it ‘means,’ we may have different answers.  Some of these differences may have been present and intended from the start; some may have arisen over time.  Thus, one doesn’t typically speak of the meaning of a dogma.  Dogma, then, is essentially ambiguous.  “The history of the development of Christian dogma is a continual fight for the abundance of mystery and not for rationalistic clarification” (182). 

1. 
   

2. Note: We should feel some liberation in this argument: this is the most honorific pronouncement that we can make, and for those who pull out dogma as if it were a ‘fact’ or ‘law’ that is unambiguous are doing the worst disservice to faith by limiting it to something definable and subject to true and false determinations.
   

Kaufmann then asks: “Are religious dogmas cognitive and meaningful?” (182).  The Buddhist Four Noble Truths, he says, are both.  The Christian dogmas, however, “… communicate a profusion of knowledge and suffer from an excess of meaning no less than most propositions about God and the immortal stories of the Book of Genesis” (182).  The insights and wisdom are inexhaustible and no one sermon is an acceptable substitute for the Scriptures.  “A very partial translation of a dogma, or of one of the stories of Genesis, might be true or false; the texts themselves, though perhaps literally untrue, are fountainheads of wisdom and of superstition, beyond true and false.  Or rather they belong to a deeper stratum at which the question of true and false has not yet occurred.  Or to put it much more simply: they are through and through ambiguous” (182).

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2. Note:
   

3. * The Four Noble Truths:
   

4. 1) Noble Truth of Sorrow [Dukkha: that which is difficult to bear, stress, pain, anguish, affliction, etc.].  “Birth is sorrow, age is sorrow, disease is sorrow, death is sorrow; contact with the unpleasant is sorrow, separation from the pleasant is sorrow, every wish unfulfilled is sorrow—in short all the five components of individuality are sorrow” (Samyutta Nikaya, 5.421 ff.  The five components: forms, sensations, perceptions, psychic dispositions, and consciousness)—Life is suffering;
   

5. 2) Noble Truth of the Arising from Sorrow.  “It arises from craving, which leads to rebirth, which brings delight and passion, and seeks pleasure now here, now there—the craving for sensual pleasure, the craving for continued life, the craving for power” (Ibid.)—suffering is caused by lust and aversion (by human nature, by trying to know/define the self);
   

6. 3) Noble Truth of the Stopping of Sorrow.  “It is the complete stopping of that craving, so that no passion remains, leaving it, being emancipated from it, being released from it, giving no place to it” (Ibid.)—suffering can be overcome and happiness attained;
   

7. 4) Noble Truth of the Way which Leads to the Stopping of Sorrow.  “It is the Noble Eightfold Path …” (Ibid.)—suffering can be overcome by the eight-fold path.
   

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... More Coming Soon ...

§§59: Ch. VII:

“Satanic Interlude, or How to Go to Hell,” §§58-60, pp. 228-59:

§59. Dialogue between Satan and a Christian (pp.243-55):

what does “god” mean?

§§71-6 and 81-3, from Ch. IX:

“The Core of Religion,” §§71-83, pp. 314-68:

§71:

§72:

§73:

§74: