Notes on Turtullian: 2nd century Christian apologist

His original name was Quintus Septimius Florens Tertullianus. Tertullian is his anglicized (the English form) name. He was Berber: native of North Africa. He was the first to write Christian Latin literature. He was a Christian apologist and attacked many heresies. He is called 'the father of Latin Christianity' (e.g. Western Christianity, contrasted with Eastern). He coined the term: Trinity, and came up with: three Persons, one Substance. Coined the terms: Old and New Testament. He later converted to Montanism: a heresy lead by Montanus claiming to have a New Prophecy from God. After his conversion, he still combated heresies such as Gnosticism. He wrote 46 works: 31 are extant. He thought God has a body, though He is Spirit. He hated Greek philosophy, and thought it a breeding ground for heresy. Adhered to Traducianism: one's soul is transmitted by one's parents - the only soul directly made by God was Adam's. The soul has a distinct kind of physicality: thus, the fires of Hell can affect it. Jesus has not always existed: the Father - at one time - existed without the Son.

What is a passion?

Passion: a kind of concept - not particularly Romance. More to the point - a passion is an emotional state: innate and biologically driven. Examples: anger, lust, greed - thus: sins are passions, even though not all passions are sins. Passions can lead to: social ills or benefits. Like what?: God's punishment, Hobbes' state of nature, karma. Passions are foils - foils to what?: the pursuit of reason, virtue, or faith. Some indulge the passions: Hedonism and Nihilism. Some moderate the passions: Epicureanism or conventional Religion. Some extinguish the passions: Stoicism, Buddhism, Monasticism.

Spinoza and the passions: to be contrasted with action. When does a passion happen?: when external events affect us. In what way?: if we have confused ideas about the events and whatever caused them. What is a passive state?: occurs when we have a certain emotion - call it 'passivity of the soul'. When this happens, the body's power diminishes. An emotion is this: a bodily change coupled with an idea about that change, an idea that can help or hurt the body. When we have emotions, this happens: bodily changes are caused by either external or internal/external forces. We - as persons - should be the only cause of our bodily changes. And we should always base our acts on an understanding of cause and effect coupled with this: ideas of such bodily changes logically related to one another and the world. If one does this, one is active. Most of the time this doesn't happen: that's why Spinoza thought the emotions were more powerful than reason.

Yes: in the beginning was the Word - or, the Logic, and the Word became flesh to dwell among us. But the Word is also the only begotten of the Father - one almost wants to say: in the primordial beginning was the Music which begot the Word, just as Greek Tragedy begot Greek Philosophy. The Son was dead and buried, but rose: to reunite with the Music, the supra-rational, the trans-rational. A mystical parallel: our reason must die and resurrect to unite with the divine mystique - though reason be saluted!: for reason brings us to the dock where our mystical ship awaits.

Music: the infusion of the Dionysian and the Apollonian - Dionysus: the music - melody and rhythm without words. The mouth and vocals can express this: it's only condition - that language is not embodied. Apollonian: the words and the language as it is sung. Since the sung can also have melody and rhythm, it is a peculiar autonomous infusion of the greatest art. When this infusion is itself infused with the instrumental Dionysian, we have a more complex infusion, and the primordial infusion is brought to the second power. Movies: the infusion is also made - we have the score: it transforms the projected images, and the images embody the Apollonian. The key question: how is consciousness transformed or effected when brought into sensuous contact with such an infusion? Is not this the beginning of a nascent, mystical contact with the Divine beauty? Or - more generally: contact with things of the spirit?: things that cannot be directly stimulated, but conjured, enchanted, awoken, or coaxed?

The facing of the daily grind after a deep, religious, emotional experience of longing: the hangover after a night of intoxication.

Finding secret paths hidden to the maps: these are the nooks that hide the secrets of your heart - in the forest of life, wonder from the beaten path to find the nook!

I just read that a dove has a remarkable feature: wherever it is, it has the innate longing to return to its master - how much does this illuminate this: that the Holy Spirit descended on Christ like a dove? It's almost as though the Spirit had homesickness: as a mother bird longs to return to her nest.

To be a Christian philosopher: in an art museum with masses suffering from near-sightedness - a bland preoccupation with the only things they are able to see: that which is presented close to the eye. But the philosopher: his farsightedness leads to tripping over obstacles and himself - why?: he is too focused on the art! The true philosopher is not worried by their jeering: for he can't see them - and the masses fret over why the philosopher keeps stumbling - he cannot focus on the things that are close. The study of philosophy leads to a farsightedness: and he is always bottling up the experiences he has there - when alone: he enjoys the fragrance of the experience trapped within in recollection! The soul of a philosopher: a transit warehouse for such mystical bottles!

The camera abstracts the image in the photograph: the philosopher abstracts concepts. A lion and a photograph of a lion: if you rip the photograph, the real lion is left unscathed - the destruction of concepts leaves the world unscathed. The relation between the lion and the photograph might be the relation between the world and concepts: the photograph abstracts the lion - the concept abstracts from the world. Whence comes the concept of a unicorn: if there were no lion, it's photograph would be impossible - yet we have the concept of a unicorn: how does one abstract from that which is not?

A fly hits the windshield: the wipers don't remove the fly but smear it - the philosopher without love.

Imagine a man endlessly praising the seats in a theater during a movie: "Shhh!", we'd say: "Enjoy the movie!" - is this the practical man? Or perhaps the scientist is this: utter fascination with a pixel to the exclusion of the entire screen - if we we're in the theater, wouldn't we find him peculiar? To be in a theater where one is probably mocked for actually watching the movie: the predicament of the philosopher. Or: the blind person who specializes in sight - the predicament of the academic philosopher. Or: the seeing who specialize in blindness - the predicament of the nominal Christian?

Having to go to the bathroom when the doors are locked: the predicament of the unnoticed genius.

Deciding the salvation of someone: two men have an open book in front of their eyes, and their eyes are moving back and forth over the sentences. Each man is enclosed in a sound-proof glass case. One man is reading: the other is mimicking the act of reading. How do you decide who is reading? What criteria do you use? Is it the furrowed brow? But the mimicker has that as well. Is it the movement of the eyes? This won't work either. Two men are writhing on the ground, screaming because they are in pain: but one is acting - the behavior is identical. You shall know them by their fruit: cannot fruit be mimicked? You call a philosopher to discuss the issue of X: he eloquently gives an answer - yet, it could easily be a dunce (skilled in acting) reading from a book. Is the aim of life the much difficult quest of discovering who is really reading or in pain?

A man types as an annoying conversation is happening in the next room. He wants to type and for the talking to stop: then he hears his name. The typing stops - this is how God speaks to us. We try to type: but the conversation only happens while we type - and while we type we don't want to listen - we want to type. If we could but hear the conversation while we type we would know the will of God. Be we don't want to. And the conversation stops every time we try to listen.

Shelley said: Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar: - To the precious individual swept up from the mass: be an individual.

Wilde said that to be ourselves it is necessary we wear masks. To have speech in a land of mutes: to have an ear in a land of deafness - how is communication possible? Sign language. The Philosopher, the poet, is banished to such a land. To avoid loneliness he must learn the speech of the natives. He must suspend his desire for speech and indulge the pettiness. Plato's cave: he must feign interest in shadows after experiencing the Sun. He is mocked if the prisoners are told of his preoccupation with the Sun. They are slaves. But a day is coming: the veil shall be taken off - they shall see what all along this madman was raving about.

The drunk person who doesn't think he is drunk: the arrogant man arrogantly analyzing his arrogance. The question was posed to Piper: why are Calvinists so negative? Piper's answer: the coherence of the Calvinist's system woos the systematic intellect, an intellect prone toward negativity, debate, and argument. Instead of removing the dagger he twists it. It is as if to say: all apologies about our negativity - it is only symptomatic of our superior intelligence, our attraction to a superior theology. They lack the proper mirror; all he has is a self-portrait. The mirror reveals the shortcomings. God, forgive my sins.

No man is an island, said Donne. Yet I long for solitude. Perhaps it's meant only in doses. The goal is the belonging to a community, membership. We are to be to a group what an organ is to a body: indispensable, irreplaceable. But the collective rears its head. You're just a number. Is this what Thoreau fled from? That he moved only a couple miles from the city is beside the point. The shoulder was taken out of joint, not severed. If it was severed, the body will eventually make due. But if out of joint, the body's attention is focused on that pain until the problem is fixed. Thoreau was being a gadfly to his town. Two things to avoid: a selfish solitude and a selfless collective. A bad Church breeds the former; institutions breed the latter. A good Church is family.

Alone in a house of unlikes: a solitude that is thrust upon you. But then out comes art. Is art always the offspring of spiritual poverty? No. God made the Heavens and the Earth. But Lewis speculates that in creating, it's possible that God made in Himself a want only we could fulfill. Only omnipotence could do that. Perhaps that is what is meant by this: God saw the crucifixion in creating the first nebula. Suffering and art mingle. It's almost a prerequisite that the creation of art is given birth by prior birth pains: and so God impregnated Himself with creation.

Why is it that I couldn't tell you the lyrics to a song I loved if you asked me on the spot? But if the song was playing, then I could magically recall the lyrics, and sing along with the song. Philosophy is like this. If someone asks me what good is philosophy, I stammer and stutter. But if a philosophical conversation was occurring, I suddenly know the words. Even by request: if a question is posed to me, my conscious attention to the form my answer will take muddles the process. But if in solitude I close my eyes and contemplate the question, I suddenly hear the music, and suddenly have sparkling glimpses of the answer . . .

Reading a bad review of a song which made you weep: the ultimate insult? Reading a bad review of a movie you loved by a critic you've long respected: even worse? The question arises: whose soul is lacking? Or are different colors shining from different sides of the prism? You hear the following: there comes a time when one says of even a Bach or a Shakespeare, and then asks, 'Is that it?'. But then you encounter those who think Bach ugly. Can we have any assurance regarding our personal favorites? Pearl Jam cascades upon me all the trappings of sublimity. Yet, Amazon.com is riddled with scathing reviews of their mediocrity. I shudder. How could they? Are they aesthetically handicapped, or am I? And what of those who aren't moved to music at all? I am dimensions away from them. I am a droplet of cool water in a furnace of petty ignorance.

Language-games

If I'm playing basketball, does it make much sense to cry foul because the rook moved diagonally? Nonsense. The game of basketball and chess are mingling. Is not the same thing happening here: science cries foul because God is not detected empirically? Aren't the games of religion and science mingling inadvertently?

Art, God, and hiding

The best books are the books that hide the author. If the story of mankind was a book, how great would its author be on this ground? Yet we decry a hidden God. We want a more obvious God. Aesthetically, I revolt at finding too much of an author in a work. Yet, if he does put himself in the work, he does it in a way unexpected. Wilde always made his spokesmen well to do, upper class people. God came into the world in the dross of poverty and meekness. What brilliance. This is why M. Night Shyamalan's cameos are dull. We know it's the director. We don't want to see him. Hitchcock knows this. He comes into view and goes out, and that's just what we want. Clint Eastwood goes for the other safe route: making himself a main character. Shyamalan tries to be a supporting character, and only almost wants to be the plot's Deus ex Machina. The character - in order to convince - must be more cloaked. Hiding is the key to showing. Silence is the key to explaining.

Pregnant with words . . .

I can't write when I just sit down to write. One must always have something to write about. They must have a message. Being cute with words will eventually be found out. I was on the verge of dispensing Oscar Wilde on such grounds; but then I came to find he actually said something. And that is what I attended to. Chesterton despised the mere paradox on the grounds that it was lying. I hate when I notice someone straining for a paradox he doesn't believe himself. It's dishonest. It's proud. It displays linguistic dexterity, but sacrifices something more important. It's a man speaking a dozen languages, but speaking nothing but banalities. It's impressive, but insipid. It's the celebrity who chooses his role based on the income, rather than passion in the part. When the audience discovers it - if they are discerning - they rightfully despise him. This is art for money's sake. I forget who said it, but I agree - there's too much of Wilde in his plays, just as there is too much Chesterton in his Father Brown series. That is why they fall short of greatness, in my opinion. Sure, Wilde has his share of social insights, and insights into human nature; but in the end, we have predominately linguistic dexterity. It is a skill well brandished. But aesthetically it seems to me inferior. I prefer much more a work in which the author is hidden. I almost would like to say there's too much Shakespeare in Shakespeare. Each play is drenched with the same meter - but I attribute this more to my ignorance. But that is my immediate reaction, and that is why I've never gone very deep with him. I picked the gems and left the dirt. Wittgenstein felt the same on this score. Even Tolstoy is a grand painter. But it is the whole we prefer instead of the parts. To refer back to Wilde, I do think Dorian Grey a masterpiece - but that is not because there isn't too much of Wilde: it is that Wilde is disclosed so thoroughly to us. He is naked before us and we sympathize, since - deep down - we have the same depravity. But Tolstoy paints the Sistine Chapel. To stare up at that grand ceiling is a near religious experience. It is peopled with many characters and we can get lost gazing on each one. And yet there is a symphonic whole. That is his genius. Characters are created. The whole Tolstoy isn't reincarnated in each character. There are too many characters. Tolstoy strikes me as a reader of persons. He can discern from the look of a face the state of a soul. He does this as Mozart plays music. Human nature is Tolstoy's piano. I've always admired people who can read others: the observant. Sherlock Holmes falls in this category. After a quick scan, things are deduced which baffle the imagination. This must be a trait of the superman. But with admiration comes envy. Are we to strive to attain it? What if our nature is incapable? But we don't know till we try. Does the glory lie in the trying? We try to realize our natures to their fullest. But isn't the point of life to find the key to redeeming our natures, or that this is a condition for realizing them? Sometimes I look out onto the world and I feel dumb. People race past me knowing all sorts of things and I stand dumb, watching them go about their tasks, tasks that they do with great skill. Other times, I feel like an anomaly, caring more for inward things. It nauseates me to think of practicality. It revolts my whole being. For example, I love philosophy. But to be asked what can be done with it stirs within a brooding fury. They cannot understand. They will not understand. Their whole frame of mind is alien to potentially understanding. They are convinced that nothing can be done with it and that is the end of it. If you can get out any reasons, once they leave your mouth, you detest yourself, for when you go to defend your love, you're reduced to babbling nonsense, and the foolishness of your defense further reassures the man of practice of your hopelessly idealistic way of life. That I cannot talk of sports means that I am disconnected from life. On the contrary! That they cannot talk of life is the greatest tragedy. Pascal was right: it's either diversion or indifference. But we've found the source of food. Why fret? Because they think we're foolish. But is it all as selfish as that? What would I want? The veneration of all? It's sane man in the madhouse being labeled insane by the madmen. There comes a point when you want to grab them and scream how insane that is. But you cannot talk to a beast. You cannot talk to the spiritually asleep. They are in the dark, in the desert. Is prayer the only way our of the morass?

Why do I return over and over again to the parts in movies and music that move me? Why do I do that? Wittgenstein listened to Beethoven, liked him, and liked him because of passion. Is the key to the problem of life passion? Maybe not pain. But an inner striving. This is Kierkegaard's point. But I would say I've found Christ. And yet I return again and again to those parts. Why? Do I enjoy the feeling? That's a part, but I don't think it's the whole. Schopenhauer thought a great deal of the effect of music is the role imagination played during the experience. When I listen to Alive by Pearl Jam, I have certain images race across my mind's eye, images which are fed to me from the deepest recesses of my consciousness. If I paid sufficient attention, maybe I could note what those images are and perform a sort of psychoanalysis on myself in the same vein Freud did with dreams. The latent content, being chosen for a reason, needing analysis, and that this might be a bridge to the land of your identity. So, there is a feeling, images, and their cooperation. Lewis' desire or joy plays a role here. The meaning of the experience is given content by those passages in Lewis that analyze the dialectic of desire. The idea of arousal, that it arouses feelings, and that the next step is the satisfaction of the desires, and the notion that satisfaction doesn't exist in this world, and so the probable explanation is that the satisfaction lies in the next world. These ideas flit across my mind as I listen. Is this why I return? There is newness too. If I remember rightly, new images flash before my mind upon each new experience, and if the images remain, their order can change suddenly, unpredictably. This variability is pleasurable; it is the same kind of variability in an ocean disturbed by swells. You're tossed about, you ascend suddenly, you descend just as suddenly, and there's no rhyme or reason about the waves. If in a real ocean, terror overtakes you; but if the ocean is just the gusts of the music stirring the ocean of your imagination and consciousness, there is a distinct pleasure in it, especially if the waves are the images, and that the images come from you. For example, the first lyric is Alive is, "Son, she said, have I got a little story for you." My mother immediately appears. Perhaps even a mysterious female figure. The image of an open book is there, with the cover toward me, and the contents toward the woman, and that her eyes peer just above the top of the book, and they're staring at me. And all these images are blasting me, while the melody embodies its own mood in its own mysterious way. All these forces clash each other like tidal waves. The contact happens in consciousness and it produces in us longing. Do I listen to it, then, to feel the longing? But I don't want to simplify anything. Music has other purposes, as does other forms of art. There are paroxysms of rage without particular direction. No longing here. Just Dionysian reveling. But then I would I long for this. I can't say anything else here.

Why does Justin McLeod in the movie The Man Without a Face fascinate me? His house. It is home for me. I watched the movie a million times. Yet, I'd say the movie is mediocre. His house is filled with books and other things. He listens to opera, he reads The Aeneid by Virgil, he looks at his scarred face in a mirror. The music coincides perfectly with his revulsion. He is alone. Isn't that all of us? I've watched that scene over and over again. What about when Chuck Norstadt reads the poem High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, Jr? Swirled and swung. Put out my hand and touched the face of God. The music by James Horner strikes just the write mood. Poetry sweeps the imagination into realms you have not dreamed of. Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth. How that stabs me as I type it!! Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth. Yes, and Chesterton was saying it to me all along. That Christ's secret was his mirth. Oh, please do not systematize mirth! Leave your claws away. Must you touch everything, Reason? Cold Reason. Come warm me Passion, Emotion, Feeling. Shield me from science's lifeless dissection. And yet the paradox is that I need Reason to say that. Alas.

The laws of logic

What is the difference between the laws of logic and the laws of physics? The laws of logic are aimed at the attainment of truth; the laws of physics merely describe physical phenomena. When we think, our thought has to be a certain way in order to get at the truth. In order to get at the conclusion Socrates is mortal, we have to reason from the premise All men are mortal, and Socrates is a man. Using premises such as Cheese is yellow, or My dog is loyal isn't going to get us there. But why is it that only certain premises lead to true conclusions? Why can't we use any premises we want? Why can't I prove God's existence using the premise The wall is hard? Because Reason says you can't. The laws of logic mandate that from The wall is hard you can deduce true conclusions, like I can't walk through it, or conditionals like If I hit the wall as hard as I could, then I would feel pain. But, for some odd reason, I am forbidden to conclude God exists, or Obama is a bad president. Isn't this strangely mysterious? The laws of physics tell me what is in this world; the laws of logic tell me what must be in this world, and in all possible worlds.

And notice that the notion of truth is assumed by the laws of logic. For I can't say one is forbidden from concluding Obama is a bad president from The wall is hard, unless it is that I can't make such a deduction. And it's the same with valid inferences: I can't appropriately conclude Socrates is mortal from Socrates is a man unless it is true that Socrates is a man, or that Socrates is mortal.

Thomas Paley cross-examines David Hume on Miracles: and a short summary

Paley: I appreciate the input these distinguished gentlemen have already put forward. I can't add much more to it. I stand on the shoulders of giants. So, I may sound like I'm repeating myself, and so I ask Hume for patience.

Hume: Sure.

Paley: If God exists, miracles are possible, right?

Hume: If God exists. But we have no good reason to think He does.

Paley: But let's suppose He does. Miracles are now possible.

Hume: Sure, supposing He does.

Paley: Not only that: miracles are probable.

Hume: How?

Paley: Well, suppose the Christian God exists. This God wants to show Himself to people. Suppose this God exists, and He wants to show Himself - it seems probable that miracles are going to happen, or did happen.

Hume: Yes, but only supposing the Christian God to exist.

Paley: We agree, then. Good. And I agree with your other cross-examiners that testimony can say something that your experience of Nature might go against.

Hume: Well, that's something I need to think about more. The ice analogy through me for a loop.

Paley: So, take the disciples' testimony. We can't say they went against the witness of Nature unless we were there at the time.

Hume: Which makes sense, because if we were there at the time, then our witness of Nature would go against a testimony that Jesus rose from the dead, if Nature did in fact go against it.

Paley: Well put. So when you say miracles go against 'universal' experience, you beg the question.

Hume: How again?

Paley: Because you're assuming the miracle didn't in fact happen. Your 'universal' comment only works after you already prove the miracle didn't occur. You skip this step, and jump right to the notion that universal experience go against the miracle.

Hume: I do, don't I? Hmmm.

Paley: That's it, Matt.

Matt: Thanks Paley for keeping it short. So, for my sake, let's sum all this up. Clarke! Why are miracles possible? Sum it up in one sentence.

Clarke: Because God is all-powerful.

Matt: Thanks. Houtteville?

Houtteville: Because God conserves every part and event in the universe - miracles included.

Matt: Less?

Less: Because God is free to act how He wants to act.

Matt: And what's wrong with Newton's view of the laws of nature? Clarke?

Clarke: Nature course isn't necessary: it's just the regular way God's will makes it to be.

Matt: Vernet?

Vernet: Nature's course can change whenever God wants it to: He is free to do this.

Houtteville, Less, Paley: We agree here.

Matt: Sherlocke?

Sherlocke: Nature's course might just include miracles.

Houtteville: I agree there.

Matt: So, what can we say to Spinoza again? Remember he thought the laws were necessary. But we've seen that they don't have to be. Vernet?

Vernet: Same thing I said before. It's not the case that the laws are necessary because God is necessary. God wills miracles freely, so the laws can be suspended, and so they aren't necessary.

Matt: Houtteville?

Houtteville: The miracles could be included in the course of nature.

Matt: What about Spinoza's other reasons: miracles don't prove God. Clarke?

Clarke: They prove the Christian God.

Paley: Agreed.

Matt: How do the prove the Christian God?

Paley, Clarke: Look at the context.

Paley: The religious context.

Spinoza: What about an unknown law of nature? Could miracles be caused by that?

Matt: Le Clerc?

Le Clerc: Why were there miracles only during that time? Why don't they happen all the time? And why did they happen right when Jesus said what He said?

Matt: Sherlocke?

Sherlocke: God might have used the unknown laws to act in the course of Nature. It's possible.

Houtteville: Agreed.

Matt: What about Hume? Less?

Less: If God exists, miracles are just as possible as other events.

Matt: Paley?

Paley: It's probable too. The probability that God would so act outweighs the alleged improbability of miracles.

Matt: Sherlocke?

Sherlocke: And you can 'sense' miracles: I can see them. Human testimony can support something you see.

Matt: Less?

Less: And a miracle doesn't go against all experience if the testimony is valid.

Paley: Agreed. Also, if miracles are improbable back then, then we have to say that it's probable they should happen now. I don't see Hume liking this very much.

Sherlocke: And Hume's logic wouldn't let us believe natural stuff, like ice, if we only experienced a tropical climate.

Paley: One more thing. Hume's logic wouldn't let us believe a bunch of stuff we should believe based on human testimony. For example, Copernicus' testimony about the earth not being the center of the universe.

Matt: That's all for now. Next, we'll see how Newton was wrong, and how quantum physics plays into all of this.

Hume: a cross examination

(Cliques are all over the room. Discussions flare. Some sit. Some stand. Some are alone. Others have company. Matt edges his way to the podium. Hume looks as confident as ever. His cross-examiners look confident themselves. Indeed, they're a formidable group: Thomas Sherlock, Gottfried Less, and William Paley.)

Matt: Welcome back! We are through with Spinoza for now. The only stage left for Spinoza is a cross-examination of my own. For now, we have Thomas Sherlock. Mr. Sherlock, what say you to Mr. David Hume.

Sherlock: Thank you Matt. Let's get straight to the point, shall we? Imagine a man who lived his entire known life on a tropical island in the South Pacific. Can you do that?

Hume: I do, in fact, have the capacity for abstract thought, Mr. Sherlock. Yes, I can imagine that. May I ask where you're going with this?

Sherlock: Sure. On the one hand, you say we have the witness of nature; on the other, we have human testimony. And the resurrection of Christ seems to violate the laws of nature. But we have the testimony of the disciples that they saw the resurrected Christ. But, no matter, you say! We also have the witness of nature, and she never lies. So those conniving disciples have to be lying or deluded. In so many words, that's your position, no?

Hume: Beautifully paraphrased, thank you.

Sherlock: Back to my guy on the tropical island.

Hume: Oh yes. Him. What of it?

Sherlock: Suppose he has never seen water in a solid form. Suppose he had never seen ice.

Hume: Okay . . .

Sherlock: What if an inhabitant of Siberia testified to him that there was such a thing as ice?

Hume: Well, uh, . . . I guess he shouldn't believe it, but . . .

Sherlock: Of course, he should believe it. Especially if more and more people testified to it. But using your warped logic, the tropical man shouldn't ever believe it. And why? Because the witness of nature - at least, the nature he has experienced - is against it. Using your logic, he disregards valid human testimony contrary to his experience of the witness of nature. And that's absurd.

Hume: Oh, well, tell me what you really think . . .

Sherlock: And I will. And another thing. What if I claimed to you that I was once dead for 3 days?

Hume: I'd be shocked and wouldn't believe it!

Sherlock: What exactly wouldn't you belief? The fact that I was alive?

Hume: The fact that you were ever dead.

Sherlock: Exactly! And why would you disbelieve I was dead, rather than alive.

Hume: Because I see you're alive.

Sherlock: So, can I use human testimony to prove that I was never dead on the relevant dates?

Hume: I suppose so . . .

Sherlock: Look at it the other way. Suppose we read that a year ago, we saw a certain man executed for high treason. But then we heard reports that was alive! What then?

Hume: I doubt that . . .

Sherlock: That he died?

Hume: No, that he was alive.

Sherlock: And in each case, what was doubted wasn't what we saw, but what we didn't see. All this proves is that we tend to trust our senses over reports from other people. So, let's say you're one of the disciples. You saw Christ died; and then you saw Him alive again 3 days later. You say: Sherlock! I saw Christ died; and now He is alive! I'd respond: Yea right! I saw him die too - there's no way you saw him alive. By your logic, this is a good response. But wouldn't I be foolish not to believe you from your point of view?

Hume: I admit, I would be flustered.

Sherlock: And Houtteville is right - the 'course of nature', as we call it, is just in our imagination. What we experience are objects behaving in accord with the laws of nature. If I said the laws cannot be suspended, do I say something based on experience?

Hume: I suppose not. So, you're accusing me of overstepping my case. I'll note that.

Sherlock: That's all from me.

(Sherlock steps down. His delivery was succinct, as if practiced in a mirror beforehand. Gottfried Less takes the stage. He is an obsessive type, exacting. Detail is key. Hume still appears unwavering.)

Less: Good evening, Mr. Hume.

Hume: Good evening.

Less: Why don't we start by talking about the disciples.

Hume: By all means.

Less: You say they were unlearned, unsophisticated fisherman, low on the social-class totem pole.

Hume: That's right. I always found it rather strange that the testimony for miracles never comes from a cultured, civilized area.

Less: I'll get to that in a second, but let me ask you. What specialty of learning do you have to have to notice that a guy who was once dead is now alive? And no, this isn't a trick question.

Hume: I guess I'd say some medical knowledge was necessary . . .

Less: Isn't it true that a child can tell the difference between a formerly dead person and their present living status?

Hume: I don't suppose the ancients were idiots.

Less: As a pre-industrial society, they probably had more common sense than your average Enlightenment thinker, wouldn't you think?

Hume: I don't know about . . .

Less: And Ancient Rome . . . Yes! I entirely agree. Utterly savage and uncivilized. And the capital of a Israel, Jerusalem, a major Roman territory. Is this the rural outpost you're talking about? Are you out of your mind?

Hume: Ok, I admit that Rome was the apex of . . .

Less: And if the reports are true, the miracles were performed in front of hundreds. They weren't done in a secret place in the presence of some cult following. There were friends and foes alike!

Hume: That is, IF the reports are . . .

Less: And you say they have to be honest and trustworthy?

Hume: Well, if you'll let me get a word in . . .

Less: Is martyrdom a good enough criterion? Being boiled alive? Crucified? Crucified upside down? Scalded by hot tar? Stoned? Drawn and quartered? Beheaded? Yep. These sound like insincere liars, don't they?

Hume: I will admit their sincerity burned beyond reason . . .

Less: So it seems like the disciples were trustworthy, right?

Hume: Well, they were sincere. But that doesn't mean I should trust them.

Less: That's what I mean. They, at least, weren't lying. Will you grant that?

Hume: If they were sincere, then they weren't lying, which leaves delusion, but I'll let it go there.

Less: Alright. Let's move on to why you think miracles are impossible.

Hume: Indeed.

Less: Let's talk about Nature in general. Do you think Nature is the way it is because God willed it that way?

Hume: If I believed in God, then it's plausible, I suppose.

Less: If God willed a miracle, then, the miracle is willed in the same way any other event in Nature is willed, right?

Hume: It would more rare, though.

Less: No one denies that. The will behind the event is the same, in any case. How many times have you gone to Church?

Hume: Not many. Why?

Less: Well, when you willed to go to Church, this was the same will that you used when you do things you do more often. For instance, you like to read, and read more often than you go to Church. But when you went to Church, you used the same will you use when you choose to read.

Hume: So, my going to Church is on the same level as God doing a miracle.

Less: Only in the sense that each event is more rare than other events. One kind of event is willed less than other events.

Hume: I follow.

Less: Consider this as well. Should the Church have believed Copernicus that the earth wasn't the center of the universe?

Hume: Of course! That's where the evidence pointed.

Less: But the evidence pointed to something that was contrary to everyone's experience at the time. According to your logic, the Church shouldn't have believed Copernicus, because Copernicus was telling everyone something that wasn't a part of anyone's experience.

Hume: I think your twisting my logic around, but . . .

Less: Then what about this? Suppose I said that Jesus rose from the dead.

Hume: Then I would say that event probably didn't happen. Dead men stay dead.

Less: Why?

Hume: Experience unanimously says so.

Less: But you can only say 'unanimously' if you also prove this: Jesus did not rise from the dead.

Hume: I did prove that. I said experience unani . . . oh . . . I suppose I can't say 'unanimously' without first proving 'Jesus did not rise from the dead'. Hmmmm.

Less: Right. You can't say the disciples were wrong because they go against experience unless you also prove that Jesus didn't rise from the dead.

Hume: There's got to be something wrong in your logic here.

Less: Well, think about it. There's no rush. I'm done. Thank you.

(Less steps down. Thomas Paley makes his way to the podium. Hume looks visibly distressed. Yet he is still confident that the format of the interchange is keeping him from responding rightly. After all, there's only so much you can talk about in dialogue format.)

Matt: We'll take a short recess and then Paley will continue the cross-examination.

Spinoza: a cross examination - part 2

Le Clerc and Clarke seemed to make sense. But I had reservations about some of their lines of argument. I’ll withhold judgment, however. It’s best to see the interchanges and come to my conclusions after the entire case is on the table.

(Everyone settles down into their chairs. Spinoza gets back into the hot seat. Jacob Vernet gets his notes in order. The humming chatter gets more and more faint. Matt ascends the soap box.)

Matt: Welcome back everyone. I hope everyone is enjoying this as much as myself. Le Clerc and Clarke did a great job, and Spinoza has been a great sport so far. Remember, we’re all here to find out the truth, no matter where it leads. At this time, I’d like to ask Jacob Vernet to voice his criticisms.

Vernet: Thank you Matt. I don’t have much to offer. Le Clerc and Clarke stole much of my thunder. I will say I disagree with one thing Clarke said, . . .

(From the back of the room.)

Clarke: Aren’t we on the same side?

(Snickers are heard.)

Vernet: Now, now. I don’t deny we share a common ground. But let me get at Spinoza in my own way here. I do disagree with you, Spinoza.

Spinoza: Alright. And everyone is waiting for your reasons.

Vernet: Let me get clear on just what you mean. You deny miracles because they violate the laws of nature?

Spinoza: Yes.

Vernet: And Clarke rebutted you by denying that there were laws of nature. All we have is a God willing things to happen in a uniform way. That is, in a usual way. Nature isn’t on its own, going on ‘of its own accord’. Nature, to Clarke, is just the way it is because, at every moment, God is willing it to be that way. He just wills it to be some ways more than others. That’s why it looks to us as if there’s regularity, and therefore laws.

Spinoza: For goodness sake, do we have a question in the near future?

Vernet: I’m sorry. I don’t see the need to deny ‘laws of nature’ in your sense, Mr. Spinoza. I just don’t think these laws have to be necessary.

Spinoza: Why not? God is necessary, so the laws are necessary. The laws reflect God’s nature.

Vernet: And that’s where I disagree. I do think they depend on God’s will. No one denies that. But we have to remember a possibility here.

Spinoza: Such as?

Vernet: The possibility that we only think the laws are necessary because nature looks like it behaves the same much of the time.

Spinoza: I don’t follow you at all.

Vernet: How do we know the laws are necessary?

Spinoza: They never change.

Vernet: How do you know that? How old are you?

Spinoza: What is the relevance of such an insolent ques . . .

Vernet: Your life is a blip on the radar screen. In your entire life, you only observe a speck of the behavior of nature. But this is a speck on a humongous canvass. So, again, I ask: How do you know they never change?


Spinoza: They probably don’t change, is that better?

Vernet: As long as you acknowledge the other possibility.

Spinoza: The possibility that . . . what was the possibility again?


Vernet (looking exasperated): The possibility that you think the laws are necessary because they ‘look’ that way, and they look that way based on the experience you’ve had during your short life.

Spinoza: I guess I’ll concede that’s possible.

Vernet: Well, if that’s possible, then it’s also possible that the laws of nature aren’t necessary. They’re just what God happens to be willing at the time. And He can will something totally different if He wants to. Miracles are just the events that are more rare.

Spinoza: That would mean that the course of Nature isn’t necessary. What about the idea that came up in my talk with Clarke?

Vernet: What idea?

Spinoza: The idea that what you call miracles, I call regular old events that obey some law of nature we don’t know about.

Vernet: Yes, I remember hearing that. I’m not so sure. I think Le Clerc’s discussion gives us a good point, though. That might work for an isolated miracle, but not a consistent cluster of miracles during a certain short period of time.

Spinoza: That does make that possibility rather unlikely.

Vernet: It looks like that even though Clarke and I disagree on some peripherals, we are alike in that we have you at a deadlock here.

Spinoza: It does seem so.


Vernet: And that’s all I have for now. Matt?

Matt: Thanks Jacob!


(Vernet steps down. Spinoza looks uneasy. Houtteville is ready.)

Matt: Let me introduce Claude François Houtteville.

(Clearing of throats. Shifting in seats. Whispering abates.)

Houtteville: Thank you. I’m afraid I can’t add on too much more to what our distinguished guests have already contributed. For myself, I can’t see why God can’t do miracles. He can do what He wants. He’s God. He makes the laws what they are. And so He can make them in such a way that He can suspend them if He wants, period. Spinoza?

Spinoza: I mean, there’s not much else to say. You obviously weren’t listening to the other conversations I’ve had. If you did, you would have heard that the laws are necessary because God is necessary.

Houtteville: I did listen to the part where Vernet got you to concede that you don’t really have a good reason to think the laws are necessary, right?


Spinoza: True.

Houtteville: So, if it’s more probable than not that they’re not necessary, then I don’t see what’s wrong with my initial position: miracles are possible because God can do what He wants. But let me move this talk in another direction. Let’s assume your position for a second. You think the laws are necessary because God’s nature is necessary.

Spinoza (feeling like a pinnate): Yes.

Houtteville: But what about this possibility? The possibility that the miracles were planned. What if God’s nature is necessary, and necessarily willed these miracles to happen as part of the whole fabric of creation?

Spinoza: You know. That is a good point. I’ll have to think about that. This does, though, make miracles not violations of laws of nature, just what we know about the laws of nature. It’s hard to see how they’re ‘super’ natural if that’s the case.

Houtteville: That’s all.

(Houtteville steps down. A light applause follows. Spinoza stands for the first time, stretching. Sits again beside Hume. They begin whispering in each other’s ear. For some reason, Hume cackles. )

Matt: Thank you everyone. I know Spinoza is probably exhausted. We thank his willingness to debate these issues with us today. Tomorrow we’ll put Hume under the crucible. But we’re not done with Spinoza. After the guests have weighed in, I’ll put forth my own views. So, you guys are free to go! Same time next week!

Spinoza: A cross-examination

It is so interesting to be around all these great minds. Spinoza seemed like he had a point about the laws of nature. But his critics look pretty eager to rebut him.

(Noisy chatter fills the room. 3 or 4 conversations are going on at once. We are in a room of sorts; I just don't know where. I see a stairway leading up to a source of light. I wonder where that leads? There are tables and chairs. Let me see if I can get their attention.)

Matt: Order! Order! I'm back! Can I get everyone's attention? Thank you. Thank you. As you well know, we've been talking about miracles for the last couple days. Spinoza gave his reasons why he thought miracles were impossible. And then Hume gave His reasons why we don't have a proof for miracles, and that even if we did, we couldn't identify them.

(Hume whispers over to Spinoza, while Matt's introduction continues in the background)

Hume: See how he over-simplifies our arguments?

Spinoza: Shhhhh! Let's just see what they have to say. It sounded like the gist of what you said to me?

Hume: I just hope they let us talk. I feel like we're about to be persecuted.

Spinoza: Oh stop griping. You had the floor. Now, out of fairness, let them ask us their questions.

(Continuing the introduction)

Matt: . . . ask for it to be quiet out of respect for those being questioned. The first questioner is Jean Le Clerc.

Clerc: Thank you Matt. I just have a couple questions for Spinoza. I'll be quick, and let the others have their say. How are you Spinoza?

Spinoza: Very well, thank you. Let's get down to the nitty-gritty. Just what about the laws of nature don't you like?

Clerc: I love the laws of nature. I think they exist. But you think they can't change. I think they can be suspended. And there's a reason why I think this. Have you looked into the evidence for Christ's resurrection?

Spinoza: I can't get into details, but I must say that the accounts are lovely metaphors for Christ rising again in His follower's hearts.

Clerc: I don't think the accounts were metaphors though. I think there's good reason to think they're not metaphors. I think there's good reason to think the Gospels' genre isn't that of mythology, but that of ancient biography.

Spinoza: Ancient biography? Says who?

Clerc: I can't get into that now. But I'll say this. If the Gospels are myths, they are the strangest myths ever written. There are scholars that read myths their whole lives who read the Gospels and don't think the Gospels are myths at all. It's just a completely different kind of genre of writing.

Spinoza: I don't know who these scholars are, but I guess I'll give them an ear if you'll talk with me after?

Clerc: Oh sure! As I was saying about the evidence for the particular miracle of Christ's resurrection. I believe the evidence for that outweighs the evidence for the laws of nature never changing.

Spinoza: Again. I'll have to see this evidence. As of right now, I'm in the dark.

Clerc: And that shall be provided as well. Hmmm. What do you think about Christ's resurrection and ascension? Are they natural events?

Spinoza: I think I said before that these were metaphors regarding Christ in the heart of His followers, didn't I?

Clerc: But are you willing to concede, that if you were given reasons for not regarding those events as metaphors, it would be impossible for those events to be natural?

Spinoza: I suppose I'd have to.

Clerc: Okay, let's talk about a simpler miracle. Jesus healed blindness? How do you explain that?

Spinoza: My point is that we don't automatically have to jump to miracle! It's possible there's an unknown natural law at work here, isn't there? My problem with Christians is that they immediately jump to saying it's a miracle when there's other possibilities to consider.

Clerc: I feel your frustration. But consider this. Why isn't blindness cured more often? That is, why doesn't it happen more often given it's the result of a natural law that we don't know about yet? Why did this cluster of so called 'natural events' happen just around the time of Jesus?

Spinoza: That is true. That would be quite improbable. I guess I'd have to say it's possible they've happened at other parts of the world at different times. But Enlightenment has happened. Why haven't we been able to observe such a strange event? Remember what I said though. All this depends on whether the evidence for them is good, which I'm suspending judgment on for the moment. If it is good, I will say that it does seem strange that those miracles happened only when Christ was around . . . .

Clerc: And consider something else. Isn't it more strange that the blindness was cured right when Christ said the words: "You are healed." Isn't that even more strange?

Spinoza: This is ONLY IF the reports are true, though.

Clerc: That will have to be another conversation. But I'll give you some books that will put you in touch with this evidence, and then we can have another talk about whether it is good.

Spinoza: I'd like that. But I am worried we're undermining the laws of nature. I don't like that at all. We need these laws for anything to be certain. I don't want to be lead down the path to atheism.

Clerc: I'm glad you brought that up. Samuel Clarke has some remarks about that issue.

(Clerc steps down. In his place, Samuel Clarke. He's confident and direct. A bit argumentative. And a staple Enlightenment thinker. This should be a good clash.)

Clarke: Thank you Jean. Gentlemen. Spinoza. I have a question about these laws of nature you're so concerned about.

Spinoza: You don't like them?

Clarke: By no means. In fact, I'm a huge fan of Newton. But you think these laws keep God from working miracles, right?

Spinoza: Right. It's like tampering with a perfect machine. It's an insult to the ingenuity of the designer! You don't see Michelangelo tampering with the Sistine Chapel after it was done. He painted the ceiling and left it alone. It was a masterpiece. To alter it anymore would defame it.

Clarke: I just disagree here. Let's talk about events in general. To me, from God's standpoint, all events are the same, whether they're miracles or not.

Spinoza: What preposterous sophistry is this?

Clarke: Just hear me out. Why do objects stay on the ground?

Spinoza: The law of gravity, of course.

Clarke: But why does the law of gravity make objects stay on the ground?

Spinoza: Because God's nature is the way it is. Remember, I said that the laws of nature reflect God's Nature.

Clarke: Understood. But let me ask you to do something for me. Pick up that pencil over there.

Spinoza: This is ridiculous.

(Picks up the pencil and waves it around like a baton).

Clarke: Wait a moment! Pencils don't float around contrary to the law of gravity. What's happening here?

Spinoza: I picked it up. I'm holding it in my hand.

Clarke: So, you're saying objects obey the laws of gravity unless they are interfered with. For instance, pencils fall to the ground given there's not a hand that's holding it.

Spinoza: Seems to make sense.

Clarke: Don't you see what this means? Perhaps miracles are "divine" interference. God raising a body from the dead is the same as you picking up a pencil. A law of nature hasn't been violated.

Spinoza: Yes it has! Bodies don't come back from the dead. That's against a law of nature.

Clarke: But the law only tells what will happen given there's no interference. It tells you nothing about what will happen if there IS interference. And there's no reason to think that the interference may not be human or divine.

Spinoza: I see what your saying. But . . .

Clarke: And this goes back to what I was saying. All events have a divine source, whether they be miracles or not. Even you admit that gravity is the way it is because it reflects God's nature, right?

Spinoza: Right, but you think God can violate His own nature by suspending gravity?

Clarke: You had no problem with that when you picked up the pencil, remember?

Spinoza: You're right. And I wouldn't want to say that we can do something God can't. Hmmm. What if miracles are the rarer ways God's nature is made manifest in the world, reflecting a more whole picture of what I thought God's nature was?

Clarke: Good question. And that's the gist of what I was thinking when I heard you talking to Matt yesterday. Miracles aren't against the laws of nature; they just express a different law that's more rarely expressed. Only in this case of miracles, there might be a law for divine interference with the laws of nature. This is along the same lines as when you picked up the pencil. The law of gravity isn't abolished once you picked up the pencil. Why?

Spinoza: Well, because we have other laws that explain why the pencil does what it does after it is grasped.

Clarke: My sentiments exactly.

(Clarke steps down. Matt ascends to the soap box.)

Matt: We'll take a short recess. If anyone needs to use the bathroom, it's located at the back of the room. Spinoza, did you need a handkerchief for your perspiration?

Spinoza: No, I'm fine.

Matt: Okay, the next speaker will be Jacob Vernet. And, yes, Le Clerc can meet Spinoza in the back of the room with that suggested reading list he promised. Thank you so far everyone. It's been a great discussion!

Miracles continued . . .

Matt: Okay Hume. Sorry for the wait. You now have the floor. Why can't we identify miracles?

Hume: Thank you Matt. Let me start off by asking a question. If you're wise, you're going to base your beliefs on the evidence, right?

Matt: Sounds good.

Hume: If I have evidence that makes my conclusion almost certain, we have a proof! But if we have evidence that makes my conclusion likely, we're not talking about certainty anymore.

Matt: What's being talked about?

Hume: Probability. If I'm talking about probability, I need to have my belief based on the strength of the probability that my conclusion is true.

Matt: Give me an example.

Hume: Okay. Do you think it's safe to believe that Caesar probably crossed the Rubicon?

Matt: History records it. Scholars are agreed about its authenticity. So, I guess it's safe to say that it probably happened.

Hume: And I would say you're wise. You proportioned your belief to the strength of the probability involved.

Matt: Thanks.

Hume: But here's where I hit a snag. I think that even if you have a proof - let alone probability - we still wouldn't be wise to believe in miracles.

Matt: A proof? Are you sure? Why not?

Hume: Because we have equal proof that the laws of nature don't change, like what Spinoza and Voltaire and Newton were saying. With this proof, we have reason to think that miracles - even though they were reported - didn't happen.

Matt: But what if I have human testimony of a miracle?

Hume: It doesn't matter! The testimony is only as good as what science can allow it to be. We observe and experience stuff all the time! Mankind, since the beginning of time, has observed and experienced things. I mean, what if I told you I saw flying pigs yesterday? Would you believe me?

Matt: No, that's absurd.

Hume: And why is that?

Matt: Because pigs can't fly. No pigs have wings. Pigs flying with no wings is impossible. And we know from the laws of nature that things like that can't happen. So, I'd think you're deluded or you're lying, right?

Hume: And that's exactly my point. The disciples said they saw these miracles. But we have a solid proof that the laws of nature don't change! And we can inspect the validity of this proof anytime we want. On balance, if you're wise, you'll believe what science tells you about the laws of nature over what a fisherman says he saw thousands of years ago, no?

Matt: I see why you'd think that. Is that the end of your argument?

Hume: Oh no. Not yet.

Matt. Okay, go on.

Hume: The first point had to do with what would happen if we did have the full proof for miracles. Remember, it wouldn't work, since the full proof for the laws of nature will always outweigh the proof that comes from measly human testimony.

Matt: So, what's the second point?

Hume: That we don't have a full proof for miracles.

Matt: Well, why not? What's your argument?

Hume: Consider human testimony. Look at all the reports of miracles. Were they written by educated people? By honest men or women? Were they upper class? Usually, they're all lower class or poverty-level.

Matt: That sounds sort of snobby, but I'll let you finish.

Hume: On top of this, people want to believe in miracles and magic. Myths and fairy tales abound. This means we desire these things.

Matt: Anything else?

Hume: Well, all religions have miracles! They all cancel themselves out! They can't all be true. And since they are supposed to give support to contradictory doctrines, you get rid of the miracles in order to get rid of the contradictions.

Matt: I understand.

Hume: And that's pretty much it. The only miracle here is the miracle that anyone would believe in miracles based on human testimony. It goes against custom! It goes against experience! It goes against rationality! It's all blind faith!

Matt: No need to shout Hume. But thank you for your time. I have some other people I need to talk to. There are some people who have overheard this conversation and I think they're interested in the subject. But first, I want to talk to Jean Le Clerc, Samuel Clarke, Jacob Vernet, and Claude Fancois Houtteville. They heard me talking to Spinoza a couple days ago, and they seem like they want to set him straight. After that, we meet some guys who have problems with you, Hume.

Hume: I'd be delighted to hear what they have to say.

Spinoza: Yea. Who are those guys you named? What don't they like about the laws of nature, anyway?

Matt: Just hear them out, and then tell me what you think.

Hume and Spinoza: We will.

Can Miracles really happen?

Matt: Just to make sure. Hey, Isaac Newton! I'm trying to find out why miracles are impossible. I know you're in the 18th century, but what did you think about the world back then? Why did people think miracles were impossible because of the way the world was?

Newton: Hey Matt! I proved that the world was like a machine. The machine works great on its own. And you shouldn't tamper with it. If you do, it won't work right. God invented the machine, and all the laws He created make it work just fine.

Matt: Thanks Newton! I wonder why that makes miracles impossible.

Voltaire: Miracles violate the laws of nature, that's why. I wrote about that in my Dictionary of Philosophy. The laws are eternal, and like Newton said, you can't tamper with them or else the machine won't operate correctly.

Matt: Can't He suspend the laws to work a miracle?

Voltaire (with a snicker): Oh Matt. It's okay. You don't have a lot of exposure to these types of issues. Why ruin this machine? You guys have cars in the future, right?

Matt: Uh, yea . . .

Voltaire: If someone made the perfect car, and then started tampering with it all the time, we'd think it wasn't a perfect car to begin with, wouldn't we? But we're talking about God. God made this perfect machine. It doesn't need all these violations if the machine is perfect, does it? God is the perfect architect. The question answers itself!

Matt (detecting a bit of sarcasm): Okay, you made your point. Hey! Spinoza! Can I talk to you for a sec? I just have some questions about miracles. You didn't believe in them, did you?

Spinoza: Oh, of course not!

Matt: And why not?

Spinoza: I agree with Voltaire. You can't violate eternal laws of nature; they're never going to change. They are the way they are. And besides, miracles can't prove God's existence. If you use the Bible, all of those miracles are natural events. All the miracles you point out that are obviously - or so say you - not natural are that way for a reason - their accounts were written metaphorically.

Matt: I heard 4 points in there. Let's just focus on the first two points. Why can't God violate these laws of nature?

Spinoza: If God wills something, then that thing will necessarily come about. You can't thwart the will of God.

Matt: I object to a part of that, but go on.

Spinoza: Okay. I also think that God's willing things is the same exact thing as God's understanding things.

Matt: Okay.

Spinoza: These laws of nature - as Voltaire and Newton are talking about - flow from God's nature! God's nature is necessary and doesn't change. Therefore, the laws of nature are necessary and don't change.

Matt: So, if God violates the laws of nature to make a miracle, He violates His own nature?

Spinoza: Exactly. And since God's will and understanding are the same thing, if a miracle happens, then God's will and understanding will be in conflict with God's own nature!

Matt: Oh yea. Because God's will and understanding will be going one way, and God's nature will be going another. They'll be contradicting themselves, right?

Spinoza: Very good. So a miracle becomes an event. And not just any event. This event goes above and beyond what we know about laws of nature.

Matt: Okay, and what about your second point - the point about miracles not proving God's existence.

Spinoza: Thank you. I had forgotten. If you have a proof for something, that proof is certain, right?

Matt: I disagree, but go on so I can hear you out.

Spinoza: Remember my first point. Miracles violate laws of nature. But if the laws of nature can be violated, then nothing can be certain.

Matt: Why in the world is that?

Spinoza: Because we need the laws of nature to be left alone for anything to be certain! We can give a proof for God's existence only if we use the laws of nature to get there. We can't give a proof for God's existence that depends on the strange idea that the laws of nature have been violated! So, the argument from miracles might lead us to atheism!

Matt: Any other reasons you have that you might want to add on?

Spinoza: I'll add a couple. For one, why would a miracle prove God Almighty? Why not some lesser deity? Second, a miracle seems to be an event we just don't fully understand, and so an event that we can't explain. But this just proves we don't know everything about the law of nature under question, not that God caused the event. All this makes miracles impossible!

Matt: You definitely have an argument there. Before I get into evaluation, I see that David Hume has been dying to speak for about 5 minutes now.

Hume: Thank you so much. How is everyone? Good? Good. Spinoza is right on the mark, but there are some other great reasons out there to not believe in miracles.

Matt: What's your argument?

Hume: I won't follow Spinoza and say flat out that miracles are impossible. I will say that even if one happened, it's impossible to identify it.

Matt: That sounds absurd, but go on . . .

Hume: I believe that we can't possibly identify miracles for two reasons. One, you can't pick out any event and identify it as a miracle. Two, given what has in fact happened in history, the prospects look pretty grim for being able to identify a miracle, even if it did happen.

Matt: That sounds interesting. I have to go for now, but I'll be back tomorrow to resume the discussion! Thanks Voltaire, Newton, Spinoza, and Hume. Yes Hume, we'll give you all the time you need to prove your case. God Bless!

Kant you see, I just Kant understand Kant!

Thomas: Hey! What are you reading?

Matt: I'm reading about Immanuel Kant. He was a German philosopher.

Thomas: What did he have to say?

Matt: Well, do you agree that you perceive things?

Thomas: Uh, yes. Well, what do you mean? That I see things?

Matt: You can use all your senses to perceive. That's what perception means. You taste, smell, see, hear, and touch.

Thomas: I thought those were the senses.

Matt: Yes, they are. But through the senses, you perceive. The senses are the spectacles through which you perceive the world. If you take off the spectacles, you strip yourself of the perceptions.

Thomas: Okay, I guess it seems obvious that I perceive the world.

Matt: Well, Kant asks, "How do we perceive the world?"

Thomas: Through the senses, right? Isn't that what we just said?

Matt: Well, that's not what Kant's getting at by 'how'. The senses may be necessary for perception; but it seems like we need something more, something that orders the objects of perception.

Thomas: Whoa! Slow down. What you mean 'orders the objects of perception'?

Matt: Well, why do we perceive things to be 3 inches to the right of another thing? Or 67 miles from something else?

Thomas: Because we have a ruler that measures different measurements. Because every thing that can be measured is in a common space. Each thing makes up a point in space.

Matt: A hah! Space!

Thomas: Yea. What's the big deal?

Matt: Do you perceive Space?

Thomas: I guess not. I see different things.

Matt: Do you even directly see the things? If you look at a table, what are you directly perceiving? It's shape, it's color? But shape and color aren't tables; they're sense data. So, 'tables' are inferred from sense data. If all we directly perceive is sense data, then we are a far cry away from perceiving Space, right?

Thomas: Hmmm. But I think space exists . . . That's true. How do I know that?

Matt: We'll get to that in a second. Think about this too. What about time? From Myrtle Beach, Conway is about 20 minutes away. How can we say things like that?

Thomas: Okay. We agree that a minute is 60 seconds, another agreed upon convention for measuring Time. But, yea. It's true. It seems like I'm directly perceiving not Time, but its measurements in seconds, minutes, etc . . .

Matt: Exactly! So, how can we make true statements about Time if we never perceive Time?

Thomas: That's true.

Matt: And these are some of the questions Kant set out to answer. As with Time, how we can make true statements about Space if we never perceive Space?

Thomas: Okay, what did he say?

Matt: Suppose I said, "The tree is in my front yard."

Thomas: Well that assumes that there's objects in space/time.

Matt: Right. A tree can't be IN my front yard if there isn't a common space for them to be in. But what about the sentence you said? What about the sentence, "Objects exist in space and time."?

Thomas: We saw we don't perceive space or time. I don't know it by experience.

Matt: And it's not analytic!

Thomas: Analytic?

Matt: Take this sentence: All bachelors are unmarried males. This is true because bachelors ARE unmarried males. Not very illuminating. But it is a kind of sentence. Kant called it an analytic sentence, because the subject and the predicate were the same thing! So, what about the sentence: Objects exist in space and time?

Thomas: That doesn't seem to be the same kind of sentence. 'Existing in space and time' seems to add something new to the subject 'Objects'.

Matt: Right! Kant called these synthetic a priori sentences.

Thomas: Slow down!

Matt: Sorry. Synthetic means that the 'predicate' adds something new to the 'subject' 'A priori' means known independent of experience.

Thomas: Okay . . . I think that makes sense. I know objects exist in space and time, but I've never experienced space and time. So, 'objects exist in space and time' is a synthetic a priori sentence.

Matt: Very good. We'll stop here for now. Next we'll talk about Kant's Transcendental Deduction.

Thomas: No wait! What's that annoying word 'Transcendental' mean?

Matt: Okay, really quick. Remember. You don't perceive space and time, right.

Thomas: Right.

Matt: If you're going to analyze space and time, you have to do it Transcendentally.

Thomas: You just used to the word in the definition! That doesn't tell me anything.

Matt: Wait. I wasn't done. Kant says his analysis has to be Transcendental because it has to 'transcend' perception, what we perceive, what we can directly observe. We have to somehow 'get behind' or 'underneath' perception.

Thomas: Oh yea. Because we're trying to find out the 'conditions' for perception. How do we perceive things?

Matt: This Transcendental Deduction is what leads Kant to the unorthodox position that Space and Time aren't 'out there' in the world, but 'in the mind', making up features of the structure of the mind.

Thomas: You mean our minds analyze our sense data 'in a certain structured way'?

Matt: Right. In a way that perceives objects in terms of space and time. Space/Time are the spectacles that are cemented on our face. We can't take them off. And through these spectacles, we perceive the world, or so says Kant.

Thomas: Hmmmm.

Matt: Think of it this way. Space and time aren't the pieces on a chess board; they are the rules for the game of chess; and without the rules of the game, chess as a game wouldn't exist.

Plantinga and Kant

Back to Kant. Plantinga, in his book, Warranted Christian Belief, gave me some more help on the problem of Kant. I think I'm over the Kant hurdle for now.

Remember, Kant doesn't think we can know anything about Reality in itself (the Dinge, as it is called in the German) - another name for the Dinge is what Kant called the Noumena, where the Phenomena is what we can know. Now, of course, we shouldn't believe Kant unless he has arguments or reasons for his conclusion. The conclusion is - again - we can't know anything about the Dinge. We can't predicate properties of the Dinge. Plantinga summarizes Kant's conclusions thus: "our concepts are really rules for synthesizing the manifold into phenomenal objects we ourselves somehow constructed."

Where did this conclusion come from? Is it the result of a proof or argument? Or is it just a hypothesis that best explains certain data? Or is Kant's theory just elegant and beautiful and people are drawn to it in that way? Do people just bypass arguing for the conclusion because the theory as a whole is beautiful? But what if I too recognize its beauty, but I want an argument or reason for why it's true before I believe it?

A reason for Kant's theory might be what are called Kant's Antinomies. What if we have a powerful argument for the universe's beginning in time, and another equally powerful argument that the universe didn't begin in time? The two arguments are equally powerful. Suppose that for every thesis you come up with, you can give a powerful argument for it and a powerful argument against it. Kant thinks that if we can do this, this is proof of his Transcendental Idealism - objects in the world depend on the structure of our minds for their existence and structure. We have antinomies, Kant argues, because we think we're proving things in themselves, as opposed to Phenomena.

This happens, Kant says, when the principles of understanding step outside the bounds of the limits of experience. We're suppose to keep these principles within the bounds of experience, within the bounds of Phenomena, not the Dinge. For if we don't, if we extend them outside of experience, we have 'pseudo-rational' doctrines, doctrines that can't be confirmed or refuted, since both the confirmation and the refutation have equally powerful arguments supporting both!

So, what's Kant trying to argue for here? Remember his conclusion is: none of our concepts apply to the Dinge, the Noumena, the things in themselves. And because none of our concepts apply to the Dinge, none of our concepts refer to the Dinge, and so we can't think about the Dinge - we can only think about phenomena.

Possible Kantian argument for that conclusion: If we CAN think and refer to the Dinge, then the premises in the arguments for the thesis and against the antithesis are all true (or seem true to us). If the premises are all true, then so are the thesis and the antithesis (or seem so to us). If both the thesis and the antithesis is true, then a contradiction is true. But no contradictions are true. And it's impossible for there to be overwhelming reason to believe both P and not-P. Therefore, we can't think about or refer to the Dinge.

Objection: if Kant's above argument applies to the Dinge, why can't it also apply to the Phenomena?

Objection: Kant's antinomies are not good arguments at all. For example, Kant provides an argument for the conclusion: The universe had a beginning in time and is spatially limited. And then Kant also provides an argument for the conclusion: The universe had no beginning in time and is spatially unlimited. Without getting into detail, both arguments are not very good.

I'll expand more on the details, but in short, Kant doesn't give very good reasons for his conclusion that we can't think about or refer to the Dinge.

Is Philosophy boring?

Just a quick thought.

Many people are baffled by how philosophers could wonder at something so boring as a philosophical theory. I was reading 'Metaphors We Live By' by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, a groundbreaking work on the phenomenon of metaphor and how pervasive it is in language ('groundbreaking' is a geographical metaphor, 'work' is a carpentry metaphor, 'in' is a spatial container metaphor, etc . . .).

At one point, the authors are talking about how the metaphor of a Building structures the meaning in a bunch of talk about Theories. Buildings are visible; Theories are not. Metaphors explain the less obvious using the more obvious - and visible things are more obvious than invisible things.

One metaphor they talk about caught my eye and may serve to explain the wonder that philosophers feel as they explore (thinking is a Journey metaphor, wink!) various philosophical theories:

Remember, this is a variation on the simplistic: Your theory is a Building.

"His theory has thousands of little rooms and long, winding corridors."

I love that! Can't you just picture a child, filled with wonder, getting lost in all the hallways, each hallway filled with doors leading to various rooms, each of which has the key to one element in the overall understanding of an idea! It has the feel of a fairy tale.

Kierkegaard, Kant, and the Unknown Kingdom

A major hurdle for beginning philosophy students is how do get from the world as it seems to me to the world as it is in itself. There is a boundry here that we can't cross, says Kant. Hence, we can't know anything about the world in itself, only the world as it seems to me.

Kierkegaard imagines that there are 2 kingdoms: one of language and one of music: the point is that his metaphor can apply to Kant, since we can make the kingdoms represent the world as it seems to me, and the world as it is. Here's the quote:

"If I imagined two kingdoms bordering each other, one of which I knew rather well and the other not at all, and if however much I desired it I were not allowed to enter the Unknown Kingdom, I would still be able to form some idea of it. I would go to the border of the kingdom known to me and follow it all the way, and in doing so I would by my movements describe the outline of that unknown land and thus have a general idea of it, although I had never set foot in it. And if this were a labor that occupied me very much, if I were unflagglingly scrupulous, it presumably would sometimes happen that as I stood with sadness at the border of my kingdom and gazed longingly in that unknown country that was so near and yet so far, I would be granted an occasional little disclosure."

It is interesting to think about what would happen if we got news from the unknown kingdom 'from that kingdom'. Sure, it can come only when we know in our bones that entering the unknown kingdom is out of the question. But what if one of its denizens visited us? Could news from this kingdom - or even the unknown kingdom's borders - be music, or miracles, or even embodied in Christ Himself?

Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, and music

Kierkegaard's pseudonym has a different perspective on music, but I somehow want to assimilate it into my own philosophy.

Anthony Kenny (philosopher) in "Philosophy in the Modern World" writes:

"Music, we are told, is of all the arts the one most capable of expressing sheer sensuality. The rather unexpected reason we are given for this is that music is the most absract of the arts. Like language it addresses the ear: like the spoken word, it unfolds in time, not in space. But while language is the vehicle of spirit, music is the vehicle of senusality."

This seems to demote music from the lofty rank Nietzsche gives it, but lets see. Kenny goes on:

" . . . the development of music and the discovery of sensuality are both in fact due to Christianity. . . . it took Christianity to separate out sensuality by contrasting it with spirit."

In Greece, we find sensuality and spirit in an undifferentiated, homogeneous whole; but Christianity made the two distinct.

Says K's pseudonym:

"If I imagine the senual erotic as a principle, as a power, as a realm characterized by spirit, that is to say characterized by being excluded by spirit, if I imagine it concentrated in a single individual, then I have the concept of the spirit of the sensual erotic."

This is very close to Nietzsche's Dionysian spirit, where language - for the psuedonym - signifies the Apollonian spirt.

In its immediacy this 'spirit' can only be expressed 'in music'.

Kierkegaard compliments Nietzsche even more:

"When he (the aesthete) is interpreted in music, on the other hand, I do not have a particular individual, I have the power of nature, the demonic, which as little tired of seducing, or is done with seducing, as the wind is tired of raging, the sea of surging, or a waterfall cascading down from its height."

This has parallels to Nietzsche's 'superman' and elements in the Dionysian spirit.

Language, music, and gesture

I ran into a quote by Nietzsche in his book 'Human, All to Human' about Language.

The whole phenomenon of metaphysics is based on the use of language in a particular way. But the question is: is there anything 'older', 'further back', 'more primitive' than Language? Keep in mind that Language too is the voice of Rationality and Reason. But if we can find something 'more' or 'bigger' than Language, we might find a clue to the meaning of life.

Nietzsche says:

"The imitated gesture led the imitator back to the sensation expressed by the gesture in the body or the face of the one imitated. This is how we learned to understand one another; this is how the child still learns to understand its mother."

Think of the polarity between saying, "I am in despair.", and the 'look' of despair on a face. Doesn't the 'look' communicate something more than any description in language? Isn't this pre-rational language our original tongue?

This 'gesture' is not mediated by subject/predicate language; it's the same with music. It is pure immediacy. And music and gesture are tied to one another. For music leads to bodily movement, dance, etc . . .

In 'Thus Spake Zarathustra', Nietzsche says:

"Only in the dance do I know how to tell the parable of the highest things: and now my highest parable remained unspoken in my limbs."

Also,

"The self does not say, 'I', it DOES I."

Chesterton, Art, and Rationality

This is from Chesterton's book Orthodoxy. I almost want to make this quote a major pillar in my own philosophy.

"We have all forgotten what we really are. All that we call common sense and rationality and practicality and positivism only means that for certain dead levels of our life we forget that we have forgotten. All that we call spirit and art and ecstacy only means that for one awful instant we remember that we forget."

All our faculties have the right role here. Common sense is of practical value; it can help us get on in the world, it can help us survive, make money, and have all the goods that come from material comfort. Rationality can help us with logic, thinking clearly about things we were meant to think clearly about. But we can't help but think that a pure life of rational contemplation sucks the sap out of the tree. We feel that there is something more primitive, primal, further back, on the other side of the world (almost), which we must feed upon so as to perserve spiritual sanity. This is hard because our minds are constantly daming this current. Everything has to pass the test of intellectual scrutiny. But there is something about who we are that isn't satisfied by pure rationality.

It does sort of feed into the idea that we forget that we've forgotten. The whole point of our existence is to remember who we are. Throughout our lives, we're supposed to find out more and more who we are by finding out more and more who God is. We have the wool drawn over our eyes when we have this pathological desire to engage in all these activities that are designed - by their nature - to not assist us in our quest to find ourselves.

But "spirit and art and ecstacy"! "For one aweful instant we remember that we forgot." Doesn't this just resonate with you? I have to remember that I cannot enter into the least bit of imaginative sympathy with the person who cannot feel this in his bones, or the person who has no desire for anything having to do with spirit, art, or ecstacy. I know these gods take on different forms, and I'm only directly acquainted with the way they manifest themselves in my own consciousness.

This all, again, supports my point that something is prior to rationality, something is there prior to the Logos, something or Someone begets this Logos, and it is a sublime mystery to me to ponder the mode of existence the Logos spawns from. My imagination can only cling to images of tempests, ocean waves, galaxies, canyons, mountains, or feelings of awe, fascination, and dread, or things associated with the other-worldly, the ghostly, the alien, even the uncivilized, the barbarous, the primitive, the amoral, or pre-moral, a maelstrom, of which the tortured genius is a fleeting shadow, intense, undomesticated, unpredictable, like a lion.

Philosophy, the Arts, and Richard Rorty

I bought a book called Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature by Richard Rorty. I am excited to read this book because I think he is the clearest and best defender for various feelings I've been having about the analytic tradition in philosophy. To say the least, I haven't really favored the analytic tradition. I've had a falling out with it. But it hasn't been a complete divorce. It's almost like I'm telling it, 'It's not you, it's me.' Let's not get married; let's be 'just friends'. I want to make it a tool in my tool-box. Analytic philosophers want to make their philosophy the actual tool-box! They want it to be 'the privileged discourse'. More and more, I've wanted to make analytic philosophy a branch of something else, of something more ultimate - as long as it's not the trunk of the tree, or the roots from which the trunk grows.

My personal philosophy is very nascent, but I have strong intuitions about its truth. I can't put it into words to my satisfaction, but I can hint at it by saying how I priviledge certain modes of expression over others. Music is high on the list; but then another part of me wants to call it Art in General, where Music can be branch. This view is highly influenced by Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. Nietzsche wrote the Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music. I have trouble relating to 'Tragedy', but I don't think it's too far off from a Movie, which I am very acquainted with. I want to say that these kinds of things 'come first'; but I have trouble putting into words exactly what I mean by this. Is it the very nature of my scheme that I can't analytically justify the order of the scheme itself? For if I could, the scheme itself is subsumed under the analytic tradition, and the tradition isn't a branch of something like I intially wanted it to be.

There is something very real in Music, however: something so real that when I am immersed in musical rapture, Descarte's demon almost seems like a harmless mirage. It's almost like the demon is only meant to haunt a mind dominated by the tyranny of the analytic tradition. But I want my philosophy to transcend that tradition's shortcomings: over-reliance on the mind, neglectful of intuitions, the arts, music, and movies. I really want to incorporate movies into my philosophy of life. For everything seems to come to a head in the movies: we can be moved by music, we have the visual representations who act, we have the arousal of emotions by the actor (which are feigned) and the audience (which are real), the themes and motifs which the film might want to indirectly transfer, and a host of other things.

Literature seems like a good candidate for making philosophy a branch of. But then Literature is a form of Art.

It's so funny to hear about the vexation people feel when a philosophy isn't direct and clear. But, as Nietzsche mused: what if truth is a woman? What if it really is? What if truth has to be coaxed out of us, or aroused in a certain way, and what if the most efficient way to do this is through the Arts? Even Rudolph Otto, in his 'The Idea of the Holy' admitted he was going to be talking about things which couldn't be directly mentioned. He had to invent or point out analogies and metaphors that were meant to arouse in us certain emotions. Why? Because the next step is to say that these emotions - the ones you feel now as a result of the metaphor - are analogous to the emotions you'd feel if you were in direct contact with that X of which we can't directly describe or communicate. He says that things of the Spirit have to be awoken in this way. Spiritually, we are all asleep, trying to wake up with the illusion of Reason, not realizing that such an illusion may be a part of the dream.

I'll see how Rorty can help me on my trek.

God's Hiddenness and Psychology?

I've been thinking about why people think that religious truths should be more obvious. If something as important as my personal damnation hinges on whether I know certain facts, why wouldn't God make more certain that I know these facts, or that everyone knows them? Now, I can't honestly ask this question with a straight face, because I think I have good reasons why the question doesn't make sense. Of course, I could be wrong, but I only have my mind to work with.

Surely God knows everything. That's what omniscience means. We also know that everyone's psychology is unspeakably complex. Who knows what lurks beneath our own conscious lives, let alone everyone who has ever lived. For me, it seems entirely possible that for some people, people with a certain kind of psychology, a direct and obvious relevation from God would be met by revulsion, fear, rationalization, or perhaps even indifference, or even puzzlement. But then perhaps an omnipotent God can remedy this. But I don't see how He can do this without direct manipulation of thier psychological constitution, which would tamper with their free will, which is linked up with their psychology. It is intuitive to me that we have to perserve freedom.

So, it is possible that a direct revelation yeilds less saved than an indirect one. And it doesn't seem like we can overturn this possibility from the standpoint of our finite perspectives. I mean, what reason could we possibly appeal to so as to prove that God ought to have made Himself more obvious, or Christian Truth more obvious? It seems we extrapolate from our own expectations or our own idiosyncratic predicament to foist that upon everyone else. But there doesn't seem to be a good reason to engage in such an extrapolation. It doesn't even seem like we have a good reason to apply it to the case we know about the most: our own. For the psychologists are the quickest to let us know that our knowledge of our selves is extremely limited, the vast portion of what may be called 'our naked personalities' submerged - like an iceberg - beneath a vortex of competing wishes, desires, and fears: what Freud might call the Id.