We hear much of Orson Scott Card these days. Most likely we do because his novel Ender's Game has been made into a movie coming soon to a theatre near you, but also because he has taken it upon himself to declaim at some length verbally and in writing on topics such as gay marriage, our esteemed President and his claimed machinations, his (Card's) Mormon faith and the faiths of others, and more. He seems rather offended that his pronouncements in these areas have earned him enemies, which I find rather odd. But the self-righteous are, naturally enough, easily offended when their beliefs, so eagerly expressed, are questioned.
I find myself wishing he was content merely to write his books. His books aren't bad; some indeed are good, or so I believe. Ender's Game is a book I enjoyed reading. I also enjoyed reading his books in the series involving the character Alvin Maker. But I haven't enjoyed reading other books he's written.
The sequels to Ender's Game disappointed me, especially those written more recently. Genius children can grow to be annoying, particularly genius children who talk and write incessantly and are surrounded by dull, gullible, bovine or boorish and violent adults. Novels based on such conceits don't interest me after a chapter or two. He's also written novels which seem to have a biblical or Book of Mormonical (?) connection, and alas that is a connection which doesn't interest me either, except with respect to the extensive and profound connection between Christianity and the beliefs which preceded it and which it assimilated, which I find fascinating.
But as is so often the case, what I wish for is not true and does not come true, either. Mr. Card seems to rejoice in pontificating on various topics in various media. I of course cannot object to that in itself, as I pontificate here in this blog, and on a certain forum. But because of my relative anonymity and, I hope, because of a sensibility he seems to lack, my pronouncements are not quite as...well...loony, and not as likely to drive others to distraction (this sometimes seems to be his intent, regrettably).
Sadly, Card's opinions seem to be too much along the lines of the opinions already blared out by those who make their money doing right-wing talk radio, or are talking heads on Fox News. I'm no fan of our President, and can even be described as conservative or perhaps libertarian in some respects. But there is a level at which the expression of disagreement with the President and liberals generally becomes uninteresting and indeed unintelligent if not incoherent.
That level has been reached in talk radio and on Fox News, and that seems to be the level at which Mr. Card now operates. Obama has a character which seems to evoke hysteria in some, and what might be valid criticism swiftly degenerates into lunatic exaggeration in those cases. Card's very odd column in which he imagines the President usurping the government and revoking the Constitution strikes me as positively rabid. It's hard to believe that he would think he was engaging in rational thought of any kind while manufacturing such nonsense. Peppering it with facile references to Augustus, Napoleon and Hitler, which he appears to think evidences a keen grasp of history, simply makes him seem more of a crank.
He seems to believe that it is Muslim doctrine that any person who ceases to be a Muslim must be killed. The little reading I've done indicates that whether that is the case is disputed, but clearly Card thinks there is no dispute, or perhaps rather that if there is a dispute it doesn't matter. He maintains that unless Muslims agree to condemn this doctrine, they should be penalized by our government which should, among other things, deny Islam the exemption from taxes granted other religions. This is punishment Card believes appropriate for Islam being uncivilized.
I don't object to the revocation of this exemption as I think there should be no exemption for any religion or Church. The exemption is a benefit granted religions for no good reason as far as I'm concerned, but regardless they are not entitled to the exemption, they are given it. No organization should be accorded special status under the law. The revocation of a gratuitous benefit is not a punishment or penalty.
It seems gay rights advocates want us to boycott Ender's Game, the movie, because of Card's opposition to gay marriage. As I've noted before, I think marriage in the law is simply a special kind of partnership, and should be just that and only that as far as the law is concerned. Whether the partners are straight or gay makes no difference to me, and should not in the law. But I'm not inclined to avoid the movie because Card evidently thinks that gay marriage will somehow result in some kind of vicious, mandated quashing of traditional life, culture and morals. There have been plenty of novelists and artists throughout our history who have been idiots or bigots, but we should be free to read or view or listen to their work.
I won't go to see the movie for the same reasons I don't go to see others. Why spend money on what will likely be a bombastic cookie-cutter production, poorly acted, as are most movies made in our Glorious Republic these days? I'll wait until it shows up before me as I sit in my comfy chair in my living room, and then will probably end up turning it off in any case to read some non-fiction and listen to music (the History and Discovery channels having become for reasons unknown to me purveyors of strange "reality shows"). I may even think while doing that. Thinking is not a game being played well or often by Mr. Card and too many others of our time.
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Monday, August 12, 2013
The Kingdom of Fear
These words were used to describe these United States by the late and remarkable if not always great Hunter S. Thompson before his suicide, and were also used in a song he co-wrote with the late, great Warren Zevon. I hesitate to call Thompson "great" without qualification because of the manner of his death; not necessarily because he took his own life but given the way he went about doing so. As I recall, he shot himself while on the telephone with his wife and while his son was at home in another part of the house. Exiting the kingdom in this fashion seems intended to cause the greatest possible harm to those who are close to you. That may or may not have been his intent, but regardless of whether that was the case it is not an honorable departure.
But I can't help but think that the description is apt. We are fearful of many things and that would seem to be a prerequisite of living in the Kingdom of Fear. That is, apparently, also why we have so many guns and indeed should have them according to the gun shills; and we should also fear, of course, as others with guns may try to kill us or those we love or, worse yet, may try to take away the guns we require in order to prevent them from killing us or taking away our guns. It is all a part of the great Circle of Strife.
There are certainly things to be feared, and perhaps more people to be feared than there were to be feared in the past. As Thompson and Zevon put it in their song, "dangerous creeps are everywhere." But one must wonder if this is indeed the case. As we all know what transpires around the world with great rapidity, and as our government, ostensibly in charge of the Kingdom of Fear, knows what we know and do and say and write, it may be the case that we believe there is more danger simply because we have access to more information than we did. Dangerous creeps may be more evident than they were not because there are more of them, proportionately, but because we can no longer be ignorant of them. We can see them or hear of them or read of them 24/7 (a clumsy but useful little summary phrase). Indeed, our knowledge of them is in a sense compulsory; we would have to be in a wilderness without TVs, radios, smart phones to enjoy the bliss of ignorance.
Perhaps also the dangerous creeps among us have more opportunity to display and indulge in their infinitely varied creepiness than in the past. The Internet is a wonderful tool, but it is as well an outlet for all that is good and bad in us, and the bad, sadly, exceeds the good, or at least is more easily expressed than the good in the available format.
We've always been subject to fears and it seems are inclined to be overwhelmed by fear. This inclines me, not entirely fearfully but perhaps warily, to wonder whether our interesting times have made us ripe for another of the periodic religious "awakenings" which occur now and then in our history. Such things can have profound effects, not all of them good.
Religion is not really the opium of the people as Marx claimed; at least not religion as it develops in ages of anxiety like ours. Opium may dampen fear, and religion can as well, but true comfort can only be obtained by certainty and certainty through religion is a product of righteousness. If religion can be compared to a drug due to its use in confronting fear, it's more like cocaine. It arouses, it is active. It's certainty provides comfort in the form of euphoria, a kind of ecstatic absoluteness. But certainty can degenerate into intolerance and paranoia.
Now it seems existent religions don't provide the kind of certainty required to quiet fear. But that may change, and perhaps is changing as the religious become more emotive, simple, unquestioning in their beliefs. The times demand action, we feel, and action is most satisfying when it is unthinking, and certainty becomes uncertain when subject to critical thought. And so in the Kingdom of Fear we abstain from critical thought, the better to be certain.
But I can't help but think that the description is apt. We are fearful of many things and that would seem to be a prerequisite of living in the Kingdom of Fear. That is, apparently, also why we have so many guns and indeed should have them according to the gun shills; and we should also fear, of course, as others with guns may try to kill us or those we love or, worse yet, may try to take away the guns we require in order to prevent them from killing us or taking away our guns. It is all a part of the great Circle of Strife.
There are certainly things to be feared, and perhaps more people to be feared than there were to be feared in the past. As Thompson and Zevon put it in their song, "dangerous creeps are everywhere." But one must wonder if this is indeed the case. As we all know what transpires around the world with great rapidity, and as our government, ostensibly in charge of the Kingdom of Fear, knows what we know and do and say and write, it may be the case that we believe there is more danger simply because we have access to more information than we did. Dangerous creeps may be more evident than they were not because there are more of them, proportionately, but because we can no longer be ignorant of them. We can see them or hear of them or read of them 24/7 (a clumsy but useful little summary phrase). Indeed, our knowledge of them is in a sense compulsory; we would have to be in a wilderness without TVs, radios, smart phones to enjoy the bliss of ignorance.
Perhaps also the dangerous creeps among us have more opportunity to display and indulge in their infinitely varied creepiness than in the past. The Internet is a wonderful tool, but it is as well an outlet for all that is good and bad in us, and the bad, sadly, exceeds the good, or at least is more easily expressed than the good in the available format.
We've always been subject to fears and it seems are inclined to be overwhelmed by fear. This inclines me, not entirely fearfully but perhaps warily, to wonder whether our interesting times have made us ripe for another of the periodic religious "awakenings" which occur now and then in our history. Such things can have profound effects, not all of them good.
Religion is not really the opium of the people as Marx claimed; at least not religion as it develops in ages of anxiety like ours. Opium may dampen fear, and religion can as well, but true comfort can only be obtained by certainty and certainty through religion is a product of righteousness. If religion can be compared to a drug due to its use in confronting fear, it's more like cocaine. It arouses, it is active. It's certainty provides comfort in the form of euphoria, a kind of ecstatic absoluteness. But certainty can degenerate into intolerance and paranoia.
Now it seems existent religions don't provide the kind of certainty required to quiet fear. But that may change, and perhaps is changing as the religious become more emotive, simple, unquestioning in their beliefs. The times demand action, we feel, and action is most satisfying when it is unthinking, and certainty becomes uncertain when subject to critical thought. And so in the Kingdom of Fear we abstain from critical thought, the better to be certain.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Absurdism
I wish I was referring to the humorous evocation of the absurd, but no; "Absurdism" is, apparently, a variant of existentialism, and so humor has no place in its discussion. But perhaps it does.
I came across a book called The Absurdity of Philosophy and downloaded it without much thought, just assuming, I must confess, that it would be an amusing read. Thus far, it is not.
I was puzzled by the preliminary chapter in which the author describes himself as going through a daily routine pausing, with considerable frequency, to light cigarettes. It's been some time since I've read anything written in last few decades which refers to lighting cigarettes at all, let alone doing so every time one is not involved in doing anything else requiring the use of hands. I smoked for many years, and am familiar with lighting a cigarette in this reflexive manner, in my case whenever the phone rang in my office, for example. Curiously, I find myself vaguely annoyed by the author's tendency to advise me that he lit a cigarette after a shower, while watching TV, etc.
Then, for reasons not foreshadowed, reference was made to Camus. And then to Kierkegaard. And then to French history. The serial consumption of cigarettes seemed to be explained. Ah, he must be French, I thought. Cigarettes, Camus and Kierkegaard. What else could he be?
But it seems he's not French. He does, however, seem to accept (pun intended, I suppose) Absurdism.
It appears Absurdism reflects one of the three options the exceedingly melancholy Dane Kierkegaard believed rather presumptuously are available to us in reacting to (you guessed it) the meaninglessness of our lives. The others are, unsurprisingly, suicide and belief in God or some kind of Other who or which manages to accord meaning to our miserable existence. Absurdists, at least of the Camusian (?) variety, forego suicide (doubtless with difficulty and regret) and disdain belief in God. They instead accept the meaninglessness, and live with it. Perhaps this is similar to Sartre's version of "self-reliance", which evidently consists of withdrawing into oneself in response to the nausea said to result from everything and everyone but oneself.
Now I will acknowledge that confronted with these three cheerful options, I would be inclined towards acceptance myself. It is an option which would at least engender a kind of self-respect. I would in that case, assuming I bought into the meaningless of life and was appropriately nauseated, be like Camus' Sisyphus and acquire a certain dignity.
However, I find the cause of the alleged three options to be difficult to accept. That is to say, I find it difficult to conclude that life and the universe are meaningless.
What Kierkegaard and others like him actually seem to conclude is, in my opinion, that life and the universe have no meaning to them, in the sense of a purpose which makes everything bearable that they find disagreeable (and they apparently find many, many things disagreeable). They have no meaning they find satisfactory, in other words.
But why should they? Why expect they would, in the first place? It seems extremely silly to believe the universe exists or you exist for a specific reason. It seems even sillier to expect that this reason would be somehow intimately related to what we do or don't do, should or should not do, and that we would or should approve of the reason.
Acceptance of the fact that the universe and life need have no such reason would be more reasonable, if acceptance is what is appropriate. Does this amount to the same thing, though, without the arrogant assumption that the universe was made for us, and the disappointment we feel when we understand it was not?
If so, the extirpation of the laughable conceit is beneficial in itself. It's nice to live without being a self-involved fool. How does one live, though, if we find the universe unsatisfactory?
We don't find it unsatisfactory, though. We find our lives unsatisfactory for various reasons. But we can solve certain problems, at least, and make it more satisfactory than not. This isn't worthless, as our satisfaction is significant to us and why shouldn't it be?
We form our own goals and work towards them. We make our lives meaningful.
As someone who admires the Stoic way, I would say we live according to nature. That doesn't entail belief in a God in any traditional sense, but it entails a respect and even reverence for the universe and all that's in it. The universe inspires awe and reflection; we recognize this and act accordingly.
I came across a book called The Absurdity of Philosophy and downloaded it without much thought, just assuming, I must confess, that it would be an amusing read. Thus far, it is not.
I was puzzled by the preliminary chapter in which the author describes himself as going through a daily routine pausing, with considerable frequency, to light cigarettes. It's been some time since I've read anything written in last few decades which refers to lighting cigarettes at all, let alone doing so every time one is not involved in doing anything else requiring the use of hands. I smoked for many years, and am familiar with lighting a cigarette in this reflexive manner, in my case whenever the phone rang in my office, for example. Curiously, I find myself vaguely annoyed by the author's tendency to advise me that he lit a cigarette after a shower, while watching TV, etc.
Then, for reasons not foreshadowed, reference was made to Camus. And then to Kierkegaard. And then to French history. The serial consumption of cigarettes seemed to be explained. Ah, he must be French, I thought. Cigarettes, Camus and Kierkegaard. What else could he be?
But it seems he's not French. He does, however, seem to accept (pun intended, I suppose) Absurdism.
It appears Absurdism reflects one of the three options the exceedingly melancholy Dane Kierkegaard believed rather presumptuously are available to us in reacting to (you guessed it) the meaninglessness of our lives. The others are, unsurprisingly, suicide and belief in God or some kind of Other who or which manages to accord meaning to our miserable existence. Absurdists, at least of the Camusian (?) variety, forego suicide (doubtless with difficulty and regret) and disdain belief in God. They instead accept the meaninglessness, and live with it. Perhaps this is similar to Sartre's version of "self-reliance", which evidently consists of withdrawing into oneself in response to the nausea said to result from everything and everyone but oneself.
Now I will acknowledge that confronted with these three cheerful options, I would be inclined towards acceptance myself. It is an option which would at least engender a kind of self-respect. I would in that case, assuming I bought into the meaningless of life and was appropriately nauseated, be like Camus' Sisyphus and acquire a certain dignity.
However, I find the cause of the alleged three options to be difficult to accept. That is to say, I find it difficult to conclude that life and the universe are meaningless.
What Kierkegaard and others like him actually seem to conclude is, in my opinion, that life and the universe have no meaning to them, in the sense of a purpose which makes everything bearable that they find disagreeable (and they apparently find many, many things disagreeable). They have no meaning they find satisfactory, in other words.
But why should they? Why expect they would, in the first place? It seems extremely silly to believe the universe exists or you exist for a specific reason. It seems even sillier to expect that this reason would be somehow intimately related to what we do or don't do, should or should not do, and that we would or should approve of the reason.
Acceptance of the fact that the universe and life need have no such reason would be more reasonable, if acceptance is what is appropriate. Does this amount to the same thing, though, without the arrogant assumption that the universe was made for us, and the disappointment we feel when we understand it was not?
If so, the extirpation of the laughable conceit is beneficial in itself. It's nice to live without being a self-involved fool. How does one live, though, if we find the universe unsatisfactory?
We don't find it unsatisfactory, though. We find our lives unsatisfactory for various reasons. But we can solve certain problems, at least, and make it more satisfactory than not. This isn't worthless, as our satisfaction is significant to us and why shouldn't it be?
We form our own goals and work towards them. We make our lives meaningful.
As someone who admires the Stoic way, I would say we live according to nature. That doesn't entail belief in a God in any traditional sense, but it entails a respect and even reverence for the universe and all that's in it. The universe inspires awe and reflection; we recognize this and act accordingly.
Monday, July 22, 2013
The Other Hitchens
The Rage Against God is a book written by Christopher Hitchen's brother Peter. He and his late brother apparently were not close, as adults at least, and differed regarding God as may be guessed from the title of the book. He writes well, though in my mind not as well as his late brother. But I'm not certain just what he was trying to achieve in this book. It would seem that the book was intended to be a kind of response to CH's (I'll use initials to distinguish them) voluble atheism as well as an effort to characterize and explain the rage which PH felt is behind the the New Atheists. If that was the intent, I don't think it has the intended result.
In a way, the book begins much the same way as Allan Bloom's book The Closing of the American Mind (discussed in an earlier post) began: with a summoning and nostalgic description of good old days, now gone, in part at least as a result of the decline in the Christian religion. Is this sentimental recollection the result of age? It would seem PH and I are not many years apart (perhaps Bloom was about my age, or older, when he wrote his book).
Do I do this too? I have a certain fondness for the Catholicism of my youth, or at least for the aesthetics of it, and tend to be critical of the dullness and inanity of the current ritual and music. But for me, at least, this fondness doesn't translate into a belief in the doctrine behind the older variant of the Church, nor is it a part of an insistence that the world has spiraled into a toilet due to the abandonment of that doctrine or variant. PH indicates he is a Christian. Just what that means and why he is one is not explained.
But it would appear the descent which is claimed to have taken place began even earlier than the 1950s. PH believes that it all began after the First World War. It makes sense to me that this cataclysmic event changed the world for the worst, and that it may have been responsible for a growing disdain for traditional religious beliefs which it seems both sides invoked in support of their efforts to kill. But the belief that God was on the side of those warring against one another has characterized wars for centuries.
The wars of the 20th century dwarfed those of the past in magnitude, as a result of technology, but it is unclear the ferocity of those wars resulted from an abandonment of religion. I think it is more likely that it resulted from the inference that given the technology available, it is necessary to engage in total war in order to defeat an opponent. Victory on the battlefield is no longer as dependent on the skill and training of an opponent when one side can annihilate the other with mere firepower. It's said that Napoleon's tactical brilliance declined as he came to rely more and more on massed artillery fire to win battles.
PH is inclined to blame such things as the total war and atrocities of the 20th century on materialism. He goes into detail regarding the character of society and culture in the Soviet Union where he lived for a time. I'm sure conditions there were miserable for all but the elite, as he says, and share his disdain for Western intellectuals who it seems were incapable of viewing Stalin as a monster. But in what sense was Russia better before the abolition of the Orthodox Church by the Bolsheviks? Wasn't life miserable for all but the elite under the Czars? Does PH think it was miserable in a better way under the Czars than it was in the Soviet Union? Again, this is not explained.
I'm struck by the fact that this book, like that of Bloom's, is a series of assertions mingled with fairly frequent complaints. There is no argument made in either work, properly speaking. They consist of pronouncements, proclamations.
PH claims that morality is not possible without God, which is to say without belief in certain precepts which exist outside of what we consider reality. If I understand him correctly, he maintains this is demonstrated though the concept of Christian love. He notes that his brother CH wrote that it is not possible to achieve such love. He distinguishes Christian love from the Golden Rule and believes the former provides a truer basis for morality than the latter, and the abandonment of the former is responsible for or demonstrates by its consequences the impossibility of a truly effective morality (he seems to acknowledge that reciprocity and decency are not dependent on the existence of God, but feels them to be insufficient).
Frankly, I've felt that what is called Christian love is impossible to achieve as well, and is something we honor in the breach, as it were. We may tout it as an ideal, but we are better off practically speaking to try to do what we actually can do. Regardless, though, I don't think it is accurate to claim that this love is something peculiar to Christianity, or even to religion in any institutional sense, at least. PH appears to understand that Christianity is in many senses derivative of older religions, but he doesn't discuss this derivativeness in the context of his thesis. I assume he must be aware of the writings of Celsus, who demonstrated long ago that the ancient pagan philosophers also referred to the need to love one another, to love others as we love ourselves, long before Jesus is said to have lived.
I'm no fan of the New Atheists, who do indeed sometimes seem enraged, and sometimes without good reason. Their attitude seems to be one of contempt not only for established religion but for the religious or spiritual generally, and I think that is uncalled for and arrogant.
The book has a touching epilogue, in which PH notes that his last debate with CH was not bitter or contentious, and that they had some friendly time together before the debate. The book was written before CH"s death, and there is no indication it was understood CH had terminal cancer when written. One hopes the brothers reconciled fully regardless of their differences on this issue.
But this kind of response does little to defend traditional religion in general or Christianity in particular, in my opinion. I keep looking for what I think would be a reasonable defense of a reasonable belief in God and do not find it. Perhaps that's because the defenses made are dependent on a view of religion too tied to the myths and doctrines vested in established, institutional religions which must carry with them baggage which should be discarded. Or perhaps that's because there is no reasonable defense. I hope the former is the case.
In a way, the book begins much the same way as Allan Bloom's book The Closing of the American Mind (discussed in an earlier post) began: with a summoning and nostalgic description of good old days, now gone, in part at least as a result of the decline in the Christian religion. Is this sentimental recollection the result of age? It would seem PH and I are not many years apart (perhaps Bloom was about my age, or older, when he wrote his book).
Do I do this too? I have a certain fondness for the Catholicism of my youth, or at least for the aesthetics of it, and tend to be critical of the dullness and inanity of the current ritual and music. But for me, at least, this fondness doesn't translate into a belief in the doctrine behind the older variant of the Church, nor is it a part of an insistence that the world has spiraled into a toilet due to the abandonment of that doctrine or variant. PH indicates he is a Christian. Just what that means and why he is one is not explained.
But it would appear the descent which is claimed to have taken place began even earlier than the 1950s. PH believes that it all began after the First World War. It makes sense to me that this cataclysmic event changed the world for the worst, and that it may have been responsible for a growing disdain for traditional religious beliefs which it seems both sides invoked in support of their efforts to kill. But the belief that God was on the side of those warring against one another has characterized wars for centuries.
The wars of the 20th century dwarfed those of the past in magnitude, as a result of technology, but it is unclear the ferocity of those wars resulted from an abandonment of religion. I think it is more likely that it resulted from the inference that given the technology available, it is necessary to engage in total war in order to defeat an opponent. Victory on the battlefield is no longer as dependent on the skill and training of an opponent when one side can annihilate the other with mere firepower. It's said that Napoleon's tactical brilliance declined as he came to rely more and more on massed artillery fire to win battles.
PH is inclined to blame such things as the total war and atrocities of the 20th century on materialism. He goes into detail regarding the character of society and culture in the Soviet Union where he lived for a time. I'm sure conditions there were miserable for all but the elite, as he says, and share his disdain for Western intellectuals who it seems were incapable of viewing Stalin as a monster. But in what sense was Russia better before the abolition of the Orthodox Church by the Bolsheviks? Wasn't life miserable for all but the elite under the Czars? Does PH think it was miserable in a better way under the Czars than it was in the Soviet Union? Again, this is not explained.
I'm struck by the fact that this book, like that of Bloom's, is a series of assertions mingled with fairly frequent complaints. There is no argument made in either work, properly speaking. They consist of pronouncements, proclamations.
PH claims that morality is not possible without God, which is to say without belief in certain precepts which exist outside of what we consider reality. If I understand him correctly, he maintains this is demonstrated though the concept of Christian love. He notes that his brother CH wrote that it is not possible to achieve such love. He distinguishes Christian love from the Golden Rule and believes the former provides a truer basis for morality than the latter, and the abandonment of the former is responsible for or demonstrates by its consequences the impossibility of a truly effective morality (he seems to acknowledge that reciprocity and decency are not dependent on the existence of God, but feels them to be insufficient).
Frankly, I've felt that what is called Christian love is impossible to achieve as well, and is something we honor in the breach, as it were. We may tout it as an ideal, but we are better off practically speaking to try to do what we actually can do. Regardless, though, I don't think it is accurate to claim that this love is something peculiar to Christianity, or even to religion in any institutional sense, at least. PH appears to understand that Christianity is in many senses derivative of older religions, but he doesn't discuss this derivativeness in the context of his thesis. I assume he must be aware of the writings of Celsus, who demonstrated long ago that the ancient pagan philosophers also referred to the need to love one another, to love others as we love ourselves, long before Jesus is said to have lived.
I'm no fan of the New Atheists, who do indeed sometimes seem enraged, and sometimes without good reason. Their attitude seems to be one of contempt not only for established religion but for the religious or spiritual generally, and I think that is uncalled for and arrogant.
The book has a touching epilogue, in which PH notes that his last debate with CH was not bitter or contentious, and that they had some friendly time together before the debate. The book was written before CH"s death, and there is no indication it was understood CH had terminal cancer when written. One hopes the brothers reconciled fully regardless of their differences on this issue.
But this kind of response does little to defend traditional religion in general or Christianity in particular, in my opinion. I keep looking for what I think would be a reasonable defense of a reasonable belief in God and do not find it. Perhaps that's because the defenses made are dependent on a view of religion too tied to the myths and doctrines vested in established, institutional religions which must carry with them baggage which should be discarded. Or perhaps that's because there is no reasonable defense. I hope the former is the case.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Regarding Newman and his Apologia
The saintly John Henry Newman, Prince of the Church of Rome, whose elevation to sainthood took place with would have been thought celerity before the race to canonize John Paul II, wrote his Apologia pro Vita Sua ostensibly in response to an ill-advised comment by Charles Kingsley. I've read and enjoyed reading some of Kingsley's breezy works on history, but must agree that Newman made a fool of him in his reply, and that he was able to do so in large part because Kingsley's remark was stupid and his efforts to defend it even more stupid.
I say "ostensibly" because in addition to a meticulous rebuttal, the Apologia is an extended explanation and defense of Newman's religious beliefs and life, especially regarding his famous, or infamous depending on one's perspective, abandonment of the Anglican Church and conversion to the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. Newman was in effect given the opportunity to defend Roman Catholicism and apparently did so with great effectiveness.
I say "apparently" because this seems to be the reaction of those who read this work, but also because I find it difficult, if not impossible, to understand why Newman's conversion was the subject of such controversy. I also find it difficult to understand or appreciate the distinctions between "High Anglicanism" and Catholicism, which presumably were of such significance as to render the conversion so controversial. I suspect this is a difficulty which would be encountered by most who read the Apologia now.
Of course I can recognize that nationalism plays a part in the disputes between these churches. All know that the grotesque Henry VIII had a falling out with the Church of Rome as it would not consent to his divorce of Queen Catherine and its assertion of authority over things sacred and profane Henry and others deemed to be the concerns of the English or of their rulers. Since then the English have been sometimes virulently anti-papist.
The doctrinal differences, though, are beyond my comprehension or at least my patience, and regrettably this work is quite concerned with those differences, as might be expected. It's difficult to believe that such differences were, and evidently are, still taken to be of great importance. Even more difficult to believe is the extent to which these differences motivated seemingly intelligent people to devote extraordinary time, thought and effort to addressing them and the praise of such efforts which resulted.
My attitude is, I suppose, yet another indication of the extent to which traditional religions fail to excite or influence in these times. While I'm not an atheist and don't take quite the savagely joyous delight others do in their decline, I'm unable to consider this failure unfortunate.
I must admit that I feel that Newman was in many respects a most peculiar man. He remarks on the fact that early in his life he came to doubt the reality of the "visible world." Presumably, he felt instead that there was a real or at least more real world that is not visible for some reason. This invisible world would, I would think, strike most people as less discernible and comprehensible than the visible one. To the extent that what is real should be something one can discern and understand, I would think the "visible world" would be more real than an invisible one.
But it would seem that to Newman this was not the case; the less we know of something the more real it becomes according to this curious logic. Or, perhaps, he believed the real is something we "know" of in a sense we can't know anything in the "visible world."
Then there is Newman's statement Christopher Hitchens enjoyed quoting, to the effect that the Catholic Church takes the position that it would be better for the universe and all that's in it to be destroyed than for anyone to intentionally tell a lie, or steal a farthing. I suppose such a contention is to be expected from a person who felt the "visible world" is not real. Who cares if the not-real is destroyed? Such an attitude would make the remark appear less chilling and callous.
But it wouldn't, really, would it? That's because we all know the "visible world" is in fact real, as we treat it as real all the time; it is, actually, the only thing we can treat with at all--we wouldn't "treat" but for the "visible world" because we're part of it.
There is something wrong with someone who believes the "visible world" is not real. It may be the fact that their lives are testaments to the fact that they disregard what they say, or it may be the fact that if they really do believe what they say they disdain the world and all that's in it. This breeds fanaticism, absolutism and intolerance.
Peculiar indeed, from my perspective. But that seems to be one of the aspects of traditional religions, in the West at least. The real and true are someplace else, unrelated to the world in which we live. If they are apart from the world in which we live, then what takes place in that world is unimportant. Those who believe such stuff are better off dead, even according to their own religion.
I say "ostensibly" because in addition to a meticulous rebuttal, the Apologia is an extended explanation and defense of Newman's religious beliefs and life, especially regarding his famous, or infamous depending on one's perspective, abandonment of the Anglican Church and conversion to the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. Newman was in effect given the opportunity to defend Roman Catholicism and apparently did so with great effectiveness.
I say "apparently" because this seems to be the reaction of those who read this work, but also because I find it difficult, if not impossible, to understand why Newman's conversion was the subject of such controversy. I also find it difficult to understand or appreciate the distinctions between "High Anglicanism" and Catholicism, which presumably were of such significance as to render the conversion so controversial. I suspect this is a difficulty which would be encountered by most who read the Apologia now.
Of course I can recognize that nationalism plays a part in the disputes between these churches. All know that the grotesque Henry VIII had a falling out with the Church of Rome as it would not consent to his divorce of Queen Catherine and its assertion of authority over things sacred and profane Henry and others deemed to be the concerns of the English or of their rulers. Since then the English have been sometimes virulently anti-papist.
The doctrinal differences, though, are beyond my comprehension or at least my patience, and regrettably this work is quite concerned with those differences, as might be expected. It's difficult to believe that such differences were, and evidently are, still taken to be of great importance. Even more difficult to believe is the extent to which these differences motivated seemingly intelligent people to devote extraordinary time, thought and effort to addressing them and the praise of such efforts which resulted.
My attitude is, I suppose, yet another indication of the extent to which traditional religions fail to excite or influence in these times. While I'm not an atheist and don't take quite the savagely joyous delight others do in their decline, I'm unable to consider this failure unfortunate.
I must admit that I feel that Newman was in many respects a most peculiar man. He remarks on the fact that early in his life he came to doubt the reality of the "visible world." Presumably, he felt instead that there was a real or at least more real world that is not visible for some reason. This invisible world would, I would think, strike most people as less discernible and comprehensible than the visible one. To the extent that what is real should be something one can discern and understand, I would think the "visible world" would be more real than an invisible one.
But it would seem that to Newman this was not the case; the less we know of something the more real it becomes according to this curious logic. Or, perhaps, he believed the real is something we "know" of in a sense we can't know anything in the "visible world."
Then there is Newman's statement Christopher Hitchens enjoyed quoting, to the effect that the Catholic Church takes the position that it would be better for the universe and all that's in it to be destroyed than for anyone to intentionally tell a lie, or steal a farthing. I suppose such a contention is to be expected from a person who felt the "visible world" is not real. Who cares if the not-real is destroyed? Such an attitude would make the remark appear less chilling and callous.
But it wouldn't, really, would it? That's because we all know the "visible world" is in fact real, as we treat it as real all the time; it is, actually, the only thing we can treat with at all--we wouldn't "treat" but for the "visible world" because we're part of it.
There is something wrong with someone who believes the "visible world" is not real. It may be the fact that their lives are testaments to the fact that they disregard what they say, or it may be the fact that if they really do believe what they say they disdain the world and all that's in it. This breeds fanaticism, absolutism and intolerance.
Peculiar indeed, from my perspective. But that seems to be one of the aspects of traditional religions, in the West at least. The real and true are someplace else, unrelated to the world in which we live. If they are apart from the world in which we live, then what takes place in that world is unimportant. Those who believe such stuff are better off dead, even according to their own religion.
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