It comes with the territory. When people hear that
you are a philosopher (not in the sense of "bar room philosopher,"
but in the sense of "someone who gets paid to do philosophy") those
same people want the answers. People who perhaps ought to know better will say frequently,
"so what does philosophy say about such-and-such," expecting some
kind of definitive answer. In a recent question and answer session following a
presentation, I had the feeling that some folks were slightly disappointed in
my response of "yes, that sounds fine," or else "perhaps,"
or else "I don't know."
Our culture assumes generally that we can
truly know stuff—definitively know it. If we don't know it now we will
certainly know it sometime soon. Students cram their heads with "facts" and come to believe that they have knowledge.
But the best philosophy, at least since Socrates in
the west and Laozi in the east, suggests that we don't know what we think we
know, and what we think we know is probably not true, and that to know really
is to realize that your really don't know. Both Socrates and Laozi told us that
there is that which is Ultimately Real, but that we cannot know it, but may
catch glimpses of it, and sometimes experience it, and then find words
inadequate to express what we have glimpsed or come to experience. "The
dao that can be named is not the enduring Dao," said Laozi. Socrates always ended his dialogues without a conclusion, with no definitive answer.
In all my classes, whatever the subject, my aim is to demonstrate the complexity of the issue, that the best minds in human history have wrestled with it and have not reached a unanimous conclusion, and that our conclusions are only ever a tentative "maybe."
Theo Logia—theology, thinking about God—is the first philosophy. Like the best philosophy, theology is always tentative, always full of loose ends, always in awe of the Ultimately Real. Theology wrestles with ideas, explores possibilities, finds problems with those ideas, pushes to the limits of human thinking, and still says, "no that's not it." In the end Theology must be silent. There is nothing. For God, the Ultimately Real, is no-thing. Anything that can be a "thing" cannot be God for God is beyond all things, and therefore must be no-thing ... nothing at all. And about nothing we must be silent. That's why in Rabbinic Judaism the name of G-d is not written or spoken. God is not a being (a bigger being that the little beings we know) but is Being and Non-being.
Theology, as first philosophy, breaks the silence with questions, seeking, searching, looking for meaning—we are, after all, meaning-seeking animals. Theologians find answers in words and concepts, and thoughts and schemes, but then come to realize the utter inadequacy of words and systems. All that can be said is merely analogous—something like, a comparison, but inadequately so. In the end theology, like philosophy, returns to silence, to nothing, to lose the self in the cloud of unknowing. The pathway is from not knowing, through knowing to Unknowing; from no form, through form, to Formlessness. Knowing is important, form is essential, but they are only way markers to the great Emptiness.
Then there's fundamentalism. Fundamentalism is the kind of religion that promises certainties. It matters little what the religion is, nor that the certainties differ between fundamentalisms. It is the offer of certainty that grips people whatever its religious garb. Certainties are dangerous. Certainties by their nature are intolerant. People are willing to die for them (perhaps nobly so). More problematically, people are often willing to kill for certainties. The roots of persecution, of war, of genocide are all in the certainties of supposed knowledge, often religious knowledge.
Some images of God can be helpful for a while, some images of God are unhealthy—God as cosmic tyrant, God as harsh judge, God as child abuser. But even the helpful images always become inadequate, for God is not this nor that. To remain with the image is ultimately misleading. .
Doubtless, I can live with my occupational hazard, and on Monday morning I'll be asked for some philosophical answers. I'll try to make sense of the question, but will likely hear again the response, "But professor, when are you going to give us the right answer?"
+Ab. Andy
In all my classes, whatever the subject, my aim is to demonstrate the complexity of the issue, that the best minds in human history have wrestled with it and have not reached a unanimous conclusion, and that our conclusions are only ever a tentative "maybe."
Theo Logia—theology, thinking about God—is the first philosophy. Like the best philosophy, theology is always tentative, always full of loose ends, always in awe of the Ultimately Real. Theology wrestles with ideas, explores possibilities, finds problems with those ideas, pushes to the limits of human thinking, and still says, "no that's not it." In the end Theology must be silent. There is nothing. For God, the Ultimately Real, is no-thing. Anything that can be a "thing" cannot be God for God is beyond all things, and therefore must be no-thing ... nothing at all. And about nothing we must be silent. That's why in Rabbinic Judaism the name of G-d is not written or spoken. God is not a being (a bigger being that the little beings we know) but is Being and Non-being.
Theology, as first philosophy, breaks the silence with questions, seeking, searching, looking for meaning—we are, after all, meaning-seeking animals. Theologians find answers in words and concepts, and thoughts and schemes, but then come to realize the utter inadequacy of words and systems. All that can be said is merely analogous—something like, a comparison, but inadequately so. In the end theology, like philosophy, returns to silence, to nothing, to lose the self in the cloud of unknowing. The pathway is from not knowing, through knowing to Unknowing; from no form, through form, to Formlessness. Knowing is important, form is essential, but they are only way markers to the great Emptiness.
Then there's fundamentalism. Fundamentalism is the kind of religion that promises certainties. It matters little what the religion is, nor that the certainties differ between fundamentalisms. It is the offer of certainty that grips people whatever its religious garb. Certainties are dangerous. Certainties by their nature are intolerant. People are willing to die for them (perhaps nobly so). More problematically, people are often willing to kill for certainties. The roots of persecution, of war, of genocide are all in the certainties of supposed knowledge, often religious knowledge.
Some images of God can be helpful for a while, some images of God are unhealthy—God as cosmic tyrant, God as harsh judge, God as child abuser. But even the helpful images always become inadequate, for God is not this nor that. To remain with the image is ultimately misleading. .
Doubtless, I can live with my occupational hazard, and on Monday morning I'll be asked for some philosophical answers. I'll try to make sense of the question, but will likely hear again the response, "But professor, when are you going to give us the right answer?"
+Ab. Andy