Jacques Maritain Center :
Characters in Search of Their Author /
by Ralph McInernyWest of Agrigento on a narrow country road can be found the house in which Luigi Pirandello lived as a boy. It is now a tourist attraction, operated by the government. The house overlooks the Mediterranean and as one gazes seaward from the house an old leafless tree seems to search the azure air like an arthritic hand. Embedded in that dead tree are the ashes of the author of Six Characters in Search of an Author.
The play was written in 1921 and bears the mark of the modern -- art fascinated with its own medium, becoming its own subject. But Pirandello's play, by separating the characters from the actors, and both from the author, underscores the inescapable dependence of both -- on Luigi Pirandello. Of course, to be a character entails an author of its being, so however successful or unsuccessful the search, the quest is predicated on the possibility of success.
Dramatic characters stand in a complicated relation to real agents. We follow their doings just because in some way they stand for us, and the intelligibility or lack of it on the stage is a metaphor of our lives. Hamlet will have them well treated because "they are the abstracts and brief chronicles of the time" (2.2). It has been said that life is a book in which we set out to write one story and end by writing another. Deflective surprises are due to chance or, as men have thought from time immemorial, to another author in whose drama we are but players. A play within a play. How can we not be in search of our author?
Lectures in natural theology have a distant air about them, as if they dealt with matters so abstruse that ordinary folk could not be interested or perhaps even follow what is being said. The formal effort to construct proofs with an eye to showing that God's existence is as inescapable as the premises that precede is indeed a difficult matter and one who lifted his voice in the average pub to recite such a proof is unlikely to win a host of adherents. If he does, we will suspect that something other than cogency is involved.
The Greeks, from whom we have all learned philosophy, made knowledge of the divine the mark of the wise man, and the acquisition of wisdom the task of a lifetime. The neophyte was not ready to ask the ultimate questions -- and the existence of God is surely an ultimate question. A lengthy curriculum had to be followed and anywhere along the way one might stop -- with mathematics, with natural science -- and not continue to philosophy's term. Or be diverted altogether by pressing practical concerns.
But if that is the case with the elite, what must be said of those -- the vast majority of mankind - who are not enrolled in the Academy or Lyceum? If there is a God who is the author of us all, awareness of existence should surely not be restricted to a few. How could any character in the human drama fail to search in some way for his author?
We are to God as characters are to their author. It may be a violation of the assumptions of art for imaginary characters to go in search of the writer who made them. But for us it is all but inevitable that, however momentarily, we feel ourselves to be part of a vast cosmic drama and our thoughts turn to the author, not merely of our roles, but our existence.
Natural theology is one version of that quest. It is my task, under the auspices of the will of Adam Gifford, at the invitation of the Principal and the Gifford committee, to speak on the topic of natural theology. I have been given ten lectures in which to do so, a rare privilege. The assumption can safely be made that a lecturer has given some thoughts to his subject before he rises to speak. For an old philosopher, it is difficult to remember exactly when the subject of natural theology first swam before his mind's eye. Any philosopher will, when he hears the phrase "natural theology," feel something stir within him, a reaction either positive or negative. =I will simply decree that anyone indifferent in the matter does not count as a philosopher.= My own reaction is a positive stirring. Like Adam Gifford, I think that there is such a thing as natural theology.
Natural theology, as I use the phrase -- and this is not an idiosyncratic use of it -- means the philosophical discipline which proves that God exists and that he has certain attributes. It is theology because it is concerned with God, and it is natural because it makes use of our natural powers unaided by any supernatural revelation. Natural theology is thus distinct from Christian theology which assumes as true what God has revealed to us about himself.
Whence comes my benevolent attitude toward natural theology? For one thing, I am a Catholic -- a contented and grateful one, I might add. The long tradition of the Church in this matter culminated at the First Vatican Council where it was declared to be of faith (de fide) that God can be known by our natural powers independent of faith, grace or revelation. This will seem to be a paradoxical situation, perhaps: a dogmatic declaration that dogma is not necessary for one to know that God exists. But anyone responsive to the dogma already holds that God exists of on faith. This must apply to someone else. But why then does the Church bother with the subject? A long story that, the latest chapter of which is Fides et ratio, an encyclical issued a year ago.
As a believer I accept on faith that God exists. As a Catholic, I take it to be of faith that God's existence be known apart from faith. But I am, allegedly, a philosopher. My situation, as just summarized, would in the eyes of some disqualify me for philosophizing. A moment ago I was reading anyone indifferent to natural theology out of the ranks, now I seem to have described myself in such a way that I must myself be ostracized.
The objection is that one who as a matter of religion believes in God is in no position to discuss the question of God's existence, because he has already begged that question. As a philosopher, who is expected to follow the argument wherever it leads him, he should have an open mind. But the believer does not philosophize in the expectation that his faith will shortly be undermined. Is it a condition for doing natural theology, or any other philosophical task, that we come to it without any antecedent convictions? Is it a rather widespread conviction among professional philosophers that natural theology cannot be brought to a successful term. Nor is this attitude absent from the ranks of believers.
There are many Christians, some of them are my colleagues, who as Protestants are appalled at the very notion of natural theology. For them it is an abomination that sinful man should seek to bridge the gap between himself and the deity by way of syllogisms.
Believers who are affirmatively disposed and believers who are negatively disposed toward natural theology will soon be exchanging snippets of Scripture to justify their attitude. I will cite Romans 1:19; my interlocutor will cite Colossians 2:8, to the effect that we should not be led astray by philosophy. On the sidelines, following this with amusement, is a third party who is not a believer and who sees this battle of believers as a sign that neither party can engage in philosophizing, properly understood. But let us take a look at this third party.
Our observer is not indifferent to the matter of natural theology. Let us say that he would come to this study with the antecedent conviction that proofs of God's existence are impossible because God does not exist. And, even if God did exist, it would be impossible for us to know it.
This fellow admittedly gains acceleration from the zeitgeist. There seems little doubt that philosophy is all but definitionally agnostic now, if not matter-of-factly atheist. The philosopher has become a thoroughly secularized fellow, most likely someone who in the mists of memory believed but has long since put away the things of a child, thanks to philosophy. How would he describe himself as a philosopher?
More or less as pure reason. Questions come to his attention from he knows not where; in any case, their provenance is irrelevant. He ponders the question, he considers solutions, he weights the possibilities, he makes his dispassionate judgment. He is for all practical purposes anonymous.
Now you and I know this fellow. We have argued with him. Does this disembodied portrait fit him? On the question of natural theology -- is there a God, are we and the world his effects? -- his mind is not a blank slate. Whatever his condition might have been when he signed up for a course called Introduction to Philosophy, now he has an antecedent attitude toward the possible outcome of the question. He does not think God's existence has ever been proved. Logically, this does not prove God to be non-existent, but he will not therefore put the question on hold. We know how he would fill out prying questionnaires. Religion? None. Meaning he does not think there is a God.
My point in drawing attention to these obvious yet somehow forgettable facts is both to tell you that I take up my task in the firm pre-philosophical conviction, thanks to my Christian faith, that it can be done, and that my having pre-philosophical antecedent convictions is not unique, but is simply a variation on the common fact that everyone comes to every inquiry with antecedent convictions. If having antecedent beliefs disqualified one from philosophy, there could be no philosophers.
All philosophers have acquired a lengthy personal history before they even begin the study of philosophy. The effort to rid oneself of all that baggage -- for some centuries now taken to be the first philosophical task -- is an acknowledgment of its presence. Nor is it ever completely discarded. Item. Etienne Gilson's detection of all kinds of covert scholasticism in Descartes himself, who thought he had bidden adieu to all that.
My intention is not to return an insult for an insult. Tu quoque, as it were. Reflection makes it clear that everyone thinks out of a very complicated personal background, one that affects what questions he entertains, the expectations he has of possible answers, and doubtless causes him to give short shrift to lines of thought which disturb those antecedents. Imagine how difficult it would be for someone with the zeitgeist in his sails to follow with sympathy the effort to prove the existence of God. And of course, think of how the believer would react to any attempt to show that talk of God is meaningless. Thus far, then the three points:
All this might be admitted as a matter of course but objection may be taken to my passing so lightly over the fact that the modern turn in philosophy was aimed precisely at overcoming such antecedent attitudes -- common sense, the confusions and errors into which the mind has fallen, received and unexamined opinion of various kinds. What was needed was a severe application of the Socratic maxim: The unexamined life is not worth living. (The novelist Peter DeVries pointed out that many students would prefer the unexamined to the examined life, but no matter.) A cold eye must be cast on what is given and presupposed -- on tradition, on common sense -- with nothing being admitted that does not pass the test of methodic doubt. Antecedent attitudes are to be overcome, not appealed to for guidance, however covert. This drama was played out again and again in modern times. It therefore must seem disingenuous of me to invoke the given as, well, given.
This is an important objection, and one to which I must shortly return. But for the moment I want to dwell on the special condition of the believing philosopher.
Etienne Gilson, in his ebullient Gifford lectures, The Spirit of Medieval Philosophy, celebrated what he called the Christian Philosophy of the Middle Ages, just at the time that his fellow historian, Emile Brehier, in an article that asked Y-a-t-il une philosophie chrétienne?, was suggesting a negative answer. For Brehier it seemed obvious that believers, for whom the great questions of philosophy had already received their answers, could scarcely go about seeking those same answers. They were already committed. They could not follow the argument wherever it might take them.
This article of Brehier's set off, as you may know, a tremendous reaction among believers. In the Thirties, just about every continental Catholic philosopher of renown -- or soon to be renowned -- published a little book on Christian philosophy. The meeting of the Société Thomiste at Juvisy in 1933 was devoted to the question. There was anything but unanimity. The disagreement between the eminent medievalists Mandonnet and Gilson is particularly instructive. For Gilson it was simply a matter of historical fact that during the ages of faith certain philosophical truths had either been broached for the first time -- e.g., the concept of person -- or had come more sharply into focus -- e.g., the nature of the first cause -- within the ambiance of the faith. Whether or not they would have been developed without that influence, the historical fact remained.
Mandonnet impatiently pointed out that an argument was either a philosophical argument or a theological one -- dependent on faith -- and that Gilson was confusing philosophy with theology.
This theme took on new life twenty years ago in the united States when the Society of Christian Philosophers was formed, and once more a variety of positions, not all of them compatible, were developed by those identifying themselves as Christian philosophers.
What is incontestable is that religious belief influences the philosophizing of Christian philosophers, unless they are schizophrenic. It is safe to say that no Christian philosopher sits down at his desk in the expectation that he will rise from it convinced that God does not exist, that the human soul is mortal, or that we will not be held accountable for our deeds. His life would make no sense if these were false. Does that preclude his asking whether there are sound arguments for the existence of God and the immortality of the soul?
While the case of the believer is indeed distinctive, it is a mistake to regard it as unique. For many, philosophizing is an activity that has become totally secularized. If the thinker had religious faith, he has put it aside. Indeed, it would seem professionally gauche if he were to admit to religious faith. The working assumption is that anyone who uses his mind seriously must put aside religious beliefs.
Say that is a fair picture of the profession. If philosophers were polled on the question whether it is possible to prove the existence of God, the vast majority would likely say no. Some few of them would do so on the basis of extended examination of attempts to prove God's existence. But for many this conviction is simply there, breathed in with the atmosphere of secularized philosophy. This is the antecedent conviction of many perhaps most, professional philosophers. If you ask a class of undergraduates, neophytes in philosophy, if they think it possible to prove God's existence, almost none will answer in the affirmative. (I speak as a professor of philosophy in a Catholic university.) Does this disqualify them from considering such proofs? Are professional philosophers who antecedently think it impossible to prove that God exists toto coelo different from the believing philosopher who thinks it possible?
You will perhaps be feeling dismay. I began by admitting my own antecedent attitude toward the project of natural philosophy. I asked if this disqualified me from going on with my task. Then I suggested that everyone is in a similar position. Nonetheless, believers differ among themselves on the possibility of natural theology, so an affirmative attitude does not seem entailed by Christian faith. Perhaps one has to be a Catholic, or a member of a diminishing subset of Catholics, to have such antecedent confidence. But now, after seeming to exempt him, I am back suggesting that the non-believing philosopher, like the believing philosopher, has antecedent convictions on the matter of natural theology which ought to disqualify him as well.
But your dismay could go to the implications of what I am doing. If everyone's philosophizing is influenced by antecedent conviction, philosophy will seem to be merely the formation of reasons for what we already hold to be true. One's philosophical position will reflect his antecedent attitudes. Antecedent attitudes differ. Therefore, the radical diversity among philosophers is not a function of argument but of subjectivity.
Such considerations do indeed explain why agreement is so hard to come by in philosophy. Philosophers are regularly astounded by colleagues who resist what seem to their proponents to be airtight arguments. But if agreement is difficult, it is not impossible.
A philosopher's antecedent attitude will influence the questions he finds attractive, they will lead him to expect one result rather than another from his inquiry, and they may cause him to think he has a good argument when he hasn't. This is not a peculiarity of one species of philosophers. It is an ineluctably common fact about philosophers.
Here is my stay against a chaotic relativism. Whatever the personal reasons for pursuing a given question, whatever expectations one might have as to its solution, the position he arrives at and the arguments he formulates are appraisable by criteria which float free of the various and conflicting antecedent attitudes of philosophers.
I simply assert this now. I intend to address it more thoroughly in the sequel.
But I would not want you to think that the condition of the non-believing and of the believing philosopher were in every way the same. Many believers, under the influence of the current prejudices of their profession, accept the judgment that they are somehow suspect and anomalous. And even if the kind of argument I am suggesting can be made, they would go on regarding themselves as somehow handicapped by their religious faith. This leads to the distressing spectacle of believers proceeding as if they did not believe, taking a working skepticism to be a condition of doing philosophy. But a faith thus set aside may not be there when one goes back for it.
My view is that the religious believer is at a tremendous advantage in philosophy.
The reason is that his antecedent attitude is not based on hearsay, the idols of the tribe, what the most respected thinkers hold, etc., but on the Word of God. The believer holds as true what God has revealed to be true and has the sanction of God himself for them. Collective human reason may be fallible, but God is not. That is significantly different from holding something on the basis of human trust, on ordinary human faith. I am speaking of antecedent attitudes of course.
No doubt the skeptical secularist finds this steady confidence in the range of reason annoying. Perhaps he can take some comfort in this frank statement of a believing philosopher's belief that his antecedents are an advantage, not an impediment, to doing philosophy. His worst fears are realized.
A recent French theological thriller turns on the impact of a proof for the existence of God which is completely irresistible and carries with it none of the difficulties associated with the traditional proofs, whether cosmological or ontological.{1} The novel explores the social effects such a proof would have. The proof itself is not given in the novel, as it happens -- doubtless a wise literary decision -- but its characteristics as described are crucial for the story. Six handwritten pages contain a proof so compelling and immediately intelligible that simply to read the pages is to drive forever from the mind any doubt that there is a God.
Among the political assumption threatened by the proof is the toleration of different views. Modern society tries not to give the believer any advantage over the non-believer and vice versa. This is grounded on the belief that such questions cannot be rationally resolved. But, given those six pages, it now becomes impossible to deny the existence of God and whole bureaucracies and legal provisions and the courts and lawyers and functionaries employed by them become obsolete overnight. How could those who reject the obvious be taken seriously?
Already one can see that the novel conflates theism and religious belief. Indeed, the proof comes to the attention of members of a religious order patterned on the Jesuits and the final scenes of the novel are played out in Rome. It may seem churlish to insist that a proof of God's existence leaves the truth of Christianity an open question, but if the proof is supposed to include the mysteries of the Christian faith, there is a fundamental confusion at the heart of the novel. What would an irresistible proof of the Trinity look like? Since the proof is kept off-stage, there is no way to tell whether this confusion is contained in the proof. But it is, alas, necessary for the novel that the proof be thought to make any ecclesiastical mediation between man and God otiose since now this must seem like needing an authority for 2+2=4. One can, of course, waive such niceties and enjoy the novel, and I hope you will, but its confusion provides an occasion for an important and final preliminary point.
The task of natural theology is to arrive at some truths about God -- that he exists, that he is one, intelligent, cause of all else, etc. -- but no matter how wildly successful it is, there is an infinite distance between its truths and the Christian mysteries. The truths the natural theologian establishes by argument were previously accepted on faith by the believing philosopher. But among the things he believes is that the crucial and distinctive truths of Christianity cannot be established by such proofs. God's existence and some of his attributes can be proved by beginning with truths in the public domain, those common truths that everyone who has standard and unimpaired natural cognitive equipment can be taken to know. If the mysteries of the faith were provable like that, it is conceivable that someone might hit upon them simply by carrying on in the usual philosophical way. Once more, the believer as believer holds the opposite, and of course no such proofs have ever been fashioned. The believer holds that it is only thanks to God's mercy that we have been informed of the divinity as well as humanity of Christ and his crucial role in our salvation. There is something grotesque in the suggestion that a chemical analysis of the Eucharist should be able to settle claims of Transubstantiation, or that Christ's DNA would provide a basis for testing his claim to divinity.
The difference between truths held ultimately on the basis of what everyone knows and truths held on the authority of the one revealing is total. Natural theology does not establish the truth of Christianity, and the truths it does yield do not bring the mind a millimeter closer to holding the truths of the Trinity, Resurrection, and Incarnation on any basis other than the authority of God.
Please forgive the autobiographical testimony in this first lecture, but reticence here can only give aid and comfort to the secularist conception of philosophy. I thought it wise to lay my own cards on the table from the outset. As a Catholic, I am antecedently disposed to think that the tasks of natural theology can be successfully accomplished. Holding this at the present time is counter-cultural, at least so far as philosophical culture goes. One might be more shaken by this if the present state of philosophy were different than it is. In my next lecture I will attempt a barefoot trip over the terrain of modern philosophy that takes one to a contemporary situation where philosophers are urged to become "strong poets." Apart from the fact that this is a libel on poetry, it is an admission of the ultimate bankruptcy of philosophy understood as the quest for truth.
As a believer, I am proud of the fact that the Church has stood athwart the path modern philosophy has taken. Her warnings have been frequent and to the point, as even non-believers have come to see. Like Jacques Maritain early in this century, one becomes convinced that the appropriate stance of the proponent of natural theology, to say nothing of the believer, is to be Antimoderne. Now we witness the irony that it is the Church -- I think of John Paull II's recent encyclical Fides et ratio, Faith and Reason -- that comes to the defense of reason and its capacity to know the truth. Why should the Church bother? Because the faith is compatible with reason and is its fulfillment, though a fulfillment reason could not achieve on its own. But what reason can achieve is pre-supposed by the faith. And as believers we know that some knowledge of God is possible on the basis of reason alone. This is the role of natural theology.
OCTOBER 26, 1999
{1} Laurence Cossé, A Corner of the Veil, trans. Linda Asher (New York: Scribner, 1999).