Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Philosophy of Religion
Wittgenstein and
Philosophy of Religion
Contributors vii
Editors’ introduction ix
Acknowledgements xiii
Abbreviations xv
Index 185
v
Contributors
Mark Addis is a Lecturer at the University of Central England and the author
of Wittgenstein: Making Sense of Other Minds.
Robert L.Arrington is Professor of Philosophy at Georgia State University. He
is the author of Rationalism, Realism, and Relativism and Western Ethics,
the editor of the Blackwell Companion to the Philosophers, and co-editor of
two other collections of essays on Wittgenstein published by Routledge.
Alan Bailey is College Lecturer in Philosophy at Pembroke College,
University of Oxford.
William H.Brenner is Professor of Philosophy at Old Dominion University
and the author of Logic and Philosophy and Wittgenstein’s Philosophical
Investigations.
Brian R.Clack is Tutor in Philosophy at St Clare’s International College,
Oxford. He is the author of An Introduction to Wittgenstein’s Philosophy
of Religion and Wittgenstein, Frazer and Religion, as well as the co-author
of The Philosophy of Religion; A Critical Introduction.
Paul Helm is Professor of the History and Philosophy of Religion at King’s
College, University of London and the author and editor of numerous
works in the philosophy of religion, including his recent Faith and
Understanding and Faith With Reason.
Michael P.Hodges is Professor of Philosophy and Chair of the Department of
Philosophy at Vanderbilt University and the author of Transcendence and
Wittgenstein’s Tractatus.
John Hyman is a Fellow of Queen’s College, Oxford, and the author of The
Imitation of Nature.
Kai Nielsen is Professor Emeritus of Philosophy at the University of Calgary
and Adjunct Professor at Concordia University. He is the author of
numerous books and articles in the philosophy of religion and other areas
of philosophy, including the recent Naturalism Without Foundations.
Iakovos Vasiliou is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Georgia State
University and the author of articles relating Wittgenstein to Greek
philosophy.
vii
Editors’ introduction
ix
x Editors’ introduction
xiii
Abbreviations of titles of
Wittgenstein’s works cited
in this volume
xv
xvi Abbreviations
I
Wittgenstein’s early philosophy was worked out in the six years or so
following his arrival in Cambridge in 1911, and published in the Tractatus
Logico-Philosophicus in 1922. After a long hiatus, Wittgenstein took up
philosophy again in 1929, and soon began to develop the ideas which were
published after his death—first in the Philosophical Investigations, the
masterpiece of his mature philosophy, and then in editions of various
notebooks, drafts and collections of philosophical remarks. Both of these
philosophies include highly original and influential views about the nature of
religion. I shall discuss them in turn.
II
Wittgenstein said that the fundamental idea of the Tractatus is ‘that the “logical
constants” are not representatives; that there can be no representatives of the
logic of facts’ (TLP 4.0312). Perhaps a simpler way of expressing this thought
is to say that the propositions of logic are not descriptions. Frege had thought
that the propositions of logic describe timeless relations between abstract
objects; Russell had thought that they describe the most general features of the
world. We arrive at the propositions of logic, according to Russell, by
abstracting from the content of empirical propositions, and so the propositions
of logic themselves describe the world we encounter in experience, but they do
so in the most abstract and general terms.
Wittgenstein argued that Frege and Russell underestimated the difference
between the propositions of logic and empirical propositions, because they
agreed in thinking, or assuming, that however different these kinds of pro-
positions may be, however different the kinds of things they say are, they still
have this much in common, that they say something. Wittgenstein’s own view
was that the propositions of logic say nothing; they contain no information
whatsoever; they are simply tautologies: ‘For example, I know nothing about
the weather when I know that it is either raining or not raining’; ‘all the
propositions of logic say the same thing, to wit nothing’ (TLP 4.461, 5.43).
1
2 John Hyman
But it is not just philosophy that lies beyond the reach of language. Ethics,
aesthetics, and whatever thoughts we might aspire to have about the meaning
of life, or about God, all belong to what Wittgenstein calls ‘the mystical’; and
they are alike incapable of being put into words. Nothing which touches on
The gospel according to Wittgenstein 3
III
In the 1930s, Wittgenstein’s philosophy of language was dramatically
transformed, and his earlier view of religion could not survive the
transformation. He abandoned the doctrines that a proposition is a logical
picture compounded out of names whose meanings are the things they stand
for, and that the intelligible use of language always serves a single purpose—
to describe the facts. He came to believe—on the contrary—that the meaning
of a word is its use in the language; that words can be used for an indefinitely
broad and heterogeneous range of purposes; and hence that the task of
philosophy is not logical, but hermeneutical. Philosophy, he now contends,
does not consist in logical analysis, but in the description of our various
‘language-games’.
The term ‘language-game’ has excited controversy and caused some
puzzlement; but a language-game is simply a human activity involving speech
or writing, in which a distinctive range of concepts is employed. The word
‘game’ is there to remind us of three things: first, that these activities are
guided and constrained by the rules we enunciate when we explain the
meanings of words; second, that they are extremely varied and are not
usefully seen as elaborations of a single theme, such as communicating
information or producing beliefs; and third, that they take place and have
significance only in the context of human forms of life and culture.
So, when the later Wittgenstein writes about religious belief, he continues
The gospel according to Wittgenstein 5
to argue that the use of language to express religious beliefs is quite unlike
the use of language to state facts; but he no longer infers that it must therefore
be a misuse of language. His principal aims are to explain how concepts such
as sin, redemption, judgement, grace and atonement can have an
indispensable place in an individual’s or a community’s way of life, and to
show how we can resist assimilating the use of these concepts to hypotheses,
predictions and theoretical explanations.
For example, he talks at length about the belief that there will be a last
judgement. His stated intention is to show that ‘in religious discourse we use
such expressions as: “I believe that so and so will happen,”…differently to
the way in which we use them in science’ (LC, p. 57). But he argues in favour
of a far more surprising and radical doctrine, namely that believing in a Last
Judgement does not mean thinking it certain or probable that a certain kind
of event will occur sometime in the future. This does not merely distance the
use of an expression like ‘I believe that so and so will happen’ in religious
discourse from its use in science; it distinguishes it from any kind of prediction
at all.
So, if the expression ‘I believe that there will be a Last Judgement’ is not
used to make a prediction, how is it used? This is Wittgenstein’s answer:
Here believing obviously plays much more this role: suppose we said that
a certain picture might play the role of constantly admonishing me, or I
always think of it. Here there would be an enormous difference between
those people for whom the picture is constantly in the foreground, and
others who just didn’t use it at all.
(LC, p. 56)
Life can educate one to a belief in God. And experiences too are what
bring this about; but I don’t mean visions and other forms of sense
experience which show us ‘the existence of this being’, but, e.g., sufferings
of various sorts. These neither show us God in the way a sense-
impression shows us an object, nor do they give rise to conjectures about
him. Experiences, thoughts,—life can force this concept on us.
(CV, p. 86)
science, are correct, that they conform to the nature of the things we use
them to describe. For example, our language prevents us from saying that
colours have a pitch or that musical notes are coloured because red cannot be
a semitone higher than blue and a musical note cannot be visibly orange.
Wittgenstein argues, to the contrary, that our network of concepts, which he
calls ‘grammar’, cannot either conflict or accord with the facts. For what we
say conflicts with the facts if it is false and accords with the facts if it is true.
And although the concepts we use may be well- or ill-suited to the business of
stating particular sorts of truths, the truths and falsehoods that we state are
not themselves concepts, any more than the sentences we utter are predicates.
Grammar itself is therefore arbitrary, i.e. not accountable to any reality. (This
does not mean unimportant, capricious or readily alterable.) A system of
measurement, for example, is not correct or incorrect in the way that a
statement of length is; although of course some systems are more useful,
convenient and easy to understand and apply than others. (This doctrine is,
in fact, a constant feature of Wittgenstein’s philosophy, early and late. The
first entry in his Notebooks (p. 1) is: ‘Logic must take care of itself’.)
So, Wittgenstein held that ‘a religious belief could only be something like
a passionate commitment to a system of reference’—that is, a passionate
commitment to the use of certain concepts. And he also held that a ‘system of
reference’ cannot be verified or justified by comparing it with the facts. For
example, the metric system cannot be verified or falsified, although of course
my belief that the earth moves at 30 metres per second can. But if a religious
belief is something like a passionate commitment to a system of reference—
as opposed to a passionate commitment to the truth of an empirical
proposition—then a religious belief cannot be true or false. And Wittgenstein
held that religious beliefs cannot be reasonable or unreasonable either, if that
means that they can or cannot be justified:
IV
Is Wittgenstein’s account of religious belief convincing? I doubt it. First, is he
right to argue that a religious belief is ‘something like a passionate
commitment to a system of reference’? Surely not. Admittedly, believing that
God exists is very unlike believing a hypothesis in history or in science. And
the differences have to do with the ways in which we may be led to believe
that God exists, and the ways in which this belief will influence our other
beliefs and our feelings, commitments and actions. But it does not follow
that believing that God exists is nothing but ‘a passionate commitment to a
system of reference’—i.e. a commitment to leading a life in which questions
will be asked, obligations will be acknowledged, decisions taken and actions
performed, which can only be explained or understood by the use of religious
concepts. And surely, if I have and retain that commitment, my belief that
God exists will typically be among my reasons for doing so.
Perhaps one can defend Wittgenstein on this point. In his Remarks on
Frazer’s Golden Bough, Wittgenstein comments on the extraordinary custom
of killing the priest-king in his prime, so that his soul will be kept fresh:
‘Where that practice and these views go together,’ Wittgenstein says, ‘the
practice does not spring from the view, but they are both just there’ (RF, p. 2).
But even if this is often true, it does not follow that the ‘view’ is the
commitment to the ‘practice’. No doubt the expression of a religious belief
can often convey a passionate commitment to a way of life—one which
involves a variety of customs, habits, rituals (in short, practices) in which a
range of religious concepts, amounting even to a ‘system of reference’, are
essentially involved. But we should not infer that the passionate commitment
8 John Hyman
is all that the belief signifies, any more than we should infer from the fact
that a moral judgement may convey passionate admiration or intense disgust
that this is all it signifies. This reductive view of moral judgements seemed
appealing to some during the heyday of verificationism; but it does not carry
conviction.
Is his account of the difference between the proposition that God exists
and existential propositions in science and history convincing? Again, surely
not. He is right, I think, to insist that there are many different kinds of
existential proposition. Belief in God’s existence is not the same sort of
existential belief as the belief that there are infinitely many primes, or the
belief that there is a planet more distant than Uranus. But one good way of
seeing the various differences between these various propositions is to
consider the different ways in which they are proved or supported. For
example, the existence of infinitely many primes is a necessary truth, which
can be proved by a reductio of its contradictory; and the existence of a planet
more distant than Uranus is a contingent truth, which was initially postulated
to explain the orbit of Uranus, and subsequently confirmed by observation.
Furthermore, since evidence and argument are not the exclusive property
of science, Wittgenstein cannot be right to insist that if we try to prove or
support the proposition that God exists we are already trapped in confusion,
because we are treating religion as if it were science. It would, I think, be
foolish to maintain that Anselm and Aquinas were peddling superstitions (cf.
LC, p. 59), or that apostasy cannot be based on reasons. And it is surely a
mistake to claim, as Wittgenstein does, that when we consider God’s
existence, ‘what is here at issue is not the existence of something (dass es sich
hier um eine Existenz nicht handelt)’3 (CV, p. 82). Kierkegaard may have had
something similar in mind when he wrote: ‘God does not exist; he is eternal.’
But the differences between ‘God exists’ and existential propositions in
science or history does nothing to support this idea; and neither does the
doctrine that God cannot begin to exist or cease to exist. If Democritus
believed that atoms cannot begin or cease to exist, it does not follow that he
did not believe that an atom is eine Existenz—an entity, or something which
exists.
Is Wittgenstein right to insulate religious beliefs from ‘the historical
proofgame’? I doubt it. It is certainly impossible to insulate religion entirely
from rational criticism: ‘If Christ be not risen, our faith is vain’ implies ‘Either
Christ is risen or our faith is vain’ for exactly the same reason as ‘If the
weather is not fine, our picnic is ruined’ implies ‘Either the weather is fine or
our picnic is ruined’. But if religious beliefs and systems of religious beliefs
are not invulnerable to logic, why should they be cocooned from other sorts
of rational scrutiny?
Finally, is Wittgenstein right to insist that religious faith is not so much a
matter of assenting to a series of doctrines as cleaving to a form of life? I
think he is. But nothing in his later philosophy of language, and in particular
no part of his doctrine about the relation between language and forms of life,
The gospel according to Wittgenstein 9
Wittgenstein does not maintain explicitly that religious beliefs, unlike the
formulations of them offered by philosophers, cannot be paradoxical. But
several of his remarks point in this direction;4 and some of his followers have
not been afraid to claim this directly. For example, D.Z.Phillips writes: ‘If the
notion of an inner substance called ‘the soul’ is the philosophical chimera we
have suggested it is, whatever is meant by the immortality of the soul cannot
be the continued existence of such a substance’.5 Whether or not Wittgenstein
would have agreed with this inference, it is surely quite unconvincing, because
there is no reason why it should be impossible to espouse, seriously and
sincerely, doctrines which are demonstrably incoherent. In fact, since every
philosopher has managed it at one time or another, and since not every
philosopher is dishonest or insincere, it must be possible. The trick,
presumably, is to avoid explicit contradictions; but whilst it may sometimes
take a philosopher’s ingenuity to do this, when challenged or cross-examined,
a like-minded community with a reassuring intellectual elite seems likely to
make it as easy as falling off a log, even for the man Wittgenstein calls ‘an
honest religious thinker’ (CV, p. 73). If the immortality of the soul is a
contradictory doctrine, it does not follow that one cannot believe in it.
One important source of support for incoherent beliefs is the use of
figurative language. It is a familiar fact that analogies can explain; but
sometimes the explanations are bogus. There is a nice example which crops
10 John Hyman
V
Wittgenstein’s influence in the philosophy of religion is due to scattered
remarks, marginalia and students’ notes. He never intended to publish any
material on the subject, and never wrote about it systematically. Nevertheless,
it is possible to glean a moderately clear picture of his views about the nature
and justification of religious belief.
His semantic doctrine is an ingenious application of a powerful strategy,
which consists in making ‘a radical break with the idea [which lay at the
heart of the Tractatus] that language always functions in one way, always
serves the same purpose: to convey thoughts—which may be about houses,
pains, good and evil, or anything else you please’ (PI§304). This strategy
produced radical and fruitful ideas in the philosophy of mind and the
philosophy of mathematics. Its application in the philosophy of religion has
a kinship with both, but is less successful than either.
The epistemological corollary, that religious beliefs are immune from
rational criticism and incapable of receiving rational support, has the
interesting consequence that, as Wittgenstein said, ‘if Christianity is the truth
then all the philosophy that is written about it is false’ (CV, p. 83), but it has
little else to recommend it. Wittgenstein once described his work as ‘one of
the heirs of what used to be called philosophy’ (BB, p. 28); and it may be
possible to regard a ‘passionate commitment to a system of reference’ not as
religious belief—certainly not Christian religious belief—but as one of the
The gospel according to Wittgenstein 11
NOTES
1 Wittgenstein: Sources and Perspectives, ed. C.G.Luckhardt (Hassocks: Harvester,
1979), p. 94.
2 J.Bouveresse, Wittgenstein Reads Freud: The Myth of the Unconscious
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), p. 19.
3 I have followed Winch’s translation; but ‘what is here at issue is not an entity’
may be preferable.
4 See, for example, CV, pp. 22, 32, 73, 85; but cf. CV, p. 1.
5 D.Z.Phillips, ‘Dislocating the Soul’, in D.Z.Phillips (ed.), Can Religion Be
Explained Away? (London: St. Martin’s Press, 1996), p. 237.
6 Poetics 1459a5; Posterior Analytics 97b37f.
7 There is a strand in Christian philosophy which denies this. Indeed, Tertullian
sometimes held that the absurdity of a doctrine is a reason for believing it. See
J.N.D.Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines, 5th edn (London: A. & C.Black, 1977),
p. 152.
2 Wittgenstein and magic
Brian R.Clack
12
Wittgenstein and magic 13
Burning in effigy. Kissing the picture of a loved one. This is obviously not
based on a belief that it will have a definite effect on the object which the
picture represents. It aims at some satisfaction and it achieves it. Or
rather, it does not aim at anything; we act in this way and then feel
satisfied.
(RF, p. 4)
Wittgenstein and magic 15
By placing the exotic rite (effigy burning) alongside a familiar action which
we ourselves might perform (kissing a photograph), Wittgenstein attempts to
undermine the plausibility of an instrumental rationale. If I am away from
the woman I love, I may carry a photograph of her with me. And when I feel
the pain of her absence, I may kiss that photograph, that image of her. But in
kissing her image, I do not believe that she will really feel the touch of my lips
on her face. No, that kiss is simply an expression of my love, or of my desire
that she were here with me. And if my love affair turns sour, if the woman
hurts me, then I may tear her photograph to pieces. But that would not be an
attempt to kill her. In tearing the photograph I would be expressing my anger,
despair and frustration.
The implication of such a reflection on an instance of homoeopathic magic
seems clear. If our own personal ritual actions can be interpreted as expressive
performances, might this not also be true of magic in primitive society?
Primitive magic is not a crude form of science, a hopeless attempt to effect
practical goals, and it is emphatically not a mistake. It is somehow expressive.
The magician who crafts and mutilates an image of his foe is engaged in an
act, not of homicide, but of catharsis; an act whereby deeply felt emotions
are manifested. This cathartic account of ritual thus lays its emphasis on how
we as human beings have within us certain passions, hopes and feelings which
need occasionally to be let out. Ritual functions as just such an emotional
safety-valve, enabling us to bring those feelings out in the open, to bring to
expression our desires and wishes, both individual and collective. This theme
emerges in Wittgenstein’s consideration of rain-making ceremonies:
If it is the case that a rain-maker is consulted only when the rains are due to
begin anyway, only when the storm clouds are amassing on the horizon, and
not in times of drought, then the plausibility of the expressivist case becomes
clear. Instead of an attempt to bring rain, the ceremony serves as a celebration
of the coming of rain; a celebration of the fact that the crops will not wither
in the earth and die, that the streams will not run dry. Continuing the theme,
Wittgenstein remarks, ‘towards morning, when the sun is about to rise,
people celebrate rites of the coming of day, but not at night, for then they
simply burn lamps’ (ibid.). The idea here is the same as in the rain-making
example: magic serves to mark the cycles of nature, rather than to manipulate
16 Brian R.Clack
reasoning, and there are really no grounds for concluding that instrumental
and emotive motivations may not be intertwined together in a specific action.
Think, for example, about the use of love charms, something which appears
particularly appropriate in this context: after all, there is nothing more heart-
rendingly emotional than the wish to have a desired person fall in love with
one. For the expressivist, the love charm offers little interpretative difficulty,
for all we need to understand are the wishes and hopes of the person using
the charm or reciting the spell. And it would be erroneous to conclude that
such a person thinks that his spell will have ‘a definite effect’: ‘The description
of a wish is, eo ipso, the description of its fulfilment. And magic does give
representation to a wish; it expresses a wish’ (RF, p. 4). It is undeniably the
case that the use of a love charm expresses the desire of the ritualist (what
else could it express?). But this expressive element does not preclude the
simultaneous presence of an instrumental motive: the expression of a wish is
of course there in the act, but surely there might also be the feeling that by
this performance, by the manipulation of the beloved’s hair, clothing or
picture, she will actually fall under the spell of the ritualist. Is the expressivist
really denying this? Is the expressivist seriously saying that such an action
has never been carried out for reasons other than emotional catharsis?8
Perhaps Wittgenstein is indeed saying this. But his reasons for so doing are
bizarre. It seems to be his view that no one in his or her right mind could
believe that a magical action would have a concrete impact on the world, in
which case magic must be something other than how it is envisaged by Frazer.
This idea emerges most explicitly when Wittgenstein considers this comment
from The Golden Bough:
Wittgenstein responds: ‘It is, of course, not so that the people believe that the
ruler has these powers, and the ruler knows very well that he doesn’t have
them, or can only fail to know it if he is an imbecile or a fool’ (‘RF’, p. 73).
It is remarkable that Wittgenstein does not think for one moment that
people could believe that a ruler has supernatural powers. Within the British
Isles it was, in former times, firmly believed that the king had the power to
cure scrofula (the ‘king’s evil’). Keith Thomas, who records how popular
‘touching for the evil’ was (between May 1682 and April 1683, 8,577
sufferers were touched by Charles II), notes how ‘Charles I’s sacred touch
made Royalist propaganda during the aftermath of the Civil War’.10 One
might indeed want to say of such a case that the king ‘knows very well’ that
he does not possess supernatural powers, and that his actions are cynical and
politically motivated. But it seems implausible to suggest that the people
18 Brian R.Clack
themselves (those who seek to be touched by the king) are performing some
sort of expressive pantomime. And this goes for many of the cases for which
Wittgenstein wants to deny instrumental motivations. If I, living in an age of
enormous technological advance and with a reasonable understanding of the
workings of nature, may nonetheless, out of the desperation of unhappy
infatuation, strangely feel that a magical charm might secure for me the love
of a woman whose attention as yet eludes me, then is it entirely impossible to
imagine that members of less scientifically advanced societies believe in the
effective (and not merely expressive) power of magic?
A further doubt about the plausibility of expressivism might arise when
we consider another of Wittgenstein’s reasons for rejecting the instrumentalist
conception. It is Frazer’s contention that a magical action is essentially a
mistake which seems to raise Wittgenstein’s ire. ‘Frazer’s account of the
magical and religious notions of men is unsatisfactory: it makes these notions
appear as mistakes. Was Augustine mistaken, then, when he called on God
on every page of the Confessions?’ (RF, p. 1). There is something peculiar
about this remark. Wittgenstein seems to be saying that Frazer is wrong
because his theory entails that magical actions and beliefs are mistakes; and
because magical actions and beliefs are not mistakes, they must be other than
instrumental. But is Wittgenstein really suggesting that a belief cannot be
mistaken, that an action cannot be a blunder? If so, we might as well say that
the geocentric view of the universe was not erroneous at all, but was rather
an expressive belief, encapsulating perhaps the deep feeling of the importance
of human life in the scheme of things, but in no way intended as a genuine
theory. The redescription of mistaken beliefs as purely emotive utterances
may reveal an exemplary sense of charity, but it cannot compel us to accept
the expressivist thesis.
Do these worries necessitate a rejection of Wittgenstein’s thinking on
magico-religious practice? Well, perhaps not.
If someone who believes in God looks round and asks ‘Where does
everything I see come from?’, ‘Where does all this come from?’, he is not
craving for a (causal) explanation; and his question gets its point from
being the expression of a certain craving. He is, namely, expressing an
attitude to all explanations.
(CV, p. 85)
Wittgenstein and magic 19
Such a remark does seem to contain within it the seeds of a full-blown expressivist
thesis. But it would be crucially wrong to extrapolate that conclusion from this
comment and those similar to it. The reason is that there are aspects of
Wittgenstein’s thinking which militate strongly against the expressivist thesis.
The first is external to the Remarks on Frazer, while the second arises from his
explicit comments on magical actions. I will address these one at a time.
As I have argued elsewhere,11 it would be bizarre for Wittgenstein to
embrace a theory of religion which is incompatible with his philosophical
project as a whole. For the expressivist thesis flows from a particular (and
widespread) view of the nature, function and cognitivity of language; a view
which can be found in Wittgenstein’s own Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus,
but which he firmly rejected in his later philosophy. One central contention
of the Tractatus is that language has no function other than to depict possible
or actual facts or states of affairs. Wittgenstein consequently claims that ‘the
totality of true propositions is the whole of natural science’ (TLP 4.11);
meaningful language, that is, is restricted to the description of empirical
phenomena. Any use of language other than that which attempts to describe
the facts of the world is seen as senseless, a consequence of this, of course,
being that the respective discourses of aesthetics, ethics, metaphysics and
religion are banished to silence. What then is to be said of such familiar uses
of language? What is happening when someone uses ethical or religious
language? While Wittgenstein’s response to such questions is notoriously
obscure,12 the response given by the positivist philosophers who followed in
the wake of the Tractatus was unambiguous, at least with regard to the
language of morals. In the hands of such philosophers as A.J.Ayer and Charles
Stevenson, moral utterance, devoid of cognitive significance due to its failure
to possess verification conditions, becomes a domain of emotion. For
instance, instead of functioning as a description of the nature of a particular
act, a statement such as ‘murder is wrong’ serves rather to express (on the
part of the speaker) and to evoke (on the part of the listener) a particular
emotion or attitude toward murder (here: an attitude of disapproval).13
What is requisite to note here is how this emotive theory of ethics provided
a model for post-positivist analyses of religion. Though Ayer was happy to
dismiss religion as entirely meaningless, many other writers sought to provide
emotivist analyses of religious belief. The most (in)famous of such analyses
was that offered by R.B.Braithwaite in his paper ‘An Empiricist’s View of the
Nature of Religious Belief’.14 Accepting that the principle of verification rules
out the possibility of religious utterances having the same descriptive
character as the hypotheses and statements of scientific discourse, Braithwaite
instead maintains that religion is to do with emotion, and as a consequence
of this: ‘If religion is essentially concerned with emotion, it is natural to
explain the use of religious assertions on the lines of the original emotive
theory of ethics and to regard them as primarily evincing feelings or
emotions’.15 We need not concern ourselves with the details of Braithwaite’s
(wholly familiar) theory. The point is that it is precisely this analysis of
20 Brian R.Clack
People at one time thought it useful to kill a man, sacrifice him to the god
of fertility, in order to produce good crops.
(AWL, p. 33)
Eating and drinking have their dangers, not only for savages but also for
us; nothing more natural than wanting to protect oneself against these.
(RF, p. 6)
When a man laughs too much in our company (or at least in mine), I
half-involuntarily compress my lips, as if I believed I could thereby keep
his closed.
(‘RF’, p. 73)
In each of these cases, ritual acts are explained in terms of the goals they
seek: people sacrifice a man because they seek thereby to secure a good
harvest; protective magic is employed to neutralise culinary danger; and
homoeopathic techniques are used in an attempt to silence an irritating
person. All of this seems pure Frazer. What can we say about this
simultaneous presence of expressivism and instrumentalism within the
Remarks on Frazer? Is Wittgenstein simply confused? Or does he have
another agenda altogether?
22 Brian R.Clack
to kiss her picture last night: how she will resent me!’). Wittgenstein’s point
is simply that the action is not grounded in such a thought. It has no
grounds: ‘we act in this way’. Likewise, Wittgenstein’s example of
compressing one’s lips in an attempt to stop someone from laughing is
subject to precisely the same analysis. It is not about the greater validity of,
in this instance, an instrumental rationale, but is, rather, an example
employed to illustrate the non-ratiocinative nature of ritual acts. Recall
what he says: ‘I half-involuntarily compress my lips, as if I believed I could
thereby keep his closed.’
Viewed in this light, the Remarks on Frazer constitute a far more
interesting argument than if we present Wittgenstein’s thoughts in the
orthodox way, that is, as an expressivist attempt to overturn instrumentalist
conceptions of ritual belief. For Wittgenstein is not denying that people often
think that their ritual actions have an effect. And yet this should not be
construed as a full capitulation to Frazer. Far from it. Wittgenstein is
implacably opposed to intellectualism—not because it contains an
instrumentalist account of ritual, but because it is overly rationalistic, because
it contends that all rituals are the product of reasoning. To see the kind of
approach that Wittgenstein rejects, note this striking passage from Mircea
Eliade’s Patterns in Comparative Religion:
When a sorceress burns a wax doll containing a lock of her victim’s hair
she does not have in mind the entire theory underlying that bit of magic—
but this does not affect our understanding of sympathetic magic. What
does matter to our understanding is to know that such an action could
only have happened after people had satisfied themselves by experiment,
or established theoretically, that nails, hair, or anything a person has
worn preserve an intimate relation with their owner even when separated
from him.19
When he [Frazer] explains to us, for example, that the king must be killed
in his prime because, according to the notions of the savages, his soul
would not be kept fresh otherwise, we can only say: where that practice
and these views go together, the practice does not spring from the view,
but both of them are there.
(RF, pp. 1–2)
24 Brian R.Clack
Words are connected with the primitive, the natural, expressions of the
sensation and used in their place. A child has hurt himself and he cries;
and then adults talk to him and teach him exclamations and, later,
sentences. They teach the child new pain-behaviour.
(PI §244)
That a man’s shadow, which looks like a man, or that his mirror image,
or that rain, thunderstorms, the phases of the moon, the change of the
seasons, the likenesses and differences of animals to one another and to
human beings, the phenomena of death, of birth and of sexual life, in
short everything a man perceives year in, year out around him, connected
together in any variety of ways—that all this should play a part in his
thinking (his philosophy) and his practices, is obvious, or in other words
this is what we really know and find interesting.
(RF, p. 6)
We are that kind of creature which responds to the world in a ritual way.
Magic and religion thus emerge when the world hits us, when its dramatic
elements draw out beliefs and practices from our ceremonial nature. But to
repeat: this is not because human beings once were struck by certain
phenomena which they then sought (pathetically) to explain. Veneration of
objects is not based on a fearful desire to appease or control, but arises
because human life is intimately tied up with certain phenomena which
become the existential parameters of our lives: birth, sex, love, death, the
natural environment, and so on. As Wittgenstein remarks, once again
emphasising the unratiocinated nature of religion:
It was not a trivial reason, for really there can have been no reason, that
prompted certain races of mankind to venerate the oak tree, but only the
fact that they and the oak were united in a community of life, and
therefore it was not by choice that they arose together, but rather like the
flea and the dog. (If fleas developed a rite, it would be based on the dog.)
(‘RF’, pp. 72–3)
point to the conditions of our existence in this world, and to say, quite simply:
‘Human life is like that’ (RF, p. 3).
A short essay such as this is not sufficient to do justice to the multi-layered
and evocative nature of the Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough. All I have
tried here to indicate is that it distorts the character of Wittgenstein’s thinking
on magic to see his thoughts simply as a contribution to a standard
philosophical-theological debate about whether religious language is concerned
either with describing and explaining supernatural realities, or else with
expressing attitudes and feelings towards the world. Rather, Wittgenstein is
attempting to say something about human beings, something mediated through
the contention that ritual life is not the product of (mistaken) theories about
the world and its happenings, but is, rather, definitive of us as a species, a
natural manifestation of our character. As such, with its emphasis on deed over
deliberation, the Remarks on Frazer form an early and crucial part of
Wittgenstein’s late attack on the calculating, rational, Cartesian self. Just as it
is ‘humiliating to have to appear like an empty tube which is simply inflated by
a mind’ (CV, p. 11), so it is debasing and implausible for human beings to be
presented as merely reasoning entities, whose actions are consistently the result
of deliberation and calculation. Human life is more intense and colourful than
that: it is ruled by passion, by instinct, by motivations we can barely grasp. As
a result, our life here is strange and disconcerting. Hence why Wittgenstein’s
reflections on magical practice ultimately reach their bedrock with haunting
thoughts about ‘man and his past,…the strangeness of what I see in myself and
in others, what I have seen and have heard’ (RF, p. 18).
Part of the reason why neither expressivism nor instrumentalism will do is
simply because each makes magic appear to be something which can, in the
last analysis, be understood, either as an attempt to manipulate the world, or
as the expression of perfectly understandable feelings. And yet the deepest of
feelings about magic is surely that we cannot understand it. What can we
really make of the fact that we habitually venerate certain images (and
destroy others), that we hold certain days more important than others, that
we decorate our houses with greenery at festive times? Such things are not
obviously transparent, and when we reflect upon the more sinister elements
of our ritual history (human sacrifice, ritual mutilation, cannibalism), who is
to say why such things have occurred? That is to say, our intimacy with ritual,
our appreciation of its naturalness, lead to darker and disquieting thoughts
about our nature as a species, thoughts which will not be stifled by comforting
words about the expression of emotion or the mistaken hypotheses of early
humanity before scientific liberation. It is this sense of the strangeness of
human life which results from a reading of Wittgenstein’s notes on The
Golden Bough. An example from his ‘Lectures on Aesthetics’ perhaps sums
up this sense best: ‘Something hidden, uncanny. Cf.Keller’s two children
putting a live fly in the head of a doll, burying the doll and then running
away. (Why do we do this sort of thing? This is the sort of thing we do do.)’
(LC, p. 25).
Wittgenstein and magic 27
NOTES
1 See, for example, the passage where John Hick speaks of Wittgenstein’s
‘language-game theory’ of religion: ‘The internal transactions constituting a given
language-game are thus invulnerable to criticism from outside that particular
complex of life and language—from which it follows that religious utterances
are immune to scientific and other nonreligious comment’ (J.Hick, Philosophy
of Religion, Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1990, p. 97).
2 J.G.Frazer, The Golden Bough (London: Macmillan, 1922), p. 11.
3 See Wittgenstein’s personal attack on Frazer’s character (RF, p. 8), and compare
with the following remark from Culture and Value: ‘Man has to awaken to
wonder—and so perhaps do peoples. Science is a way of sending him to sleep
again’ (CV, p. 5).
4 Compare with John Beattie’s analysis of such customs: ‘the man who consults a
rainmaker, and the rainmaker who carries out a rain-making ceremony, are
stating something; they are asserting symbolically the importance they attach to
rain and their earnest desire that it shall fall when it is required’ (J.H.M.Beattie,
Other Cultures, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1966, p. 203).
5 Frazer, op. cit., p. 79.
6 Frazer, ibid., p. 107.
7 One strategy for protecting the plausibility of expressivism against such a
criticism would be to adopt Beattie’s device of saying that ‘[a]lthough magic is
magic because it is essentially expressive and symbolic, the people who use it
think of it as instrumental’ (Beattie, op. cit., p. 212). Whatever the merits of such
a strategy, it runs counter to a Wittgensteinian analysis and therefore cannot
ameliorate the deficiencies of the latter. For, remember, Wittgenstein appears,
contra Beattie, to be saying that rituals do not ‘aim at anything’; while
Wittgensteinian perspectives on social life notoriously deny any strategy (such as
that suggested by Beattie) of distinguishing between ‘what believers think they
are doing’ and ‘what they are really doing but are unaware of. (On this matter,
see D.Z.Phillips, Religion Without Explanation (Oxford: Blackwell, 1976), esp.
pp. 56–83, and Peter Winch, The Idea of a Social Science (London: Routledge &
Kegan Paul, 1958).)
8 Wittgensteinians may concede that some ritual actions have been performed out
of a desire to influence the course of events, but that such actions are superstitious
aberrations of the genuine article. D.Z.Phillips, for example, frequently draws a
distinction between ‘superstitious’ acts and ‘deep’ religious practices. A boxer who
crosses himself before a fight is superstitious if he believes that by so doing he will
come to no harm, but not so if the action is intended as a dedication of his
performance. Likewise, a prayer of petition is superstitious if intended to alter the
course of events, but deep if employed as a means of reflecting upon one’s selfish
desires, desires which threaten to lead the believer away from the will of God. The
application of this distinction to the material discussed by Wittgenstein in the
Remarks on Frazer is straightforward: magic is deep if expressive; superstitious if
instrumental in intent. This is certainly one way of salvaging the plausibility of the
expressivist thesis, but it has the unhappy consequence that magical rituals are
either condemned or else presented as something other than they naturally appear
to us, not as the attempts of a threatened community to protect itself against the
powers of nature, but as celebratory actions, cathartic releases, or the like. It is
hard here not to suspect that some sort of revisionary exercise is being undertaken
(rather than the purely descriptive work avowedly performed), and one feels bound
to accept John Skorupski’s verdict that in Phillips’ hands the beliefs of mankind
‘make up a mountain of superstition supporting a tiny cairn of Wittgensteinian
wisdom’ (J.Skorupski, Review of Religion Without Explanation, by D.Z.Phillips,
28 Brian R.Clack
RELIGIOUS BELIEF
Religious belief appears to take a stand about a fact under dispute in making
a claim about how things were, are, or will be. We ordinarily suppose that
the truth of a belief is determined by whether, in fact, things are the way the
belief says they are: ‘The Earth goes around the Sun’ is true if and only if the
Earth does indeed go around the sun; ‘Christ was resurrected from the dead’
is true if and only if Christ was resurrected from the dead. If the Earth does
not in fact revolve around the Sun, or if Christ was not in fact resurrected
from the dead, then the belief is false.
Consider an example Wittgenstein uses: the occurrence of a Last
Judgment. The believer says there will occur a particular event, the Last
Judgment, a non-believer says there will not.3 Here the believer and non-
believer take opposing stands on a disputed fact. If it is shown that there will
not be a Last Judgment, or that we have good reason for believing there will
not, then the basis for the belief has been undermined, and a rational person
ought to give up the belief. Correspondingly, if it is proven that there will be
a Last Judgment, or if it is shown that we have good reason to think that
there will be a Last Judgment, then the belief is justified, and a rational person
ought to believe it.
What I have said so far can appear to be simply obvious and to explain
some common attitudes towards religious belief. One familiar line of thought
maintains that for many, if not all, religious beliefs we have overwhelming
29
30 Iakovos Vasiliou
evidence that the beliefs are false. Therefore, anyone who nevertheless holds
them does so not based on (good) reasons at all, but as a result of irrational
(or, at least, non-rational) faith. The fact that it can seem compulsory to say
that religious beliefs are held on faith results from the acceptance of the views
expressed in the previous two paragraphs. According to these views, religious
beliefs make disputed claims about what has been, what is, or what will be
the case. Since, however, these claims are very badly supported we ought to
describe these beliefs—beliefs that are, to quote Kierkegaard, held ‘on the
strength of the absurd’—as beliefs based not on reason, but on faith. I shall
refer to this as the ‘faith view’ of religious belief.
Another view about religious belief, which has been quite influential
although it is not perhaps in the ascendant at the moment, also maintains
that religious beliefs make claims about what has been, what is, or what will
be the case, but holds that there is good evidence for the truth of these beliefs:
artifacts, signs, testimony, etc. As with any empirical belief, the evidence is
what provides good reasons for thinking that the religious beliefs are true.
Let’s call this the ‘evidence view.’4
Both the evidence and the faith view of religious belief have in common
the idea that religious beliefs make claims about what has been, what is, or
what will be the case. I shall refer to this feature of religious belief as the
‘factuality of religious belief.’ By ‘factuality’ I am referring to the idea that
religious belief makes a claim about the occurrence of a state of affairs. Part
of the factuality of religious belief includes the idea that the belief is either
true or false, the state of affairs either obtains or it does not. Just as either the
Earth goes around the Sun or it does not, either Christ was resurrected from
the dead or he was not. Both the evidence and the faith view have this in
common. A third attitude towards religious belief might maintain that ‘Christ
was resurrected from the dead’ is a ‘metaphor’ or a ‘symbol’ for, say, the idea
that all human beings can in some sense renew their lives. Christ’s
resurrection stands as a symbol of hope. Such a view would say that although,
in reality, it is false that Christ was resurrected from the dead—that is, it did
not really happen—the narrative is still somehow important for human
beings and can function as a sort of allegory or metaphor for the human
condition. I can find no evidence that Wittgenstein ever discusses this sort of
view, or that he ever says that religious belief is simply false. The texts show
that he is interested in religious belief as an example of a belief that makes an
empirical claim, that purports to make a claim about what has been, what is,
or what will be the case. Whether true or false, religious belief concerns
matters of fact. This is what I mean by ‘factuality of religious belief.’
It is the factuality of religious belief that makes it an interestingly different
case from, say, ethical or aesthetic belief. It is a reasonable and
comprehensible (if not ultimately satisfactory) view to maintain that ethical
or aesthetic beliefs are not statements of fact, but rather expressions of
approval or disapproval—a set of positions held by non-cognitivists of
different stripes. The same cannot be said for many religious beliefs: ‘Christ
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 31
was resurrected from the dead’ is surely more naturally understood as making
a claim about the occurrence of a particular event rather than as expressing
an attitude. The factuality of religious belief makes religious belief appear to
be a species of ordinary empirical belief.
Wittgenstein agrees with the factuality of religious belief, but he disagrees
with both the faith and the evidence view. Paradoxically, Wittgenstein’s own
remarks appear to commit him both to the factuality of religious belief (which
it seems difficult to deny) and to the claim that the believer and non-believer
do not in fact contradict each other. There can appear to be very little room
to maneuver here. The factuality of religious belief by itself necessitates that
the state of affairs either obtains or does not; indeed, we might think this is
part of what it means for religious beliefs to be factual. On the evidence view,
the believer and the non-believer disagree about the quality of the evidence
for either side. On the faith view, the believer acknowledges that there may
be no good evidence that justifies his belief, but he believes anyway, on faith.
Both of these views, however, clearly maintain that there is a dispute between
the believer and the non-believer: they hold opposing and mutually
contradicting positions about the obtaining of a state of affairs.
Wittgenstein makes an apparently contradictory claim: the believer and
the non-believer hold contrary beliefs about the occurrence of a state of
affairs, but the believer and non-believer do not dispute with or contradict
one another.
Suppose that someone believed in the Last Judgement, and I don’t, does
this mean that I believe the opposite to him [sic], just that there won’t be
such a thing? I would say: ‘Not at all, or not always.’
[…]
If some[one?] said: ‘Wittgenstein, do you believe in this?’ I’d say: ‘No.’
‘Do you contradict the man?’ I’d say: ‘No.’
[…]
Would you say: ‘I believe the opposite’, or ‘There is no reason to suppose
such a thing’? I’d say neither.
(LC, p. 53)
Why does Wittgenstein say that the believer and non-believer do not
contradict each other? Doesn’t each take a stand contrary to the other about
the occurrence of some event? Perhaps we can answer these questions if we
consider Wittgenstein’s remarks about the relationship between religious
belief and evidence.
The point is that if there were evidence, this would in fact destroy the
whole business.
Anything that I normally call evidence would not in the slightest
influence me.
32 Iakovos Vasiliou
Suppose, for instance, we knew people who foresaw the future; make
forecasts for years and years ahead; and they described some sort of
Judgement Day. Queerly enough, even if there were such a thing, and
even if it were more convincing than I have described but [sic], belief in
this happening wouldn’t be at all a religious belief.
Suppose that I would have to forgo all pleasures because of such a
forecast. If I do so and so, someone will put me in fires in a thousand
years, etc. I wouldn’t budge. The best scientific evidence is just nothing.
A religious belief might in fact fly in the face of such a forecast, and
say, ‘No. There it will break down.’
(LC, p. 56)
These passages make clear that Wittgenstein does not believe that a proof
that a particular event has occurred or will occur by itself gives rise to a
religious belief. Religious belief does not rest on proof or evidence. In at least
one crucial respect, then, Wittgenstein thinks that religious belief differs from
ordinary empirical belief. We need to understand why a proof would fail to
make a believer out of a non-believer, and why a disproof would fail to make
a non-believer out of a believer. Part of the distinctive nature of religious
belief, according to Wittgenstein, is that it can ‘fly in the face of the ‘best
scientific evidence.’ So he rejects not only the evidence view, the idea that
there is in fact good evidence for religious belief, but he also holds a stronger,
counterfactual thesis: even if there were conclusive proof one way or the
other, that would be somehow irrelevant to the appropriate assessment of
religious belief. How can evidence be irrelevant to the assessment of a factual
belief?
Wittgenstein’s claim is not simply a psychological one. If it were, there
would be a straightforward response: the reason that the disproof of a
religious belief may fail to make a believer cease believing is because the
believer is plainly irrational—in the grip of irrational faith. The tenor of
Wittgenstein’s remarks clearly suggests a stronger claim. It is not simply that
a disproof does not work on the believer, but that it ought not to work; it
fails after all to be relevant.5 Something similar is true for the non-believer: a
cogent proof would not cause him to have a religious belief, nor ought it to.
It is true that if the non-believer is rational, then a truly cogent proof would
make him believe, say, that there will be a Last Judgment. But Wittgenstein
says that even so this belief would not thereby be a religious belief.
Does he also reject the faith view? Wittgenstein thinks that the faith view is
better in the sense that it does not fall into the trap of attempting to provide
evidence for religious belief. And he himself occasionally speaks of ‘faith’ or
‘belief’ (Glauben6 ) in Culture and Value (e.g. pp. 33, 53). Many adherents of
the faith view, however, might not share Wittgenstein’s wholesale rejection of
the evidence view. They may hold simply that there is no sufficient evidence for
their religious belief now, but that there could in theory be. God might provide
sufficient evidence for some person or people at some time, say. But in any
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 33
case, the faith view still holds that believer and non-believer occupy opposing
sides of a dispute about a state of affairs, and this is what Wittgenstein seems
to deny, while yet maintaining the factuality of religious belief:
Here Wittgenstein shows that he believes in what I have called the factuality
of religious belief: believing in the Resurrection entails believing that a certain
state of affairs either occurred or it did not. And yet he also says:
Notice that Wittgenstein does not say that the belief is false, but that it is
‘demonstrably false’: that is, shown to be false by ‘the historical proof-game.’
He suggests, rather cryptically, that there is a sort of belief that is neither a
‘truth of reason’ (i.e. an a priori) truth, nor an ordinary empirical claim about
the past (an historical truth). It is a sort of belief that makes a claim about
how things are, were, or will be, and yet does not depend on evidence. As we
shall see in the next section, the nature of such beliefs is arguably the central
topic of On Certainty. For the moment, however, let us work on getting a
clearer sense of Wittgenstein’s description of religious belief.
Wittgenstein describes a person who is religious as fundamentally a person
who lives a certain sort of life.
you need something to move you and turn you in a new direction.—(I.e.
this is how I understand it.) Once you have been turned around, you
must stay turned around.
Wisdom is passionless. But faith by contrast is what Kierkegaard calls
a passion.
(CV, p. 53 [1946])
The best scientific evidence for the occurrence of a Last Judgment makes it a
matter of empirical fact like any other: an event with no necessary connection
to leading any particular kind of life. To tell someone to believe that ‘God
knows all’ is to attempt to effect a change in how she lives her life, to change
what she currently sees as reasons for acting and living the way she does. The
simple belief in the occurrence of any empirical event by itself does not carry
with it any necessary consequences about how a person should live.
Wittgenstein denies that there is a genuine dispute here between the believer
and himself because what is at issue is not simply the belief or disbelief in
some particular state of affairs, such as whether there is a particular kind of
plane flying by, but about how one should lead a life. One could doubt that
there really is a certain kind of plane overhead, without that affecting one’s
life as a whole. But one cannot do that with belief in the Last Judgment.
Religious belief is a guidance for life:
Suppose somebody made this guidance for his life: believing in the Last
Judgement. Whenever he does anything, this is before his mind.
[…]
It will show, not by reasoning or by appeal to ordinary grounds for belief,
but by regulating for in all his life.
(LC, pp. 53–4)
something the believer has before his mind whenever he acts, something that
is regulating his conduct. Expressing that religious belief is expressing his
way of life. With an ordinary empirical belief, that such and such a plane is
overhead, or that so and so will be president, believing it to be true or false
does not provide any ‘guidance for life.’ This is why people on both sides of
a dispute about who will be president are, after all, quite close. Despite the
apparent similarity in cases, a dispute about whether there will be a Last
Judgment is not something on which one can take a stand without that belief
affecting the believer’s life as a whole. Even a rigorous proof that a particular
event has occurred or will occur will not, thereby, lead to a religious belief
because it will not necessarily—not by virtue of the proof alone—lead to a
change of life.
Now by itself having an overall effect on a person’s life is not enough to
explain the difference between a religious belief and an empirical belief. If a
person learns that he has six months left to live, then it is reasonable to think
that he thereby acquires an empirical belief that affects his life as a whole.
What count for him as worthwhile projects and what he sees himself as
having reason to do might well radically change. So it is not unique to
religious belief that it has an effect on the believer’s actions as a whole.
Let us look at other descriptions of what Wittgenstein thinks a religious
belief is and how it differs from ordinary empirical belief.
Believing in the point of a narrative ‘through thick and thin’ can only be the
result of a particular kind of commitment, a commitment that makes no sense
with respect to ordinary empirical belief. Rationally held ordinary empirical
beliefs are beliefs that need to be revised in light of new evidence. Religious
belief is something you can have only ‘as the result of a life’ and requires a
commitment to a Bezugssystem. The nature of the commitment is not a rational
one, in the specific sense that it has not been arrived at on the basis of the most
36 Iakovos Vasiliou
the face of evidence, they are shown to be held on the basis not of evidence,
but of the believer’s commitment to a particular way of life. This is part of
the reason why there is no dispute in any ordinary sense between the believer
and non-believer according to Wittgenstein. An ordinary dispute arises over
a disagreement about the quality or quantity of evidence justifying a certain
claim. When religious belief flies in the face of what ordinarily counts as good
evidence, when the believer believes without evidence, it shows that he is
part of a different Bezugssystem. We still need to get clearer on what a
Bezugssystem is, and how it conditions our beliefs about the world: for this
the critical text is On Certainty. But first let us look at what Wittgenstein
says about how religious beliefs arise differently from empirical beliefs:
A religious belief might in fact fly in the face of such a forecast, and say
‘No. There it [the best scientific evidence] will break down.’
As it were, the belief as formulated on the evidence can only be the
last result—in which a number of ways of thinking and acting crystallize
and come together.
(LC, p. 56)
In this passage Wittgenstein is arguing that the believer does not believe on
the basis of evidence. When he speaks of ‘the belief as formulated on the
evidence’ I take him to mean the expression of a religious belief in the ‘form’
of an ordinary empirical belief.9 As we have seen, this is the central difficulty
concerning religious belief. It has, one might say, the grammar of statements
expressing empirical beliefs, and yet religious belief can fly in the face of
empirical evidence. Religious belief ‘flies in the face’ of empirical evidence
because what one is trying to express in saying ‘there will be a Last Judgment’
is not simply the belief in the obtaining of a state of affairs, but a willingness
to commit to an entire way of regulating one’s life.
Wittgenstein’s last sentence in the above passage is difficult, but important.
In the case of an ordinary empirical belief, the belief arises on the basis of
evidence; it is the evidence that gives rise to the belief. With religious belief,
despite having the grammar of an empirical belief, the expression of the belief
in the form of an ordinary empirical belief is ‘the last result.’10 What does
Wittgenstein mean by this? He offers a brief gloss ‘—in which a number of
ways of thinking and acting crystallize and come together.’ I think he is saying
that in the case of religious belief, what gives rise to the belief is not any
empirical evidence—we have seen why empirical evidence alone cannot make
a believer—but ‘ways of thinking and acting’ that constitute a kind of life,
say, a Christian life or a Buddhist life. These beliefs get expressed, ‘crystallize
and come together,’ in statements that have the form of ordinary empirical
propositions; that is, as though they arose from evidence, when, in fact, they
are the ‘last result,’ the expressions of adherence to a way of life not founded
on any empirical evidence, but nevertheless making claims about the
occurrence of states of affairs.
38 Iakovos Vasiliou
Life can educate (erziehen) one to a belief in God. And experiences too
are what bring this about; but I don’t mean visions and other forms of
sense experience which show us the ‘existence of this being’, but, e.g.,
sufferings of various sorts. These neither show us God in the way a
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 39
‘Moore propositions’
One of the primary themes in On Certainty is that not all empirical
propositions have the same logical status. Some propositions that have the form
of empirical propositions, and indeed make claims about what has been, what
is, or what will be the case, nevertheless do not function in the same way as
other ‘ordinary’ empirical propositions. Wittgenstein writes: ‘Our “empirical
propositions” do not form a homogeneous mass’. (OC, §213).11 Again: ‘It is
clear that our empirical propositions do not all have the same status, since one
can lay down such a proposition and turn it from an empirical proposition into
a norm of description’ (§167; see also §§ 308, 401).
Examples of these sorts of propositions are plentiful in On Certainty. The
Earth has existed for more than 150 years’; ‘I have two hands’; ‘I have never
been on the moon’; ‘All human beings have two parents.’ Some of these
examples come originally from G.E.Moore,12 and so I shall call them ‘Moore-
propositions,’ or ‘M-propositions’ for short. M-propositions ‘have the form
of empirical propositions’ in so far as they make claims about the obtaining
of some state of affairs, and there is no logical contradiction in imagining
their denial; that is, they are not in the usual sense a priori propositions.
Wittgenstein denies being able to provide any common characteristic to all
M-propositions (§674), but he does say that they are propositions about
which one could not be simply mistaken. As Wittgenstein puts it, if we are
wrong about a M-proposition it would not be considered a mistake, but
rather perhaps some sort of mental disturbance: ‘If Moore were to pronounce
the opposite of those propositions which he declares certain, we should not
just not share his opinion: we should regard him as demented’ (§155; see also
§§71–2, 194, 425, 674).
Although we may agree that Wittgenstein has shown us something
important about the language-game of mistakes, and its relation to M-
40 Iakovos Vasiliou
‘The Earth has existed for more than fifty years’ is not simply an ‘ordinary
empirical proposition’ insofar as it is part of our Weltbild, part of the
inherited background against which we distinguish between what is true and
what is false. To dispute it is not the same as disputing, say, whether
Washington crossed the Delaware. In this sort of ‘ordinary’ case we have a
clear idea of what sorts of things count as evidence for and against this type
of belief. Such a belief is not part of the ‘substratum’ of all of our inquiry and
so exempt from testing. M-propositions, by contrast, form the background
or ‘scaffolding’ (§211) of our thinking and describe our picture of the world.
They describe the backdrop against which ordinary empirical beliefs are
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 43
As if giving grounds did not come to an end sometime. But the end is not
an ungrounded presupposition; it is an ungrounded way of acting.
Sure evidence is what we accept as sure, it is evidence that we go by in
acting surely, acting without any doubt.
Giving grounds, however, justifying the evidence, comes to an end;—but
it is not a kind of seeing on our part; it is our acting, which lies at the
bottom of the language-game.
(§§110, 196, 204)
This points to a larger problem with the entire expression ‘form of empirical
propositions’, an expression Wittgenstein himself has been using (e.g. §96).
(§§401–2)
I do not explicitly learn the propositions that stand fast for me. I can
discover them subsequently like the axis around which a body rotates.
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 45
This axis is not fixed in the sense that anything holds it fast, but the
movement around it determines its immobility.
(§152)
Disputing a Weltbild
A Weltbild is acquired or changed through upbringing, conversion, or
persuasion—a theme which runs throughout Wittgenstein’s remarks.
Men have believed that they could make rain; why should not a king
have been brought up with the belief that the world began with him?
And if Moore and this king were to meet and discuss, could Moore really
prove his belief to be the right one? I do not say that Moore could not
convert (bekehren) the king to his view, but it would be a conversion
(Bekehrung) of a special kind; the king would be brought to look at the
world a different way.
(§92)
Moore and the king have different world-views. Moore could not prove to
the king that his view is wrong; he could only ‘convert’ (bekehren) him by
getting him ‘to look at the world a different way.’ A proof is not possible
because Moore and the king do not share a common background against
which truth and falsehood are distinguished, and against which criteria for
proof are established.
46 Iakovos Vasiliou
Wittgenstein argues, then, that beliefs which are part of our Weltbild are
not individual beliefs that are imparted piecemeal and established by the
‘ordinary’ means of providing evidence. In forming part of the backdrop,
part of the ‘inherited background’ against which we determine what is
true and false, they are beliefs we acquire through upbringing, conversion,
and persuasion. Reasons give out in arguing for such propositions because
these propositions determine what we count as reasons in the first place.
Between systems, as it were, Wittgenstein tells us that we are left with
persuasion (Überredung) and conversion (Bekehrung): see things the way
I (we) do. When natives are converted, one world-view is replaced by
another. Wittgenstein uses the term ‘combat,’ implying that one picture
or system wins out over another. But thinking of the conversion of natives
we see that it is not simply that beliefs are changed or revised, in the way
that we might revise our beliefs about, say, some historical figure or event,
but a whole way of life. The conversion of natives involves not simply
getting them to believe in something that they do not believe in, but to
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 47
live in a wholly new way, to give up certain practices and certain activities,
and take up others.
‘But is there no objective truth? Isn’t it true, or false, that someone has
been on the moon?’ If we are thinking within our system, then it is certain
that no one has ever been on the moon.
It would strike me as ridiculous to want to doubt the existence of
Napoleon; but if someone doubted the existence of the earth 150 years
ago, perhaps I should be more willing to listen, for now he is doubting
our whole system of evidence (System der Evidenz). It does not strike me
as if this system were more certain than a certainty within it.
It strikes me as if someone who doubts the existence of the earth at that
time is impugning the nature of all historical evidence. And I cannot say
of this latter that it is definitely correct.
(§§108, 185, 188)
These passages express a clear reluctance to make claims that cut across
systems of evidence or world-pictures. It remains an open question whether
Wittgenstein has the resources to deal with this sort of relativism and, indeed,
whether he is in the end dissatisfied with it.21
NOTES
1 I shall be considering primarily ‘Lectures on Religious Belief’ in Wittgenstein:
Lectures and Conversations on Aesthetics, Psychology and Religious Belief, ed.
C. Barrett (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972) and Culture and Value
(CV) (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1980).
2 I am assuming that we have a rough idea of examples of religious belief without
needing to attempt any sort of definition. Of course, there are many different
systems of religious belief, and beliefs between and within those systems can and
do conflict.
3 Nothing special is intended by using an example of a future event. We could just
as well discuss a past event, Christ’s resurrection, or a present one, say the
weeping of an icon, as an example of a miracle.
4 I am not claiming that these are exhaustive, and clearly there are many versions
of the views under each of these types.
5 This is perhaps a claim that few actual believers would make themselves. It is
clear that Wittgenstein thinks most believers are confused about the nature of
their own belief; cf. his exasperation with attempts to put religion on a ‘scientific
foundation’ (LC, pp. 57–9, remarks on Father O’Hara).
Wittgenstein, religious belief, and On Certainty 49
In this paper I marshal material from various Wittgenstein texts for the
purpose of elucidating a concept of a Creator neither repugnantly rationalistic
nor out of harmony with the idea of a judging and redeeming deity. My
purpose is less to exposit Wittgenstein’s scattered remarks on these matters
than to develop and organize the insights I believe some of them contain.
Perhaps even less than elsewhere, Wittgenstein has not in these remarks
spared his readers the trouble of thinking for themselves. Whether this
reader’s identification and development of Wittgensteinian insights are
legitimate and plausible is for others to judge. The following brief outline
may be of help.
Believing in a Creator requires, not accepting a causal hypothesis (section I),
but prescinding at a certain point from the causal point of view (section II); it is
connected, essentially, with a particular way of acting and reacting (section
III); it requires relativizing the everyday practice of judging ourselves and others
(section IV). This account of ‘believing in a Creator’ is offered as contribution
to philosophical investigation, not religious apologetics (section V).
I
When someone who believes in God looks around him and asks ‘Where did
everything that I see come from?’ ‘Where did everything come from?’ he is
not asking for a (causal) explanation.
[…]
51
52 William H.Brenner
What I actually want to say is that here too it is not a matter of the words one
uses or of what one is thinking when using them, but rather of the difference
they make at various points in life…. Practices give words their meaning.2
(ROC, III, §317)
Focusing on the form of the words ‘Where did everything come from?’
makes us think of causal problems, just as (for example) the form of the
words ‘Orange is a blend of red and yellow’ makes us think of reports of
experimental results (compare LFM, p. 234). Thus the forms of language
lead us to misunderstand forms of life, human practices. And if we
‘surrender the reins to language and not to life, then the problems of
philosophy arise.’3
Consider the following Blue Book passage on the mind-body problem: ‘“Is
there then no mind, but only a body?” Answer: The word “mind” has a meaning,
i.e., it has a use in our language’ (BB, p. 69). Wittgenstein could have made a
similar remark about the philosophical problem of God and the world: ‘Is there,
then, no God, but only the world?’ Answer: the word ‘God’ has a meaning, a use
in our language. In each case, the answer is really a rejection of the question. The
question suggests that ‘mind’ and ‘God’ are names of hypothetical entities in
(apparently otiose) systems of causal explanation; it leads us into speculations
about the connection between ‘the world of experience’ and occult, super-
physical entities of which we know nothing. What Wittgenstein suggests is that
we need to look at the forms of life in which mental and theological words are
employed, and at what kind of employment they have there. We may find that
they have uses other than pre-scientific, pseudo-scientific, or superstitious uses.
One can use ‘God’—as a causal hypothesis—as (to use a figure from Karl Kraus)
one can use an urn for a chamber pot. But its distinctively religious, spiritual
employment lies elsewhere: ‘Religious faith and superstition are quite different.
One of them results from fear and is a sort of false science. The other is a trusting’
(CV, p. 72).4 Theological vocabulary can be used in a superstitious spirit as ‘false
science,’ but it can also be used in connection with learning, living, and teaching
distinctively religious (rather than secular) ways of life.5 In the latter case it is a
kind of grammar.
‘Theology is the grammar of the word “God”’ (AWL, p. 32).6 But we are
tempted to treat the sentences of theology as if they were not grammatical,
demanding them to be justified on the model of justifying sentences by
pointing out evidence. I think Wittgenstein would reject this demand as
contrary to the spirit and point of God-talk. For example, the sentence
‘We’re safe in the hands of God,’ as he understands it, is the expression of a
particular attitude towards the normal human preoccupation with keeping
safe and secure—the attitude some will express in the words of St Paul, that
‘in everything God works for good with those who love him.’7 But the point
of those words (as I think Wittgenstein and many Christians understand
them) is to express something absolute, some categorical rule and measure
of living and assessing life.8 Based on evidence, the confidence or trust it
Creation, causality, and freedom of the will 53
expresses would be (at best) contingent and hypothetical. Then ‘God’s love’
would signify an object measured, rather than a measure. ‘[Therefore,] if
there were evidence, this would in fact destroy the whole business’ (LC, p.
56).
But if it is not evidence that leads us to trust in God, what is it that does?
Why take God-talk seriously at all? Wittgenstein suggests that certain
experiences might bring this about, for example: ‘sufferings of various sorts.
These neither show us God in the way a sense impression shows us an
object, nor do they give rise to conjectures about him. Experiences,
thoughts,—life can force this concept on us’ (CV, p. 86).9 Analogously:
although certain experiences force the concept color on us, they do not
show us color in the way a sense impression shows us an object. One does
not ‘convince someone of the reality of color’ by showing him colored
patches; for if he has no sureness in practice about that, he will not
understand what aspect of the patches you mean him to attend to. He is
convinced of its reality in and through his practice of the use of the ‘color
language’ he learned as a child.
Saying ‘God exists’ might have the same sort of use as saying that color
exists, namely as a grammatical remark made in the context of linguistic
instruction.10 What is at issue in such a context is whether a way of speaking,
doing, judging, and evaluating is being taught. The use of such propositions
is in teaching a way of judging existence, not in conveying an opinion about
the existence of something.
Wittgenstein suggests that what the theological proposition ‘God’s
essence guarantees his existence’ might really mean is that ‘what is here at
issue is not the existence of something’ (CV, p. 82). One could also say (he
continues) that the essence of color guarantees its existence: because all this
really means is that in this case (as opposed, say, to that of pink elephants)
there is no such thing as explaining what it would be like if colors were to
exist: ‘And now we might say: There can be a description of what it would
be like if there were gods on Olympus—but not: ‘what it would be like if
there were such a thing as God” (ibid.). The transcendent God of Judaism,
Christianity, and Islam is to be contrasted with the immanent gods of
ancient Greece and Rome: unlike the gods, God is not properly represented
as the personification of any of the powers of nature, not even the most
awesome and mysterious. ‘And to say this is to determine the concept
“God” more precisely’ (ibid.).11
Just before that line, Wittgenstein compared the reality of God with the
reality of color. Developing that striking comparison, I would say that while
the color system opens up a ‘logical space’ for describing the appearance of
objects, monotheistic systems open up a ‘logical space’ for challenging false
absolutes—whether they be the individual ego, a human collectivity, or
elemental powers of nature. And I would develop that idea by reference to
the following lines from St. Augustine’s Confessions, a spiritual classic
Wittgenstein is known to have pondered and respected:
54 William H.Brenner
I asked the winds that blow, and the whole air with all that is in it answered:
‘Anaximines was wrong; I am not God.’ I asked the heavens, the sun, the
moon, the stars, and they answered: ‘Neither are we the God whom you
seek.’ And I said to all the things that throng about the gateways of the
senses: ‘Tell me of my God, since you are not He. Tell me something of
Him.’ And they cried out in a great voice: ‘He made us.’ My question was
my gazing upon them, and their answer was their beauty.12
In thus having the powers of nature cry out in a great voice ‘He made us,’ St.
Augustine was simultaneously affirming the beauty of the world and
distancing himself from it; he was expressing a way of living, sometimes
expressed in the words ‘in the world and yet not of it.’ Wittgenstein may
have been trying to express a similar ideal when, in a 1929 journal entry, he
exclaimed: ‘Just let nature speak and acknowledge only one thing higher’
(CV, p. 1). Do we not hear in this an echo of Augustine’s ‘Tell me of my God,
since you are not He’?
II
The Wittgenstein notes published as ‘Cause and Effect: Intuitive Awareness’
contain a valuable supplement to David Hume’s classic account of our
concept of causality. As Hume pointed out one of its instinctive roots, our
tendency to trust experienced regularities, Wittgenstein points out another, a
certain tendency to look from one thing to another:
Calling something ‘the cause’ is like pointing and saying ‘He’s to blame!’
We instinctively get rid of the cause if we don’t want the effect. We
instinctively look from what has been hit to what has hit it. (I am
assuming that we do this.)
[…]
Someone touches me with a pole, I look along the pole. Someone throws
a stone, I feel it and see him in a particular position, I throw it back. This
is a reaction against a cause.
(PO, pp. 373, 410)
I want to connect that passage with the following from Culture and Value:
‘To what extent do we hold ourselves responsible for the future?…If
something unwelcome happens:—do we ask “Whose fault is it?”, do we say
“It must be somebody’s fault,”—or do we say “It was God’s will”, “It was
fate”?’(CV, p. 61).
Asking for the cause of an event and insisting on an answer is expressive
of a different attitude, a different mode of life, from not asking it. Here I
think of an episode from the popular 1994 movie Pulp Fiction. Not even
grazed by a volley of bullets directed at him and his friend, the main
Creation, causality, and freedom of the will 55
‘[A]nd all these traps, quicksands, wrong turnings, were planned by the
Lord of the Road, and the monsters, thieves and robbers were created by
him?’ Certainly, that is not the sense of the simile! But such a continuation
is all too obvious! For many people, including me, this robs the simile of
its power.
But more especially if this is—as it were—suppressed.15
(CV, p. 29)
Someone can be told for instance: ‘Thank God for the good you receive
but don’t complain about the evil; as you would of course if a human
being were to do you good and evil by turns.’ Rules of life are dressed up
in pictures. And these pictures can only serve to describe what we are to
do, not justify it. Because they could provide a justification only if they
held good in other respects as well. I can say: ‘Thank these bees for their
honey as though they were kind people who have prepared it for you’;
that is intelligible and describes how I should like you to conduct
yourself. But I cannot say: ‘Thank them because, look, how kind they
are!’—since the next moment they may sting you.16
(CV, p. 29)
The work done by the sentence ‘All good gifts come from on high,’17 or
something like it, could also be done by a command, including one you give
to yourself. And, conversely, the utterance of a command such as Thank God
for the good you receive but don’t be resentful about the evil,’ may be like the
expression of a belief. Such a belief is not, however, a proposition about which
one can comfortably say: ‘If so and so is discovered, then it’s true or probably
true; if they discover such and such, then it’s false or probably false.’ It is the
expression, rather, of ‘a truth to live by.’ Compare what Wittgenstein said
about belief in a Judgment Day:
If there were evidence, this would destroy the whole business. Anything
I normally call evidence wouldn’t in the slightest influence me. Suppose
we had the best scientific evidence that certain people can foresee the
future, and that these people described some sort of Judgment Day:
queerly enough, belief in this happening wouldn’t be at all a religious
belief. A religious belief might in fact fly in the face of such a forecast,
and say ‘No. There it will break down.’18
III
It is a most important fact of human nature that a certain image can force
itself on you, an image generally connected with a particular way of acting.
(PO, p. 435, paraphrased)19
The word ‘God’ and the picture of a great and powerful Lord sometimes
pointed to in explaining it are nothing but instruments, and everything
depends on their use (RPP, I §586). For example, consider their use in
modifying our reaction to successfully overcoming ‘overwhelming obstacles.’
Creation, causality, and freedom of the will 57
Where before we would have said ‘Nobody helped us; we must be stronger
than we thought!’, now we say ‘God helped us!’ Although the sentences ‘God
helped us’ and ‘Nobody helped us’ may be used in precisely the same
circumstances, they are not to be construed as just two ways of saying the
same thing. For they have completely different uses—the first to express a
reaction to a situation, the second to describe it.20
‘Our help is in the name of the Lord, who made heaven and earth.’21 Some
of us came to use prayers like that to express what Wittgenstein referred to as
the experience of feeling absolutely safe: ‘the state of mind in which one is
inclined to say “I am safe, nothing can injure me whatever happens”’ (PO,
pp. 41–2).22 Saying this need not be understood as the expression of a childish
or insane sense of invulnerability; it may (and sometimes should) be
understood as the paradoxical expression of a particular attitude toward the
natural human desire for safety—the attitude that ‘in a deeper sense’
something else is more important: ‘Religion is, as it were, the calm bottom of
the sea at its deepest point, which remains calm however high the waves on
the surface may be’ (CV, p. 53). It is on the ‘calm bottom’ of his life that a
believer finds the ‘something else more important’—‘the peace of God that
passes all understanding.’
‘I am carnal…. [T]hey that are in the flesh cannot please God’ (Romans
8:14–15). I take it that Paul was expressing the sort of experience
Wittgenstein would have called ‘feeling absolutely guilty’ (PO, p. 42).23
Such words do not necessarily signify a pathological lack of self-esteem. In
certain circumstances they function as the paradoxical expression of an
attitude toward the normal desire in any individual to feel pride in herself
or himself—the attitude that in a ‘profounder sense’ what one needs is to
humble oneself. And here I think of Wittgenstein’s conception of
Christianity as religion for the individual who ‘feels infinite distress and
needs infinite help’:
In this way you can say it is very important what others think of you, but
that in another, profounder way it doesn’t matter at all.
IV
The practice of judging people, of sizing them up morally, is quite an
58 William H.Brenner
important part of everyday life. And when we engage in it, we are supposed
to distinguish what people choose to do from what merely happens to them,
and to judge them only in terms of the former.
‘The process we call “choosing” does take place.’25 But couldn’t all our
‘choices’ be illusory? Imagine, for example, knowing that someone is acting
under post-hypnotic suggestion: wouldn’t that be definite grounds for saying
that he only believes he chooses? (A court of law might excuse a defendant
from responsibility for his act on such grounds.26) Such a use is necessarily
exceptional; for its point is to distinguish this sort of case from normal cases.
An individual’s sincere avowal normally settles questions about his choices.
‘I chose to sit in the front rather than the back’—it is only in special
circumstances that you can sensibly respond ‘You didn’t really choose.’
Although the case of ‘choosing under post-hypnotic suggestion’ would be
quite an abnormal one, certain experiences might incline us to compare more
ordinary cases with it, or with something like it. For example, learning the
results of the ‘cognitive biases’ research in social psychology might
significantly enlarge the range of cases for which it seems appropriate to
exclaim: ‘It’s as if these people have been programmed to react and to choose
as they do!’
Suppose we knew all natural laws and the working of people’s cells acting
on one another, and were able to calculate their choices from moment to
moment: it would not follow that we ought to stop holding them responsible
for their choices and punishing them for some of the things they do (LFM, p.
242, and PO, pp. 429–4427). Such an eventuality might nonetheless affect
the point of the concept of choice in our thinking, however, and the spirit of
the relevant language game. Compare James 4:14–16 (KJV):
[Y]e know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is
even a vapor that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. For
that [reason] ye ought to say, If the Lord will, we shall live, and do this, or
that. But now you rejoice in your boastings: all such rejoicing is evil.
Should we acquire the power to forecast ‘the morrow’ much better than we
can now, that might destroy the point of comparing our life to a vapor. For,
in those circumstances, the temptation to trust—not in the Lord but in science
and technology—would likely be even greater than it is today.
‘People are determined’: this might be the expression of a confused
assimilation of causal determination to compulsion. In the everyday practice
of language, however, saying of an agent ‘He was determined’ might function
to register our unwillingness to pronounce judgment on his action. ‘The thief
moves as inevitably as a stone falling.’ This might mean that (for some reason
or other) you don’t want to be harsh in your judgment of him. ‘My God, I’m
like a falling stone!’: overhearing somebody say this, you might conjecture
that he has been brooding about the course of his sorry life and now expresses
his hopelessness and despair in these words; or you might react with the
Creation, causality, and freedom of the will 59
Life is like a path along a mountain ridge; to the left and right are slippery
slopes down which you slide without being able to stop yourself…. I
keep seeing people slip like this and I say ‘How could a man help himself
in such a situation!’ And that is what ‘denying free will’ comes to. That is
the attitude expressed in this ‘belief’. But it is not a scientific belief and
has nothing to do with scientific convictions.
Denying responsibility is not holding people responsible.
(CV, p. 63)
‘He hasn’t given himself weakness and strength. “Hath not the potter power
over the clay?”’ (PO, p. 437).28 We might say this when—stepping back from
our habitual immersion in the cares of daily life—we find ourselves unable to
judge other people. But we might also dismiss such scruples, especially in
cases we feel obliged to judge: ‘Perhaps nothing better could have been
expected of him, given the kind of man he is; but he should nevertheless take
responsibility for himself and his actions, and we must nevertheless hold him
responsible for his choices.’29
We can cite many reasons—moral, political, and psychological—for doing
this. It could be (and has been) denied, however, that any of these
‘commonsense’ reasons—good as they are within limits—is valid without
qualification. To transpose a theme from On Certainty: as soon as we take
the sentence ‘He’s responsible’ out of its everyday practical contexts, it
appears in a false light and sounds presumptuous—as if God himself can’t
say anything about it. It is as if ‘responsible’ did not tolerate a metaphysical
emphasis.30 And—drawing now from Martin Luther—it is also as if ‘freedom
of the will’ did not tolerate a theological emphasis, for:
[T]hough I should grant that free will by its endeavors can advance…
unto the righteousness of the civil or moral law, it does not advance
towards God’s righteousness, nor does God in any respect allow its
devoted efforts to be worthy unto gaining his righteousness; for he says
that his righteousness stands without the law….31
Do they not make God a respecter of merit and persons when they say
that one man is without grace by his own fault…?32
60 William H.Brenner
‘I think yesterday was a crisis in my life,’ wrote William James in his diary:
I finished the first part of Renouvier’s second ‘Essais’ and see no reason
why his definition of free will—‘the sustaining of a thought because I
choose to when I might have other thoughts’—need be the definition of
an illusion. At any rate, I will assume for the present—or until next
year—that it is no illusion. My first act of free will shall be to believe in
free will.33
I suppose that while James would advise us to take hold of the idea of free
will as an instrument of deliverance from despair, Luther (following St Paul)
would admonish us to pray for divine grace—and to thank God when
deliverance comes. Being religious is not the same as being self-assertive or
self-reliant. It is more (as I want to put it) a ‘theological suspension of self-
reliance.’34
‘In religion every level of devoutness must have its appropriate form of
expression which has no sense at a lower level,’ remarked Wittgenstein. ‘At
my level the Pauline doctrine of predestination is ugly nonsense,
irreligiousness,’ he continued (CV, p. 32). We can imagine that neither
Wittgenstein nor James would have been ready to hear Luther’s Pauline
admonition and to use it in the good and godly way for which it was doubtless
intended.
Believers in divine providence and predestination do not, of course, join
with fatalists in denying the importance of individual initiative, or in ruling
out the everyday human practice of holding ‘normal adults’ responsible for
their actions. What they want is to set limits to those practices, and to the
(often judgmental) attitudes that animate them—so that secular life does not
become a cage for us, separating us from everything sacred. What is wanted
is access to a place where we can stand at a contemplative distance from
‘common life and practice,’ and—like Arjuna before the great battle35—view
it all sub specie aeternitatis:
(The thought forces itself upon one): The thing seen sub specie
aeternitatis is the thing seen together with the whole logical space.
As a thing among things, each thing is equally insignificant; as a world,
each one equally significant.
(NB, p. 83)36
contemplative viewpoint, when we have retreated for a time from ‘the battle
of life,’ that the world is revealed as a ‘limited whole’ independent of our
will. Then we feel that, while the facts of the world are sometimes subject to
causal analysis and human control, the existence of the world is always (as it
were) ‘dependent on an alien will’ and ‘mystical’ (see NB, p. 74, and TLP
6.44).
Friedrich Waismann once asked Wittgenstein whether there is a connection
between the existence of the world and the ethical, to which Wittgenstein
replied:
Men have felt that here there is a connection and they have expressed it
thus: God the Father created the world, the Son of God (or the Word
that comes from God) is that which is ethical. That the Godhead is
thought of as divided and, again, as one being indicates that there is a
connection here.
(WWK, p. 118)
God is absent from the world, except in the existence in this world of
those in whom His love is alive…. Their compassion is the visible
presence of God here below.
62 William H.Brenner
V
In an important passage from Culture and Value I made use of earlier,39
Wittgenstein remarked that the work done by the declarative sentence ‘It’s
God’s will’ can also be done by the commandment ‘Don’t be resentful’ or
‘Don’t grumble,’ and that conversely the commandment can be uttered like
the affirmation of a truth. That remark continues in the new, revised and
augmented, edition of Culture and Value as follows:
of common life and practice from a contemplative distance, and given, finally,
the grace to return to active participation in life with a less ruthless attitude
towards themselves and others.44
NOTES
1 Ludwig Wittgenstein: A Memoir, 2nd edn. (New York: Oxford University Press,
1984), p. 59.
2 Compare ROC, I, §6: ‘[H]ere language games decide.’
3 Quoted in Nicholas Gier, Wittgenstein and Phenomenology (Albany, NY:
SUNY Press, 1981), p. 70, from Wittgenstein’s ‘Big Typescript’ (MS 213, p.
521).
4 Compare the Gospel parable of the lilies of the field and the birds of the air.
5 Compare Socrates’ use of religious words with Euthyphro’s.
6 Wittgenstein attributes this conception of theology to Martin Luther. While the
Luther scholars I consulted recalled no textual confirmation of Wittgenstein’s
attribution, they did find it plausible. The closest text I could find was in vol. 26
of Luther’s Works, ed. Jaroslav Pelikan (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1967).
Commenting on Galatians, Luther remarks that ‘doing’ and ‘making’ become
completely new words in theology and acquire a new meaning: ‘When you read
in Scripture, therefore, about the patriarchs, prophets and kings that they worked
righteousness, raised the dead, conquered kingdoms, etc., you should remember
that these and similar statements are to be explained according to a new and
theological grammar…’ (p. 267).
7 Romans 8:28 (RSV).
8 It is this ‘absolute’ and ‘categorical’ use that turns the original, presumably
spontaneous utterance of the saint into a grammatical rule. Compare RFM, p.
437: ‘Every empirical proposition may serve as a rule if it is fixed, like a
machine part, made immovable, so that now the whole representation turns
around it and becomes part of the coordinate system, independent of facts.’
Cf. OC§98.
9 On the cryptic concluding line of that remark—‘So perhaps [the concept “God”]
is similar to the concept “object”’—, see my Wittgenstein’s Philosophical
Investigations (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1999), p. 143, note 5.
10 See OC§36: ‘“A is a physical object” is a piece of instruction which we give only
to someone who doesn’t yet understand either what “A” means, or what
“physical object” means. Thus it is instruction about the use of words, and
“physical object” is a logical concept. (Like color, quantity,…).’ Compare Z,
§477, and PR, p. 72.
11 The God of Micah, Jesus, Augustine, Anselm, Aquinas, Descartes, etc., is on a
different logical level from that of any cause postulated in any science—or in any
pseudoscience, for that matter. On this, and on the evolution of the concept of
God in the Bible from tribal deity who walks in the garden with Adam to ‘high
and lofty one who inhabits eternity,’ see B.F.Tilghman. An Introduction to the
Philosophy of Religion (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), pp. 26–34.
12 From Augustine’s Confessions, X:6, translated by F.J.Sheed (Indianapolis, IN:
Hackett, 1993). Whatever else we may want to say about it, the idea of a Creator
in that passage surely involves no ‘repugnantly rationalistic’ use of the concept
of causality. (Cf. my ‘Chesterton, Wittgenstein, and the Foundations of Ethics,’
Philosophical Investigations 14 (1991):311–23.) ‘But is it true that nature is
created, and that she speaks to us of her creator?’ While I think I know how to
show how these paradoxical word formations—‘maker of nature,’ ‘speech of
64 William H.Brenner
Just look at an allegory like The Pilgrim’s Progress and notice how nothing
is right—in human terms…. (On railway stations there are dials with two
hands; they show when the next train leaves, they look like clocks though
they aren’t; but they have a use of their own.)…If anyone gets upset by this
allegory, one might say to him: Apply it differently, or else leave it alone!
If I say, without any special occasion, ‘I know I’m sitting in a chair’, this
seems to me unjustified and presumptuous. But in its language game it is
not presumptuous: there it has no higher position than, simply, the human
language game, for there it has a restricted application. But as soon as I
make the statement out of its context, it is as if I wanted to insist there are
things I know—things even God himself can’t say anything to me about.
(OC §§553–4, condensed)
Creation, causality, and freedom of the will 65
31 Erasmus-Luther: Discourse on Free Will (New York: Ungar, 1961), p. 135. For
an illuminating Wittgensteinian reading of Luther on predestination, see John
H. Whittaker, Matters of Faith and Matters of Principle (San Antonio, CA:
Trinity University Press, 1981), pp. 69–91.
32 Martin Luther, The Bondage of the Will (Grand Rapids, Mi.: Fleming H.Revell,
1957) pp. 292–3. Compare O.K.Bouwsma’s Wittgenstein: ‘In the context of the
Gospel injunction “Be ye perfect”—I ought does not imply I can. I take it that
the proper response to that injunction would be to try and keep trying—and to
learn humility from your inevitable failures’ (pp. 37–9, condensed). And compare
that with Wittgenstein’s own—I think somewhat less incisive—reflections on that
topic in CV, p. 54.
33 The Letters of William James, ed. Henry James, (Boston, MA: Atlantic Monthly
Press, 1920), p. 148.
34 Compare Kierkegaard’s ‘teleological suspension of the ethical’ in Fear and
Trembling.
35 See the Bhagavad Gita, passim.
36 Compare CV, p. 80: ‘The Sabbath is not simply a time for rest, for relaxation.
We ought to contemplate our labours from without and not just from within.’
37 Matthew 5:43–47 (RSV).
38 Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks, trans. R.Rees (London: Oxford
University Press, 1970), pp. 102–03.
39 Although I did not quote the passage, I made use of a modified version of its
contents on p. 85.
40 Compare CV, pp. 60–1 (older edition): ‘Science: enrichment and
impoverishment. One particular method elbows all others aside. They all seem
paltry by comparison, preliminary stages at best. You must go right down to the
original sources so as to see them all side by side, both the neglected and the
preferred.’
41 CV (1998 edition.), p. 70 (not present on the corresponding page, p. 61, of the
1980 edition). Compare ‘Lectures on Freedom of the Will’: ‘All these arguments
might look as if I wanted to argue for the freedom of the will or against it. But I
don’t want to’ (PO, p. 436).
42 I am thinking especially of CV, p. 33, when he asks: ‘What inclines even me to
believe in Christ’s Resurrection?’
43 See Philosophy in a Cool Place (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1999),
where D.Z.Phillips develops this important Wittgensteinian theme at length. And
recall that in ‘A Lecture on Ethics,’ Wittgenstein speaks of being tempted to say
that the right expression for the miracle of the existence of the world is, not any
proposition in language, but the existence of language itself (PO, pp. 43–4).
44 For their many helpful comments, I want to thank Robert Arrington, Curtis
Brooks, and Mary Brenner.
5 Faith
Themes from Wittgenstein,
Kierkegaard and Nietzsche
Michael P.Hodges
My subject is the nature of religious faith and particularly what can be said
for its claims. I begin by laying out the route that the argument will follow.
First, using some of Wittgenstein’s remarks I want to disentangle the claims
of faith from dubious historical and metaphysical claims. I am not at all
interested in defending a faith that would require that we believe what, by
normal standards of evidence, are highly problematic historical assertions,
nor do I think that the legitimacy of faith should be a matter of metaphysical
truths which lie just a bit beyond our normal capacities for verification. To
be very clear, if one cannot disentangle faith from such understanding, I think
its claims do not deserve commitment. So after offering such an analysis, I
propose to move to another stage. Wittgenstein’s discussion focuses us on a
sort of authority, and to develop more completely that idea we need to turn
to Kierkegaard’s justly famous account of Abraham in Fear and Trembling.
Kierkegaard leads us through an examination of faith that places it outside
the confines of rationality conceived as prudence or self-interest, even outside
the ethical understood as a form of tragic heroism. For Kierkegaard, faith is
a matter of an absolute relation to the absolute. As such, there cannot be
reasons for such a relation outside of that relation itself. Now it might seem
that given such an account of faith, it will be beyond criticism, and in a certain
sense it is—but, at the same time, I hope to show that there are at least three
critical strategies that can be deployed. One is the traditional strategy of
genealogy, for which I turn to Nietzsche. A second is the strategy of
reinscribing one discourse within another—the religious, say, within the
ethical. The third strategy is in some ways a more radical approach that
depends on the ‘claim’ that all structures of meaning are contingent. To
understand this last claim, I again take up certain remarks of Wittgenstein
and follow out their implications for faith and the religious.
First, let me explain how I conceive my task here. Certainly I do not
propose to evaluate particular religious claims. For example, I do not propose
to adjudicate the dispute between Anglicans and Baptists over the question
of total immersion or between Christians and Jews concerning the divinity of
66
Themes from Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche 67
serves as the foundation for a religious symbol. And only an opinion can
involve an error’ (PO, p. 123). He develops this fundamental insight in a
passage written in 1937:
Schlick says that theological ethics contains two concepts of the essence
of the Good. According to the more superficial interpretation, the Good
is good because God wills it; according to the deeper interpretation, God
wills the Good because it is good. I think that the first conception is the
deeper one: Good is what God orders. For it cuts off the path to any and
every explanation ‘Why’ it is good…. The first conception says clearly
that the essence of the Good has nothing to do with facts and therefore
cannot be explained by any proposition. If any proposition expresses just
what I mean, it is: Good is what God orders.11
sounds like Richard Nixon is really the voice of Richard Nixon. But this leads
back in the direction of the ‘cognitivist theory of faith.’ Now we seem to be
confronted with a gap between what we can know by normal means and
what we need to know in this special situation. Only faith could fill that gap.
And this seems immediately to force two conclusions and one observation on
us. First, it ought to make sense to ask for evidence or reasons for supposing
the voice to be the voice of God. But, second, no evidence could possibly
assure Abraham of the objective source of the voice. No evidence could ever
be adequate to the level of commitment that is required of Abraham. And,
third, Abraham does not seek any such evidence.
Perhaps we will be inclined to avoid the problem by saying: ‘He just knows
it’s God’s, that is the very essence of faith.’ But this response leaves the poles
of the problematic unchanged. Belief is treated as intellectual assent and that
to which we give assent as information—a fact about the objective source of
the voice in question. Suppose, instead, that what distinguishes a divine
command is not the source of the injunction but the place which the
command has in the life of the person commanded. Faith is the context in
which the voice of God is heard—in which an authority has absolute and
overriding significance. On this view Abraham is not credited with a possibly
false belief concerning the source of an order. Abraham’s belief that this is
God’s command is simply his submission to it.15 That is, there are not two
things in this situation—first, an intellectual assent to a particular truth, and
second, a response based on that assent. In this way the components are
merely externally related. But such a bifurcation seems antithetical to
Kierkegaard’s own rejection of the idea that our relation to God is primarily
an epistemological one.16
How must we live in relation to a divine command? What place must we
make for it in our lives? Surely the point is that such a command must have
ultimate authority. It says what finally and ultimately ought to be done. There
can be no higher court of appeal here. So if, for example, one confronts a
divine command by attempting to place finite human judgment above it, one
succumbs to temptation, even if the judgment is an ethical one. Kierkegaard
says: ‘What ordinarily tempts a man is that which would keep him from doing
his duty, but in this case the temptation is itself the ethical….’ (Fear and
Trembling, p. 40). Or if one sees the occasion in terms of individual purposes,
one has succumbed to temptation. Thus if Abraham sees God’s command in
terms of the crass ‘Christian’ view that by this act of sacrificing Isaac he is
buying his salvation, he is lost. What is critical in understanding Kierkegaard
is to understand the nature of Abraham’s response, and by doing that to see
that although Abraham must believe that he is to lose Isaac at the same time
he believes that he will not. Only by complete submission to the divine will
can one gain freedom, only by a perfect willingness to give Isaac up is he
regained. The final truth is: ‘By faith I make renunciation of nothing, on the
contrary by faith I acquire everything…. By faith Abraham did not renounce
his claim upon Isaac, but by faith he got Isaac’ (Fear and Trembling, p. 59).
74 Michael P.Hodges
It may now appear that we have been lead to the conclusion that the religious
life has a character that places it beyond criticism. We have seen that such
language, in so far as it presents an authority in an immediate and absolute
way, stands outside of all prudential and ethical contexts. We have also seen
that the nature of religious believing locates it outside the bounds of the usual
standards of evidence and rationality. Does it follow that all critical
assessment must be internal to the religious project? Does Abraham, in his
relation to God, transcend all standards of evaluation? I don’t think so, but
to see why will require a reassessment of some of what I have said.
So far I have limited myself to a description of the ‘logic of religious
discourse.’ But there is another sort of issue that might be raised at this point.
It was Nietzsche who taught us to distinguish between two very different
questions: (1) What is the analysis of a particular concept? (2) Under what
conditions—natural, historical or individual—does a concept such as ‘the
religious’ come to be formed? While it is true that it is part of the analysis of
religious discourse that authority is presented absolutely and immediately,
given the above distinction it does not follow that we should accept such
authority. Instead we might decide that, in light of the circumstances which
Themes from Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche 75
[I]f anyone believes that certain concepts are absolutely the correct ones,
and that having different ones would mean not realizing something that
we realize—then let him imagine certain very general facts of nature to
be different from what we are used to, and the formation of concepts
different from the usual ones will become intelligible to him.
(PI II, p. 230)
such claims, and this limit can be read in two ways.23 On the one hand, it
guarantees validity within the sphere of its application. 24 But while
contextualizing meaning insures the validity and intelligibility of what is
claimed within the specified language-game, it also implies that claims to
absolute validity make no sense. For all such claims presuppose the language-
game in which they occur and, as Wittgenstein has pointed out, no such
structure of meaning can be seen as ‘absolutely correct.’25
There are, at least, three distinct responses to an acknowledgment of the
contingency of all language-games and forms of life and the possible absence
of all of them. The Nietzschean, or perhaps the reform-minded American
philosopher, would welcome such contingency and even contend that the
absence of the religious would free up our lives. At a minimum, if we abandon
religious discourse new possibilities of experience emerge. We might even
grow into those ‘adults’ Freud seems to envision in the final chapters of The
Future of an Illusion.26
The possibility of the absence of the religious form of life will be seen in a
very different light by the believer. In fact, one might even wonder if such a
possibility can really be accepted by the religious person? The answer here is
yes, but not in the terms given. For the religious person what we are discussing
is the terrifying possibility that the people of God might forget God—the
meaning of God’s word might be lost—and this certainly is a human
possibility. Religiously it is the loss of the possibility of a relation with God.
Again we see that even this radical possibility of the contingency, and
therefore the non-existence, of religious discourse can have no absolute
authority over other structures of meaning. The religious has its own ways of
recasting even the possibility of its own non-existence. But just as with the
previous cases of reinscription, matters will appear somewhat differently if
we begin from a position which does not presuppose the availability of
religious discourse.
These considerations lead us to a third response to the contingency, and
possible non-existence, of all structures of meaning. (As we shall see, a
religious believer might try to take this moment as the very occasion for the
introduction of religious language.) It is very difficult to remain clear at this
point, because what seems to come into view is not just the open-ended
possibility of imagining ‘the interruption’ of one discourse by the process of
reinscription. While, as we have seen, that is clearly possible, we are always
left within a structure of meaning. To describe such possibilities is to remain
within the structures of meaning even as it involves the substitution of one
discourse or language-game for another. With the third response, what seems
to come into view is a much more radical possibility—the absence of meaning
altogether. The experience of the religious shows the contingency of the
claims of the ethical and the prudential, but the possibility of reinscription
shows the contingency of the claims of the religious as well. And it is this
contingency of meaning taken as a pervasive feature of all structures of
meaning that concerns us here.
80 Michael P.Hodges
words, we must turn away from the transcendental per se and ask what place
such speakings have in life. In this recognition the issues have been
transformed from classical metaphysical matters to questions of ethics and/
or politics. We, who are observers and not necessarily participants, must take
up the language of the religious life in a new way.29 We must ask what values
are embodied herein. What aspects of human life are highlighted and which
forced into the shadows? What political and social agendas underlie the urge
to speak at this point and in this way? To refuse to take up religious language
in this way is quite literally to condemn oneself to silence. Otherwise, there is
simply nothing to say.
Where does this leave the religious person as opposed to the theologian?
The answer is that such a person is left with his or her religious practice and
with the language in which this practice expresses itself. We certainly cannot
deny that this practice is one form that human life has taken, and we must be
reminded of Wittgenstein’s comment that what must in the end be accepted
are forms of life (PI II, p. 226).
NOTES
1 By claiming that they are ‘roughly analogous’ I do not mean to suggest that
religious claims are pseudo-scientific claims or that there is a decision procedure
for religious claims like that for scientific claims. My point is only to distinguish
between first-order claims within a science or religion and second-order claims
that offer accounts of the meaning and status of the former. I would add that
sincere commitment to first-order claims is no guarantee of an adequate second-
order story about their status. In fact, it may be a hindrance. Scientists are not
always the best at providing an account of what it is that science is up to. In the
same way, those engaged in the religious life may not be the best at giving an
account of what that practice is all about.
2 Complete neutrality is not possible. I do not suggest that what I have to say is a
matter of pure analysis of a preexisting structure. My views are rather
recommendations about how to construe religious language which have certain
advantages but clearly do not ‘leave everything as it is’ (PI §124).
3 R.Rhees, Without Answers (New York: Shocken Books, 1969), p. 121.
4 See E.Renan, The Life of Jesus (New York: Modern Library, 1927), and
A.Schweitzer, The Quest for the Historical Jesus (New York: Macmillan, 1959).
5 John Dewey, A Common Faith (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1962),
p. 20.
6 To say that there is a lack of evidence is not to say that there are not documents
to which to refer. For Christianity, certainly the Bible is such a text but it does
not function as a source of hypotheses to be independently tested. Rather it is
authoritative. The believer does not read the Bible to see if it is true but to
discover the truth.
7 Paul Tillich, for example, speaks of faith as ‘ultimate concern’ and contrasts that
with all sorts of preliminary concerns which may have to be sacrificed in the
name of what has ultimate authority. Being ultimately concerned, in this sense, is
a defining commitment. See The Dynamics of Faith (New York: Harper & Row,
1957), Chapter 1.
8 The interesting question of whether it is possible to provide an independent
philosophical argument for democracy is discussed by Rorty in a paper entitled
Themes from Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard and Nietzsche 83
85
86 Mark Addis
reference and that the believer’s claims fail to meet acceptable standards of
rationality.
The fideist is opposed to this kind of cognitivist view. A representative
formulation of the non-cognitivist sort of view is that religious language does
not refer to anything while ordinary language refers to something. It follows
that the employment of religious language does not commit the believer to
certain existential claims. Emphasis is not directed towards the idea that there
are reasonable norms of rationality about religious assertions but rather to
the metaphysical significance of the notion of expressing an attitude about
religion. Fideism holds that the non-cognitivist account does not assist in the
understanding of what religious language is actually like. It offers an
alternative conception of how non-cognitivism about religious language can
be characterised.
The difference between cognitive and non-cognitive views about religious
language can be illustrated by reflecting on the Book of Job and the picture
of the nature of God presented in it. When Job suffers his misfortunes his
first response is to seek an explanation for the events which have occurred,
but he gradually realises that he must abandon the desire for answers. In
becoming aware that events do not have a rationale. Job ceases to be
dependent upon them. The arbitrary character of his misfortunes leads Job
to see that he is not the centre of his world but that God is. For the cognitivist
sort of position, the assertion that the actions of God are not necessarily
explicable to man is making a claim about the existence of properties of God.
However, the non-cognitivist type of standpoint regards the assertion as
rather expressing an attitude towards God.
INTERNALISM
The notions of externalism and internalism play a prominent part in
Phillips’ account of his interpretation of Wittgenstein’s philosophy of
religion. According to him, the ideas of externalism and internalism are
place holders or schemas for particular theories and their content is defined
by that of the theories. Phillips defines externalism from the standpoint of
external criteria of meaning being imposed on religion.7 Externalism is
characterised as the idea of ‘constructing theories of meaning which
determine what is to count as meaning…’. His treatment of internalism is
from the perspective of internal criteria of meaning obtained from religion.8
Internalism is the view that ‘all external criteria of meaning are irrelevant
to religious belief’.
Phillips presents the idea of religious beliefs as being beyond criticism and
beyond change as an internalist position.9 He offers a possible argument for
this conclusion using the following sequence of premisses:10
FORMS OF LIFE
The internalist argument does not go through as it is presented because of
problems with premisses one and two and the resultant weakening of the
justification of premiss two by premise one.19 Aspects of Phillips’ rendition of
some of the themes which are used in the internalist argument militate against
the interpretation of Wittgenstein which is preferred here, and can be
challenged. A part of this is that there could be criticism of the reliability of a
number of Phillips’ readings. Many of Wittgenstein’s remarks on religion are
found in conversations which have low exegetical status. A desirable
exegetical methodology for attempting to deal with this problem is to
correlate the interpretation of the conversations with texts of higher
exegetical status. However, Phillips does not adopt this favoured exegetical
methodology.20
The first premiss in the internalist argument is that various aspects of the
forms of human life have distinctive meanings which must not be reduced to
a spurious unity. Phillips observes that religious beliefs would not have the
significance that they do if they were severed from the life which they are
part of.21 However, this does not make what is in religious beliefs any less
distinctive. Religious beliefs cannot be comprehended at all unless their
relation to other modes of life is taken into account.22 The meaning of
religious beliefs is partly dependent on non-religious facts, but this is not
claiming that those beliefs are justified by the facts in question.23 It is essential
D.Z.Phillips’ fideism in Wittgenstein’s mirror 89
to distinguish inquiry which occurs within a form of life from inquiry which
is about it.24 Religious concepts have their meaning within a particular form
of life but this does not imply that these notions make any claim about a
form of life.25 The life of religious institutions shows the meaning of religious
beliefs but those beliefs need not say anything about those institutions.26
There are problems with Phillips’ approach to the concept of forms of life.
There is a difference27 between the preferred reading of Wittgenstein on forms
of life28 and that which Phillips employs. Given this, it is evident that he
misappropriates Wittgenstein’s idea of forms of life. Wittgenstein employed
the notion of forms of life in at least two distinct ways. One use is to
summarise the common human way of acting—that which is particularly and
universally human. There are very general facts about human biology which
are common to the human race as a whole, for example, that a person has
one body. This use refers to the biological aspects of human nature. Another
usage is to stress differences between societies. Wittgenstein was concerned
with cultural practices in a broad way that encompassed both anthropology
and sociology. An example of cultural practices is the use of the word
‘responsibility’ in an ancient Greek legal case about a boy who threw a javelin
and accidentally killed another boy. Consideration was given to whether the
judges of the contest, the person who threw the javelin or the javelin itself
was responsible for the accident. This usage refers to the cultural aspects of
human nature.29
It is crucial whether Phillips is using a cultural or biological concept of
form of life, or whether he is not distinguishing between the two notions. If
Phillips is employing a biological idea of a form of life then he requires more
extensive arguments than he provides to support his ideas about the
relationship between understanding religious language and the religious form
of life. This is because the biological concept of form of life is about what is
universally human and thus is not specific enough to be used to identify
different particular forms of life. Phillips’ interest in the connection between
religious language and form of life would be better served by the cultural
concept of form of life as this is concerned with the identification of diverse
forms of life. It matters that it is unclear which concept of form of life he is
employing.
A more specialised issue is how the cultural concept of a form of life is to
be viewed. That is to say, is this form of life held to be a collection of religious
beliefs rather than a set of cultural practices in which questions about
religious beliefs can be asked? It is possible for a form of life to encompass
both a particular set of religious beliefs and a context in which inquiries about
religious belief can be mooted. A question raised by this is whether Phillips’
arguments would most effectively be prosecuted by a concept of a form of
life which is a collection of religious beliefs, although he is actually using the
idea of form of life in a non-specific fashion. Phillips argumentative purposes
would best be facilitated by a notion of a form of life which is a collection of
religious beliefs. A reason for this is that if a form of life is regarded as a
90 Mark Addis
context in which inquiries about religious belief can be posed it could allow
communities of different persuasions to engage in meaningful discussion
together. For example, it permits the possibility that Jews, Christians and
atheists could have intelligible debate on the existence of God. The difficulty
which possibilities of this kind creates for Phillips is that he wishes to claim
that an atheist could not find religious language comprehensible.
Phillips’ employment of the concept of forms of life to defend religious
beliefs from criticism is a central part of his fideism. A major kind of difficulty
with Phillips’ treatment of the idea of forms of life is the extent to which a
religious form of life is beyond criticism from other aspects of human life.
The Winch-MacIntyre debate about primitive societies can be applied to
Phillips’ employment of the concept of forms of life.30 The source of the
debate is Winch’s book The Idea of a Social Science.31 In this work he stated
that one cannot apply the criteria of logic to ways of social life as such.32 For
example, science is one such way and religion is another, and each has
guidelines of comprehensibility peculiar to itself. However, within science or
religion actions can be logical or illogical. Winch developed these ideas in his
subsequent writings. He criticised some versions of the view that there is (or
could be) a concept of making sense of the world which is wholly separate
from modes of social life.33 Winch also objected to the position that this
notion of making sense of the world can supply standards by reference to
which certain ways of life can be criticised as lacking rationality. Any concept
of making sense of the world is comprehensible only against the background
of ways of life and understandings of them. That is what is involved in cross-
cultural attempts to comprehend a society. Every judgment of whether a way
of life is rational has to be relativised to the culture being considered. This
claim about culturally relativised judgments may be construed as asserting
that one should take care not to ascribe one’s own standards of judgment but
ascribe instead those standards to which the other culture would give rise.34
Alasdair MacIntyre agrees with Winch to the extent that an understanding
of a culture with respect to their own notions and beliefs does actually tend
to rule out comprehending it in any other terms.35 Where MacIntyre disagrees
with Winch is in his view that in order to investigate a culture it is necessary
to inquire about what needs and aims cultural practices serve. For instance,
different cultures reflecting different schemes of concepts can be regarded as
serving the same social needs. MacIntyre’s position allows criticism of
cultures other than one’s own because the functions of cultural practices can
be considered.
In the Winch-MacIntyre debate, the idea of a primitive society can be
directly replaced by the notion of the forms of life of religious believers.36
There would be grounds which strongly militate against this application of
the debate to the notion of forms of life if Wittgenstein is read as supporting
the claim that all forms of life are equally valid and no particular form of life
could be criticised. It is useful to consider a few brief examples of
Wittgenstein’s attitude to criticising certain forms of life. In the ‘Lectures on
D.Z.Phillips’ fideism in Wittgenstein’s mirror 91
Religious Belief’, he wanted individuals to pause and reflect about when they
should combat a religious language that is not theirs (or their culture’s).
Another instance is Wittgenstein’s approach to groundless beliefs. The ideas
that some beliefs are groundless ones which a community cannot live without
and that a number of these groundless beliefs are primitive are found in On
Certainty. The application of criticisms from the Winch-MacIntyre debate to
Phillips’ use of the concept of forms of life shows that it is possible to think
that a religious form of life can be critiqued from outside of that particular
form of life. The discussion of the Winch-MacIntyre debate about criticism
of forms of life leads to the question of what role the cultural aspects of
religious beliefs have. Arguably, there is much insight to be gained from
looking at the cultural dimensions of religious beliefs without going as far as
Phillips does with his employment of the notion of forms of life. For example,
MacIntyre maintains that there is much to learn from studying the history
and anthropology of religious beliefs.37 Phillips acknowledges the cultural
dimension of religious beliefs. An instance of this is that he comments that in
current culture the settings of religious beliefs are increasingly seen as cultural
divergences38 and that for many people these beliefs have become alien
cultural practices.39 Difficulties begin to occur with Phillips’ handling of
Wittgenstein’s philosophy of religion when he tries to go significantly beyond
merely recognising the cultural aspects of religion.
Phillips claims that a language is associated with a form of life.40 For
example, in western Europe the language-games of religious believers and non-
believers are associated with different forms of life. Belief and non-belief do
not appear to be opposites within a common framework of belief. Becoming a
believer seems to be an alteration of direction rather than an alteration of
opinion.41 A major strand of critical thought about Phillips’ handling of
religious language-games is concerned with the consequences of his views for
how the notion of the form of life is regarded. Nielsen is opposed to what he
judges to be the excessive compartmentalisation of the forms of social life
involved in maintaining that there are distinct religious language-games.42 He
thinks that this excessive compartmentalisation leads to the undesirable
consequence that the language of distinct religious groups, such as different
denominations of Christians, is incommensurable.43 Nielsen suggests that the
implications of distinct religious language-games do extend across the
boundaries of the language-game into assertions concerning matters which lie
beyond them. He holds that religious language is not something which is
isolated and sufficient to itself. What constitutes evidence for the truth or
reliability of particular assertions is not completely peculiar to the context or
activity being considered. Activities are not that separate from one another.
An issue which arises out of Phillips’ treatment of language-games is that
of the correspondence between distinct language games and forms of life.
There is a complex relation between a language-game and the forms of life it
is associated with.44 The form of life is part of the framework within which
language occurs. Merely recognising important linguistic differences between
92 Mark Addis
LANGUAGE GAMES
The second premiss in the internalist argument is that there is division of human
life into strict compartments, each autonomous as far as its meaning is
concerned. The autonomous meanings of the divisions of human life are
distinct language-games, and each distinct meaning is a distinct language-game.
Phillips discusses the diversity of religious language in general terms.46 He
remarks that it should not be thought that different linguistic employments are
all variations of a single paradigm use. Frequently, the uses of language are
distinct and will be not be properly comprehended if their particular nature is
not noticed. Phillips maintains that religious beliefs are distinct language-games
because they are not linked to what lies outside religion as what is justified is to
its justification. He claims that justification for religious beliefs stops, and the
attempt to find justification for religious belief is a case of not being aware of
where to stop.47 Phillips contends that religious beliefs are not accountable to
justification by some philosophical standard, and that he arrives at this position
as a consequence of reflection rather than having it as an assumption from
which he starts. It does not make sense to request proof of the validity of
religious beliefs.48 The desire for a foundation for religion is an instance of
seeking justification beyond the point where it is sensible to do so.49
Phillips considers that doubts about the philosophical representation of
religious beliefs as distinct language-games lead to attempts to demonstrate
that their religious conclusions are reached by rational guidelines.50 From the
perspective of there being rational guidelines, disagreements about religion
between believers and non-believers are disputes between opposing
hypotheses. The truth is elicited by the testing of hypotheses and the rejection
of the false.51 Unless it can be demonstrated that believers and non-believers
D.Z.Phillips’ fideism in Wittgenstein’s mirror 93
uniform way. However, Wittgenstein did not treat language-games in the same
fashion in all his writings. Due to this there could not be a single conception of
a language-game of the kind which Phillips seeks in Wittgenstein. There are
differences between how language-games, when regarded in the sense of a
model for understanding language, are viewed in Wittgenstein’s middle-period
and later work. In the Brown Book, Wittgenstein experimented with the ideas
of seeing language-games as miniature models of what language is, and the
extent to which the language-game method could provide an account of what
language is. In the Philosophical Investigations, he thought that (invented)
language-games can illuminate our language by exhibiting similarities and
differences with it. An important consequence of these differences is that if
Wittgenstein’s changing perspective on language-games is to be taken seriously
then language-games cannot be properly treated by just one account, as Phillips
attempts to do. For instance, Phillips discusses the idea of the completeness of
language-games. He observes that a reason why Wittgenstein remarked that
every language game is complete is that he wanted to remove the assumption
that all propositions have a general form.58 However, Wittgenstein was not
concerned with the notion of the completeness of language-games in the Brown
Book. In his later work, he tended to think that focusing on the completeness
of language-games obscures the way in which they should be used in the
understanding of language because the goal of the philosopher is not
completeness or exactness but the resolution of philosophical problems. What
this example points towards is that Phillips’ uniform treatment of distinct
religious language-games would not fit comfortably with Wittgenstein’s ideas
about language-games.
A significant issue is whether there could be substantive justification for
the idea of distinct religious language-games from Wittgenstein’s concept of
grammar.59 The grammatical ideas found in Wittgenstein could have varying
degrees of applicability to distinct religious language-games, but stating that
there is this applicability is not the same as providing the required
justification. In order to supply this justification it is necessary to extend his
idea of grammar to produce a grammar of a distinct religious language-game.
This raises the question of whether there are any exegetical grounds for the
extension of Wittgenstein’s notion of grammar in this fashion. Examples of
the way in which there would be extensions are the ideas that there is a
distinct identifiable grammar for a distinct language-game, and that there
are grammars for distinct language-games which are clearly separable from
one another. What these cases suggest is that exegetical backing for the kind
of extension required of Wittgenstein’s concept of grammar is problematic.
On a more speculative note, it is worth considering why Phillips might be
tempted to adhere to the interpretation that he does about Wittgenstein’s
attitude to the idea of distinct religious language-games. A reason for this
might relate to one of Phillips’ overall goals in the philosophy of religion,
namely to defend religious beliefs against criticism. If there are distinct
religious language-games (taken in conjunction with other views that Phillips
D.Z.Phillips’ fideism in Wittgenstein’s mirror 95
holds) which are only comprehensible to those who share in the form of life,
it follows that anyone who does not partake in the relevant form of life cannot
criticise these distinct religious language-games. The desirability of this
position for the defence of religious beliefs against criticism is evident, and
therefore a possible motivation for Phillips’ reading of Wittgenstein on
distinct religious language-games emerges.
CONCEPTION OF PHILOSOPHY
Wittgenstein’s objective when doing philosophy was to dissolve philosophical
problems.60 He exclusively used grammatical investigation when considering
philosophical problems as he regarded it as the only method which could
clear up philosophical confusion. For Wittgenstein philosophical inquiry is
not the most general of the sciences (PI §109): rather philosophy makes itself
redundant by exposing the abuses of language which have generated it (PI
§§109 and 255). He thought that philosophy was purely descriptive. Phillips’
view is that Wittgenstein’s concept of philosophy leaves everything where it
is.61 He was not altering anything that lay before him, but was aiming to be
clear about it. There is a difference between the idea that Wittgenstein’s
concept of philosophy leaves everything as it is and the view that it does not
permit criticism of any kind at all. Wittgenstein did not leave certain kinds of
rationalism and scientism, and the criticism, justification and explanation of
religion stemming from them, where they are. He achieved this by appealing
to what already lies before us. Wittgenstein sought to reflect and elucidate
the grammar of religious notions. It is inappropriate to request the meaning
of a religious language-game if asking this implies that there could be some
other answer than explication in religious terms of the content of this
language. Wittgenstein’s concern with religious practice was closely linked
with his view that philosophy leaves everything as it is. His focus on religious
practice has been deeply misunderstood in contemporary work on the
philosophy of religion. Phillips maintains that it is not possible to give a
simple account of what Wittgenstein’s philosophy amounts to.
A significant question is whether Wittgenstein’s concept of philosophy
permits the possibility of criticism of religion in a way which goes against
Phillips’ position. For example, in the first of the ‘Lectures on Religious
Belief’, Wittgenstein was at pains to stress that the relationship between the
believer and the atheist is not one of contradiction. However, when he
proceeded to consider whether the believer and the atheist understand each
other (LC, p. 55), he was careful to avoid an explicit commitment to the view
that neither comprehends the other. The mere possibility that the atheist could
understand the believer in this fashion cuts directly across Phillips’ attempts
to defend religion against criticism. It remains to be shown that this manner
of viewing the atheist is incompatible with Wittgenstein’s concept of
philosophy. That is to say, there is no immediate move from his notion of
philosophy to the exclusion of this position about the atheist.
96 Mark Addis
NOTES
1 The phrase ‘Wittgensteinian fideism’ (referred to here as ‘fideism’) appears to
have been introduced by Kai Nielsen, in ‘Wittgensteinian Fideism’, Philosophy,
vol. 42, (1967) 191–209.
2 There is a great deal of dispute over fideism which it is not possible to consider
here. A representative contribution to the debate is Patrick Sherry, Religion,
Truth and Language-Games (London: Macmillan, 1977).
3 Other prominent fideists are Malcolm and Winch.
4 Phillips’ writings are voluminous, so it is necessary to consider only selected
aspects of them. His ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life: The Confusions of
Externalism and Internalism’, in F.Crosson (ed.), The Autonomy of Religious
98 Mark Addis
Belief (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1981), pp. 60–92 (which is
a contracted version of his Belief, Change and Forms of Life [Basingstoke:
Macmillan, 1986]) is selected as a key text because of his claims that it is a
representative summary of his views.
5 The question of whether Phillips’ critics have been fair to him will not be covered
here. For his responses to his critics, see his ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’.
6 The position presented here is a kind of fideism (as understood in its general
sense). This is because having religious faith is a prerequisite for taking part in
rational discussions of that faith.
7 ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’, p. 61.
8 Ibid., p. 62.
9 Ibid.
10 Ibid, p. 61. This argument will be referred to as the internalist argument. It is
worth observing that the premisses of the internalist argument constitute an
argument for the conclusion that religious beliefs are beyond criticism from other
aspects of human life. However, none of these premisses give any reason for
holding that religious beliefs do not change. Being beyond criticism is different
from being beyond change. Arguably, Phillips should not be putting these two
ideas together to constitute the internalist position.
11 Provided the premiss ‘Philosophical confusions may be generated by the
obscuring of these distinctive meanings’ is taken in conjunction with this.
12 See ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’.
13 Ibid., p. 62.
14 Ibid.
15 Ibid.
16 Even if this should turn out not to be the strongest form of internalism possible,
it is clearly a very strong version of internalism.
17 ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’, p. 62. Exploring fully the matter of whether
Phillips is an internalist of a weaker kind would lead too far afield and will not
be pursued.
18 The interpretations of Wittgenstein’s writings will not be defended in any
systematic way and the view of these issues will draw upon Gorden Baker’s and
Peter Hacker’s work—see their Wittgenstein: Meaning and Understanding
(Oxford: Blackwell, 1980) and Rules, Grammar and Necessity (Oxford: Blackwell,
1985).
19 The meaning of premisses 3–5 of the internalist argument requires further
elucidation. However, this matter will not be considered here.
20 For example, he likes using conversations which are not matched up with
writings that have higher exegetical authority.
21 See ‘Wittgenstein’s Full Stop’ in his Wittgenstein and Religion (Basingstoke:
Macmillan, 1993), p. xiii.
22 See his ‘Religious Beliefs and Language Games’, Ratio, vol. 12 (1970), p. 39.
23 Ibid., p. 41.
24 See Phillips, ‘Mysticism and Epistemology: One Devil of a Problem’, Faith and
Philosophy, 12, vol. 2 (1995):170.
25 See Phillips, ‘Religion and Epistemology: Some Contemporary Confusions’,
Australasian Journal of Philosophy, vol. 44 (1966):318.
26 See Phillips, ‘From World to God’, Aristotelian Society, vol. 41 (1967):151.
27 For instance, Fergus Kerr argues that the concept of forms of life cannot be used
as some fideists like it to be, given Wittgenstein’s texts—see his Theology After
Wittgenstein (London: SPCK, 1997), p. 28.
28 For general views of how Wittgenstein employed the concept of forms of life, see
Rudolf Haller, Questions on Wittgenstein (London: Routledge, 1988), pp. 129–
36; also see Baker and Hacker, Rules, Grammar and Necessity, Chapter V.
D.Z.Phillips’ fideism in Wittgenstein’s mirror 99
29 Baker and Hacker (in Rules, Grammar and Necessity, pp. 238–43) argue that
the concept of forms of life is fundamentally about the cultural aspects of human
nature. They would disagree with the distinction between the two strands of the
notion of forms of life.
30 A different sort of reason for considering the Winch-MacIntyre debate is that it
shows that this major controversy in the philosophy of social science has far-
reaching implications for the philosophy of religion.
31 Peter Winch, The Idea of a Social Science and its Relation to Philosophy
(London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1988).
32 Ibid, p. 100.
33 ‘Understanding a Primitive Society’, in his Ethics and Action (London: Routledge
& Kegan Paul, 1972), pp. 8–49.
34 Winch further discusses these themes in his ‘Language, Belief and Relativism’,
Trying to Make Sense (Oxford: Blackwell, 1987).
35 See his Against the Self-Images of the Age (London: Duckworth, 1983), p. 229.
36 This replacement is possible because primitive and religious forms of life are
both identifiable forms of life.
37 See his After Virtue, 2nd edn. (London: Duckworth, 1985).
38 ‘The Devil’s Disguises: Philosophy of Religion, “Objectivity” and “Cultural
Divergence”’, Philosophy, vol. 83 supplement (1984):71.
39 Ibid, p. 62.
40 ‘Belief, Change and Forms of Life’, p. 60.
41 ‘Primitive Reactions and Reactions of Primitives’, Religious Studies, vol. 22
(1986):168.
42 ‘Wittgensteinian Fideism’, pp. 207f.
43 There are many theories of incommensurability. The notion of
incommensurability being used here is that speakers are not able to
communicate because their words do not have the same meanings. This is one
version of denying the commensurability of religious and non-religious
language-games.
44 For a discussion of language-games, see Baker and Hacker, Wittgenstein:
Meaning and Understanding, Chapter III.
45 Phillips offers a variety of different grounds for the idea that there are distinctive
religious language-games. For example, in ‘Wittgenstein’s Full Stop’
(Wittgenstein and Religion) he remarks that the claim for the distinctiveness of
religious language-games grows out of what actual usage demonstrates. It can
never be any sort of dogma or methodological postulate forced on language.
However, these claims are unclear as they stand and thus do not counter the
criticisms of Phillips’ usage of language-games raised above. What this example
suggests is that there is no plausible and easy way to demonstrate that religious
language-games are distinct.
46 See his ‘Religious Beliefs and Language Games’, Ratio, 12 (1970), pp. 26–46.
47 ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’.
48 ‘Religious Beliefs and Language Games’, pp. 45f.
49 ‘Religion and Epistemology: Some Contemporary Confusions’, p. 317.
50 ‘Religious Beliefs and Language Games’, p. 30.
51 ‘Primitive Reactions and Reactions of Primitives’, pp. 167f.
52 ‘Religious Beliefs and Language Games’, p. 30.
53 Ibid., p. 27.
54 Ibid.
55 Ibid., p. 37.
56 See ‘Religious Beliefs and Language Games’.
57 Ibid.
58 Ibid., p. 37.
100 Mark Addis
59 The most complete study of this notion is by Baker and Hacker in Rules,
Grammar and Necessity.
60 For an account of his conception of philosophy, see Baker and Hacker,
Wittgenstein: Meaning and Understanding, pp. 259–93.
61 See his ‘Religion in Wittgenstein’s Mirror’, Philosophy, vol. 90, supplement
(1991): 135–50.
62 Ibid.
63 See ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’.
64 See ‘Religion in Wittgenstein’s Mirror’.
65 ‘Belief, Change, and Forms of Life’.
66 ‘Religion and Epistemology: Some Contemporary Confusions’, p. 320.
67 For example, he comments that there are clashes between different concepts of
what religious truth comes to in different religions, and embracing one of these
concepts as true is itself a religious act (‘Mysticism and Epistemology: One Devil
of a Problem’, p. 183). It is worth noting that there is a connection between the
notions of act and practice. It seems reasonable that instead of his view,
acceptance of one of these concepts could be characterised as adopting a religious
belief.
68 See Fergus Kerr, Theology After Wittgenstein.
69 Thanks are due to Bob Arrington and Alan Bailey for comments.
7 Wittgensteinian religion and
‘reformed’ epistemology
Paul Helm
In this paper I wish to explore some of the similarities and differences between
the philosophical approach to religion that is characteristic of Wittgenstein
(WR), as this approach has been identified and developed by some of his
interpreters, and what has come to be called ‘reformed’ epistemology (RE).
The exploration is confined to epistemological and metaphysical issues1
SOME SIMILARITIES
Call ‘externalism’ the view that to be rationally tenable religious belief
requires vindication by considerations which are non-religious. Both RE and
WR2 deny such externalism. In the case of RE the denial of externalism is an
epistemological claim arising out of a critique of classical foundationalism,
while in the case of WR the denial of externalism is more principled and
more radical, being maintained on conceptual or ‘grammatical’ grounds.
The sense in which RE denies externalism can be brought out by briefly
reviewing its critique of foundationalism in religion.
Foundationalism is the view that lies at the heart of classical natural
theology, and at the heart of foundationalism lies a principled contrast
between propositions which are foundational (because, for example, they are
not inferred from any other propositions because they are evident to the
senses) and further propositions inferred from such foundational
propositions. The relation between foundations and superstructure is thus
asymmetrical. If p supports q and r, then q and r cannot support p. And if S
is the set of foundational propositions, then any justifiable proposition is
supported by S. Foundationalism asserts that a proposition can be justifiably
believed only if it is either (in Plantinga’s terminology) ‘properly basic’ or is
suitably related to a proposition which is properly basic. We find such a view
in Aquinas: ‘From effects evident to us, therefore, we can demonstrate what
in itself is not evident to us, namely, that God exists.’3 In this case the evident
is what is foundational, the non-evident is what is inferred from what is
evident. Aquinas attempts such demonstrations in his Five Ways, moving in
101
102 Paul Helm
Plantinga makes two criticisms of this view. The first is that it is too
restrictive. For if strong foundationalism were true, then it would rule out as
irrational myriad beliefs which we accept unquestioningly—for example,
beliefs about other people than myself, and about other times than the
present, to look no further.
I believe, for example, that I had lunch this noon. I do not believe this
proposition on the basis of other propositions; I take it as basic: it is in
the foundations of my noetic structure. Furthermore I am entirely
rational in so taking it, even though this proposition is neither self-evident
nor evident to the senses nor incorrigible for me.6
There are two points being made here. One is that as a matter of fact there
are many propositions we believe, and are entitled to believe, which do not
rest upon other, more basic, propositions that make them rationally
believable. Plantinga is making a move here that is typical of that type of
epistemologist which Roderick Chisholm has called ‘particularist’. He is
appealing to particular examples of belief, noting their character, and in effect
saying: ‘If anything is a case of rational belief, this is. And so no theory or
criterion of what rational belief must be like which calls the rationality of
such beliefs into question can be warranted.’ The other point is that such
propositions are to be believed, i.e. we are entitled to believe them even
though they are not evident to the senses. In other words, strong
foundationalism is unnecessary for epistemic justification. As far as one can
see, Plantinga does not give an argument for this view, but makes an appeal
to our normal procedures. He does not say that we cannot provide a
justification for our everyday beliefs, but that we need not do so. (Perhaps he
could appeal to a principle of credulity here.) We do not first have a theory
and then accept those beliefs which accord with the theory; we have certain
beliefs which we take to be paradigmatically rational.
His second criticism is more serious. Plantinga claims that such strong
foundationalism is self-referentially incoherent. That is, it does not satisfy, in
itself, the conditions it lays down for the rationality of any belief. It states
that a proposition is properly basic for a person only if that proposition is
evident to that person’s senses. But this proposition, the one that I have just
identified, is itself none of these things. Strong foundationalism is an
interesting philosophical proposal. It is one that many philosophers have
accepted. But it is not self-evidently true and therefore we are not required,
even as strong foundationalists, to accept it. The paradox is that no strong
foundationalist need accept strong foundationalism. It is neither self-evident
nor incorrigible nor evident to the senses.
So strong foundationalism is indefensible as offering a necessary condition
for any rational belief. Though we may opt for strong foundationalism, there
is nothing compelling about it. But, as I have noted, having rejected strong
foundationalism Plantinga does not for that reason reject foundationalism in
104 Paul Helm
all its shapes and sizes. He reckons that our noetic structures do have a
foundationalist character. But if strong foundationalism is not required, if it
cannot be required for the reasons given, then other versions of
foundationalism, if not required, are most certainly permitted. And among
these other versions, according to Plantinga, is what might be termed theistic
foundationalism. A person is entirely within his epistemic rights in believing
that (say) God has created the world, even if he or she has no argument for
this. The belief that God exists and has created the world can be basic and
thus form part of the foundations of a person’s noetic structure.
The presence of such beliefs in the foundations of a person’s noetic
structure is not arbitrary, according to Plantinga, if they are properly
grounded, as they might be as a result of certain experiences that person has
had, or having certain beliefs ineluctably formed in one on certain occasions.
In Faith After Foundationalism7 D.Z.Phillips offers a root-and-branch
critique of RE, but it has to be said that this critique contains inaccurate and
misleading characterisations of RE and consequently makes the differences
between RE and WR sharper than is in fact the case. He claims that by
comparison with the sort of embeddedness that basic propositions in the
language-game of religion have, according to WR, the basic propositions of
RE seem isolated and even arbitrary.8 But this is to misunderstand the
position, for the following reason.
Take the situation where a person believes in God, such belief being at the
center of a whole host of other beliefs and activities, indeed at the center of
his life. Plantinga himself suggests such connectedness in relation to personal
beliefs about guilt and deliverance, appreciation of the natural world, and so
on. In view of this it seems plainly inaccurate for Phillips to say, about RE,
that ‘we are not shown the way in which belief in God underlies other things
in the noetic structure’.9 That is the very thing we are shown! For what RE
characteristically asserts is that numerous claims abut God, about the fact
that he exists but more especially that he is the creator and that he forgives
sin are properly foundational for the believer, and that such claims are as
central to his or her life as are claims about memory, say, or about other
minds.
Phillips at times comes near to seeing this connectedness. He recognises
that for the RE ‘belief in God seems to be placed in the context of a living
faith in which it has its sense’.10 And it is plainly false to say, as Phillips does,
that Plantinga treats the conditions (in which it is appropriate to say that
God exists) as no more than prima facie justifications of belief in God. They
are such justifications, but they are a lot more than that. And they are prima
facie justifications in the sense in which my belief that I am sitting on a chair
is prima facie justification for believing that there is a chair in the room. My
belief may be defeated, for I could be mistaken; but such a belief can also be
reinstated, since the defeater can itself be defeated. In the meantime, in the
absence of defeaters, I continue to justifiably believe it is a chair that I am
sitting on. In the same way the religious believer justifiably continues to shape
Wittgensteinian religion and ‘reformed’ epistemology 105
his life by his religious beliefs. From a theoretical point of view, according to
RE belief in God is probable, like the belief that I’m sitting on a chair, and my
belief that mountains have existed for a very long time. But in the absence of
defeaters that belief amounts to certainty for all practical purposes, like the
belief that I presently have that I’m sitting on a chair.
As RE characterises religious belief, such belief does not start from the
basic propositions in a temporal sense but only in a logical sense. When
Phillips says11 that one cannot start from these propositions because they have
their sense and are held fast by all that surrounds them, he appears to be
denying the possibility of being able to reflect rationally upon one’s belief
and their grounds while still holding them fast, the second-order activity that
is characteristic of much philosophy, including RE. In rationally reflecting on
the foundations of religious belief, RE is not proposing that the believer starts
from such propositions in the sense that he first establishes, in isolation, the
foundational propositions and then proceeds step by step to build the
superstructure. Rather the reverse. For Plantinga religious belief is prima facie
justified just in case it is part of the way of life of the believer. In no sense is
Plantinga holding that for the believer the belief that God exists is a
provisional belief, provisional until he can discover the appropriate criterion
of justification. Rather, the believer is fully and permanently entitled to have
the proposition that God exists in the foundations of his noetic structure.12
There is also evidence of confusion in Phillips’ discussion over what exactly
RE’s version of foundationalism implies. For Plantinga, the claim that under
certain circumstances I see a tree is properly basic, but not strongly
foundational. That is, under certain circumstances a person is entitled to have
such a proposition in the foundations of his noetic structure. Nor is Plantinga
searching for ‘an incorrigible proposition of sense experience’. 13 He
specifically denies that incorrigibility is necessary for proper basicality. Nor
is Plantinga searching for ‘conceptions of minimal experiences, experiences
which are immediate and cannot be mistaken’. Nor does he say that certain
experiences are the justifications for saying ‘I see a tree’.14
So WR and RE have this in common: the belief that God exists is not an
isolated belief, contingently related to other beliefs about him and other
matters and the practice of religion. Where they differ is over the sense of
asking second order questions about such beliefs. RE admits a high degree of
reflectiveness about religious belief and its epistemic foundations, but for
Phillips the very idea of critically reflecting upon one’s beliefs in this vein
betrays a failure to understand the sense of religion. Another difference is
over the propriety of admitting defeaters. For Plantinga there is distinction
between what is necessary to make religious belief reasonable and what might
defeat the reasonableness of the belief. Nothing that has a non-religious
character is required for making religious beliefs reasonable, but such a
reasonable belief may be defeated by evidence; for example, the
reasonableness of the belief that God exists may be defeated by the existence
of evil. The reasonableness of the belief will be reinstated if and when the
106 Paul Helm
SOME DIFFERENCES
accepted as basic by all those who have an opinion on the matter’.27 ‘While it
is possible for an individual to accept the existence of God as basic…it is
equally clear that the existence of a God with attributes resembling those of
the God of Western theism is not something which has been universally
believed by the human race’.28 It is not therefore a fundamental belief. It is
not universally believed, and therefore cannot be a fundamental belief in the
required sense. Here Kenny comes close to equating ‘fundamental’ to basic
in the sense in which this is used in strong foundationalism.
But ‘universally basic’29 is ambiguous. It can be taken in a distributive
sense, as a remark about the belief structures of everyone. When taken in this
sense, it is doubtful if there is a common set of such fundamental beliefs (in
Kenny’s sense) held by all intelligent and perceptive human beings, i.e.
universally believed by the human race. Take, for instance, the claim that
Australia exists (another of Kenny’s examples), or that the earth has existed
for many years. I suppose that not every intelligent and perceptive human
being who has an opinion on the matter of the existence of Australia or the
age of the earth holds that Australia exists or that the earth has existed for
many years. The earth is approximately spherical’ seems another good
candidate for a fundamental proposition, but I don’t suppose that all
intelligent and perceptive human beings at present believe that the earth is
approximately spherical, and in any case this seems to be a belief that has
only fairly recently been acquired by human beings. So there are very few, if
any, universally basic propositions.
And certainly Wittgenstein did not think that in order for a proposition to
be fundamental it must be held by everyone in an unvarying fashion. For
Wittgenstein: The same propositions get treated at one time as something to
test by experience and at another as a rule of testing.’30 So a fundamental
belief for Wittgenstein is always a fundamental belief held at a time.
According to Wittgenstein, in any given situation of life there are propositions
that we presuppose, propositions such as: ‘I was born’; The earth has existed
for many years’; ‘There are human beings’. The truth or falsity of such
propositions is not investigated simply because their acceptance underlies the
very business of investigating questions of truth and falsity in regard to other
matters. The fact that we presuppose them in this way does not mean that
such propositions are necessary truths; they may have been discovered and
then become part of the stock of presuppositions. Nor does it mean that they
are ‘self-evidently true’, for there may be those for whom such claims are not
self-evidently true. And (presumably) as a result of cultural and other changes
certain such propositions may cease to be presuppositions. Such propositions
underlie our normal activities in a tacit and unquestioned way; they are taken
for granted.
I am told, for example, that someone climbed this mountain many years
ago. Do I always enquire into the reliability of the teller of this story, and
whether the mountains did exist years ago? A child learns there are reliable
Wittgensteinian religion and ‘reformed’ epistemology 111
and unreliable informants much later than it learns facts which are told it.
It does not learn at all that that mountain has existed for a long time: that
is, the question whether it is so doesn’t arise at all. It swallows this
consequence down, so to speak, together with what it learns.31
Anyone who has had experience of the curiosity of children will think that
what Wittgenstein says here is plainly false!
Phillips understands the role of such fundamental propositions rather
differently from Kenny. Kenny envisages them as one of a disjunctive set of
foundational beliefs which might justify belief in God (though Kenny thinks
that they fail to do so).
According to Phillips, by contrast, it is precisely their role as basic
propositions (in whatever language-game they feature, the language-game of
religion or some other) that exempts them from doubt for anyone who
participates in the language-game. So the basic propositions are
nonhypothetical,32 not liable to be overturned, not because they are logically
necessary33 but because they are groundless34 but given in the form of life.
The basic propositions show how things are,35 for there is no conception of
how things are that is independent of all human practices.
But the basicness of such propositions is not such that they cannot change.
Some propositions can be demoted from performing the role of being basic
in this sense, and others can be promoted. Phillips allows that there is two-
way traffic between grammar, and facts and theories. It is particularly
obvious in the case of science—but presumably it is true also of religious
language-games, though perhaps less obviously so.
The difference may be seen in the fact that according to WR God really exists.
Here is a typical passage from Phillips:
Two things about this. It is clear from such passages that WR asserts the
‘reality’ of God, and if to assert the reality of A is to be realist about A then
WR is realist about God. But, on the other hand, the reality of God is a kind
of reality, distinctive from other kinds; not that the reality of God is necessary
while the reality of other objects is contingent, but that the reality of God is
internal to the form of life of religion: it makes sense to affirm God’s
existence, or to doubt it, only within the language-game of religion. But then
the reality of physical objects is, for WR, on this view, a parallel kind of
reality, bound up with the language-games of common sense, and of sciences
such as physics and chemistry.
It is illuminating to compare the language-game of science and the
language-game of religion as these are understood in WR. For Phillips, the
reality of God is internal to the language-game of religion; the reality of
electrons is internal to the language-game of science; that of tables and chairs
to the language-game of physical objects, and so on. This is a denial of one
form of realism. But the denial of this form of realism in science, say, does
not mean that Phillips advocates or is committed to instrumentalism or
pragmatism in science. For there are truths about science, but these truths are
to be understood—get their meaning—from the language-game of science.
So there are realities, plural. Is this realism or anti-realism?
One test would be this. On the view of RE, every particular thing that
exists either is God or is created by God. The most basic action of all is the
creation of the universe. According to RE, God has created the heavens and
the earth. There is thus one order of mundane reality that owes its existence
to God. Mundane truth is a unity, unified, ultimately, in the one creative
action of God. How does WR handle divine creation? Not in this way, but by
treating creation as an exclusively religious concept which allows no
possibility of intersection or conflict with, say, natural science or metaphysics.
So the sort of realism affirmed by RE and WR, in turn, is different.
Another test would be this. A fundamental feature of Judeo-Christian
Wittgensteinian religion and ‘reformed’ epistemology 115
POSTSCRIPT
As briefly noted earlier, there is a further sense in which some interpreters of
WR have argued for realism in religion and also at the same time upheld an
externalist view of religion. This involves postulating a close connection
between religion and ethics, and in fact insisting on a particular ethical
interpretation of religion. According to this interpretation, morality, and
particularly religious morality, does not depend upon the way things go, as,
say, consequentialism in ethics does. Morality is severed from consequence
and from teleology. Thus prayer, as I have noted, is a way of reconciling the
one who prays to the contingencies of his life, a way of overcoming life by
submitting appropriately to its vagaries. So the integrity of religion does not
depend upon what happens; to link devotion to God to how things turn out,
to make the one hinge on the other, is a mark of superstition, not of true
religion. This same approach is to be found in Phillips’ treatment of the
problem of evil, according to which the very idea of seeking justification for
evil is regarded as deeply irreligious and corrupt.
On such a strongly ethical view of religion the possession of eternal life,
and the nature of the truly religious life, are ways in which a person may see
his or her life from this non-teleological perspective. God is not a cause of
anything in life, and to invoke him in a truly and consistently religious fashion
is not to seek for an explanation of what is occurring in terms of the divine
purpose. Much less is it to seek a divine intervention in one’s life. Life has no
purpose, and good and evil have no purpose, and the truly religious response
to this state of affairs is to reconcile oneself to this fate by living selflessly,
dying to oneself within this purposelessness. Nothing outside such morality
can recommend it. And a person who lives her life in a way that does not
depend upon how things go for her is at the same time invulnerable. She
cannot be harmed.
The realism that this approach to religion through ethics delivers is pretty
thin by comparison to the robust metaphysical realism of Alvin Plantinga. It
consists largely in an endorsement of an approach to ethics and to religion
which views it from a self-less vantage point, ethics sub specie aeternitatis.
But this is not because there is an eternal vantage point; rather, the one who
116 Paul Helm
adopts such an idea in a regulative fashion will be able to detach ethics from
self-interest.
The externalism of morality here, its independence from any other
consideration than its own character, is at the same time the affirmation of
an intrinsic connection between morality and religion. These claims are
clearly connected with the contextual character of the meaning of religion
discussed earlier.
Quite apart from the problems with this account of meaning, such a view
of morality raises further interesting questions in the context of our overall
discussion. For one thing, there are different senses in which WR’s denial of
the connection between ethics and how things go might be taken. The most
obvious way is to take it as rejecting any possibility of an ethical justification
of the existence of evil—the rejection of any justification of evil by reference
to the good that God will bring out of it, for example. Or it may be taken as
placing a ban on any response to the fact of evil other than the response of a
certain kind of submission to it.
The earlier discussion of defeaters will have made it evident that RE could
not consistently accept this second position. But RE may be consistent with
the first position. Individuals who are prominent in RE, notably Alvin
Plantinga, have been very active in developing responses to the problem, or
problems, of evil. But these are not moral responses. Rather they rest on
logical and metaphysical claims, claims about the nature of human freedom
and about the logical consistency of sets of propositions concerning God and
human evil. Perhaps there is something intrinsic to RE which rules out a
theodicy, as opposed to a defence. Or perhaps theodicies are possible, but not
necessary. But now I am moving out of my chosen territory, a straight
comparison between RE and WR in respect of epistemological and
metaphysical issues, into areas which are not of the esse of RE, and may not
be of its bene esse46
NOTES
1 Which is not to say that there are not other significant points of comparison,
given that ‘reformed’ epistemology finds its inspiration in an aspect of the
Reformer John Calvin’s references to the sensus divinitatis. Wittgenstein’s own
belief that there is something basically wrong with human beings has striking
points of contact with Calvin’s belief in radical human evil. (See Norman
Malcolm, Wittgenstein: A Religious Point of View?, edited, with a response, by
Peter Winch, Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994, pp. 87–8). A still further
area of comparison is between the idea of religious language-games and William
Alston’s idea of doxastic practices as developed in Perceiving God (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 1991).
2 I shall take Alvin Plantinga as the spokesman for RE, and confine my remarks to
the earlier, internalist phase of his epistemology, that to be found in ‘Reason and
Belief in God’, for example (in A.Plantinga and N.Wolterstorff (eds), Faith and
Rationality Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983). And besides
Wittgenstein (of course) I shall take D.Z.Phillips and Sir Anthony Kenny (and,
Wittgensteinian religion and ‘reformed’ epistemology 117
25 Ibid., p. 32.
26 Ibid., p. 33.
27 Anthony Kenny, What Is Faith? (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), p. 34.
28 Ibid., p. 35.
29 Ibid., p. 22.
30 Quoted by Kenny, op. cit., p. 23.
31 Wittgenstein, On Certainty §143, quoted in D.Z.Phillips, Faith After
Foundationalism, p. 40.
32 Phillips thinks that an interpretation of Wittgenstein’s On Certainty which takes
the basic beliefs to be hypothetical should appeal to RE (Faith After
Foundationalism, p. 58), but there is no evidence of interest on the part of RE in
Wittgenstein on this topic.
33 Faith After Foundationalism, p. 65.
34 Ibid., p. 63.
35 Ibid., p. 59.
36 Wittgenstein, On Certainty §167, quoted by Phillips, Faith After
Foundationalism, p. 64.
37 The relativism of basic propositions to times and places is clearly brought out by
Phillips, Faith After Foundationalism, pp. 59–61.
38 ‘Reformed epistemology’ is a particular approach to religious epistemology.
As such the approach says nothing directly about the nature of God’s reality. But
reformed epistemologists as a matter of fact have views on the reality of God,
and it is these views that I shall seek to identify and comment upon. These views
are shared by those who take other epistemological positions, e.g. classical
natural theology. And for all I know there are those who take a different view of
the nature of the reality of God that are nevertheless committed to a version of
RE.
39 Plantinga, op. cit., p. 78.
40 Proceedings of the American Philosophical Association (1992–93), pp. 47–70.
41 De Veritate Q. 1, A. 6 Respondeo (quoted in Plantinga, ‘How to Be an Anti-
Realist’, p. 68).
42 Though problems are surely raised by the fact of religious pluralism. For
Plantinga on pluralism, see ‘A Defence of Religious Exclusivism’, in Thomas D.
Senor (ed.), The Rationality of Belief and the Plurality of Faith (Ithaca, NY:
Cornell University Press, 1995).
43 Robin Le Poidevin, Arguing For Atheism (London: Routledge, 1996), pp. 118–
19.
44 Phillips, Faith and Philosophical Enquiry, p. 3.
45 D.Z.Phillips, The Concept of Prayer (London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1965).
46 I am grateful to Peter Byrne for his comments on an earlier draft of this paper.
8 Wittgenstein and the
interpretation of religious
discourse
Alan Bailey
I
In his post-Tractatus writings Wittgenstein vigorously rejects the supposition
that philosophical progress can be achieved through the construction of
intricate chains of deductively valid reasoning that establish that it is necessary
for their conclusions to be true if their premisses are true. Wittgenstein explicitly
asserts in the Philosophical Investigations that ‘philosophy simply puts
everything before us, and neither explains nor deduces anything’ (§126), and
he subsequently goes on to say: ‘In philosophy we do not draw conclusions.
“But it must be like this!” is not a philosophical proposition. Philosophy only
states what everyone admits’ (PI §599). Moreover Wittgenstein is equally
hostile to the suggestion that philosophy can imitate the methods of science
and construct theories about the hidden nature of things on the basis of
arguments to best explanation. In the Blue Book Wittgenstein insists that this
approach to philosophy is inevitably disastrous: ‘Philosophers constantly see
the method of science before their eyes, and are irresistibly tempted to ask and
answer questions in the way science does. This tendency is the real source of
metaphysics, and leads the philosopher into complete darkness’ (BB, p. 18).
And the same attitude continues to manifest itself in the Investigations:
Wittgenstein maintains that ‘we may not advance any kind of theory. There
must be nothing hypothetical in our considerations’ (PI§109).
Wittgenstein is not content, however, with condemning some specific ways
of arriving at philosophical conclusions: he apparently wishes to claim that it
is not the philosopher’s task to advance or defend any novel or surprising
theses! Most people tend to think of philosophers as attempting to provide
us with good reasons for accepting beliefs hitherto regarded as disputable
and not entirely certain. Yet Wittgenstein asserts, as already noted, that
‘philosophy only states what everyone admits’ (PI §599), and he also claims
that ‘if one tried to advance theses in philosophy, it would never be possible
to debate them, because everyone would agree to them’ (PI§128).
If we accept, though, that Wittgenstein is right to deny that the function of
philosophy is to put forward controversial propositions and then show that
they are true, we are immediately confronted by a pressing question about
119
120 Alan Bailey
expressions generating our difficulties (see PI§§90, 109 and 122; BB, p. 56).
In many cases this can be achieved by persuading us to look afresh at concrete
examples of our linguistic usage in real-life situations. On other occasions
Wittgenstein constructs imaginary languages that serve to throw into sharp
relief features of our language that are usually obscured by the complexities
around them:
I shall in the future again and again draw your attention to what I shall
call language games. These are ways of using signs simpler than those in
which we use the signs of our highly complicated everyday language….
When we look at such simple forms of language the mental mist which
seems to enshroud our ordinary use of language disappears. We see
activities, reactions, which are clear-cut and transparent.
(BB, p. 17)
II
What, then, can we expect of a philosophical treatment of religious belief
that respects the methodological principles espoused by Wittgenstein in his
later writings? It would, of course, be concerned with trying to understand
the meaning of the statements characteristically made by religious believers.
In A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, Berkeley
unhesitatingly interprets statements about God as statements about a causally
efficacious being whose existence is wholly independent of human desires,
122 Alan Bailey
But surely this means that they do not actually think he can make rain,
otherwise they would do it in the dry periods in which the land is ‘a parched
and arid desert’. For if we do assume that it was stupidity that once led the
people to institute this office of Rain King, still they obviously knew from
experience that the rains begin in March, and it would have been the Rain
King’s duty to perform in other periods of the year.
(RF, p. 12)
All that Frazer does is to make this practice plausible to people who think
as he does. It is very queer that all these practices are finally presented, so
to speak, as stupid actions.
But it never does become plausible that people do all this out of sheer
stupidity.
(RF, p. 1)
124 Alan Bailey
Moreover, Wittgenstein neatly draws our attention to the fact that the very
people who supposedly embrace these outlandish causal hypotheses
invariably show themselves to be competent reasoners in other areas of their
lives: The same savage who, apparently in order to kill his enemy, sticks his
knife through a picture of him, really does build his hut of wood and cuts his
arrow with skill and not in effigy’ (RF, p. 4).
The conclusion Wittgenstein draws from his examination of the rituals
described by Frazer is that they are not the product of beliefs about the causal
mechanisms at work in the world. Instead they are direct expressions of the
participants’ desires and emotions: ‘Burning in effigy. Kissing the picture of a
loved one. This is obviously not based on a belief that it will have a definite
effect on the object which the picture represents. It aims at some satisfaction
and it achieves it. Or rather it does not aim at anything; we act in this way
and then feel satisfied’ (RF, p. 4). It is surely plausible to suppose, therefore,
that the foregoing pattern of thought will recur in Wittgenstein’s lectures on
religion. As we have seen, Wittgenstein holds that if we take the statements
made by religious believers about the existence and nature of God as
indicating that they believe that God is a causally efficacious being who exists
independently of our beliefs and desires, then the beliefs we are ascribing to
these people are unreasonable beliefs because no substantial evidence can be
assembled in favour of the hypothesis that such a being exists. Thus the
situation here parallels the one generated by Frazer’s attempts to explain
magical and religious rituals as the product of mistaken causal hypotheses.
Frazer’s stance commits him, in Wittgenstein’s judgment at least, to the
conclusion that the participants in these rituals are acting on the basis of
unreasonable beliefs. Wittgenstein, however, is very keen to keep to a
minimum such attributions of irrationality, and he consequently offers an
alternative account of the rituals in question that rejects the assumption that
they are based on tendentious causal beliefs in favour of the suggestion that
they have an expressive role. If we assume, then, that Wittgenstein is equally
keen to avoid the need to condemn religious believers as holding a mass of
unreasonable beliefs, it seems likely that he will offer an interpretation of
statements about God that gives them an expressive function and rejects the
assumption that ‘God’ is supposed to be the name of a causally efficacious
being. Moreover Wittgenstein’s comments in both the Lectures and
Conversations and the Remarks on Frazer’s Golden Bough seem to show that
this is indeed the kind of interpretation he favours.
In one passage Wittgenstein specifically discusses the application of
Frazer’s preferred way of explaining magical and religious rituals to the
appeals to God scattered throughout St Augustine’s spiritual autobiography:
Here believing obviously plays much more this role: suppose we said that
a certain picture might play the role of constantly admonishing me, or I
always think of it. Here, an enormous difference would be between those
people for whom the picture is constantly in the foreground, and the
others who just didn’t use it at all.
(LC, p. 56)
It is clear, accordingly, that if ‘God’ is the name of such a being and the
statement ‘God exists’ is true, then this is a fact about the world that is of
overwhelming importance to everyone. Let us consider, therefore, a
nonreligious statement about something that would be regarded by most
people as a matter of considerable importance. If A says to B ‘There is a sack
buried a few inches below the surface of your lawn that contains £20 million
in untraceable banknotes’ and B’s only reaction is to reply ‘Possibly. I’m not
so sure myself, it seems obvious that B actually believes that A’s statement
has no chance at all of being true. Thus someone who holds that statements
about the existence of God or the coming of a Last Judgment are statements
about a causally efficacious person or an event with extensive causal
implications can readily argue that it is the potential importance of the claims
made by these statements that accounts for the way in which a response like
‘Well, possibly’ constitutes a dismissive rejection of such statements rather
than an acknowledgement that there might be something of substance to be
said on their behalf.
The observation that any causally efficacious being capable of being
appropriately called ‘God’ must be worthy of obedience and worship also
allows someone who does not embrace Wittgenstein’s expressive
interpretation of religious discourse to provide a plausible explanation of the
fact that denials of God’s existence tend to attract moral condemnation.
Religions like Christianity and Islam portray God as the rightful ruler over
all human beings. Thus someone who denies that God exists is, in part,
rejecting a claim about external authority. Such a person acknowledges no
obligation to obey any laws supposedly originating from God’s decrees. Yet
many human institutions attempt to legitimize their coercive powers by
asserting that God has directly delegated some of his authority to them or
claiming that they have some peculiarly reliable insight into God’s will.
Consequently these institutions are strongly inclined to regard denials of
God’s existence as a threat to their own position and status within society,
and they naturally respond to this perceived threat with moral excoriation
and warnings about the imminent collapse of the social order.
It seems, therefore, that we are forced to conclude that in the Lectures and
Conversations the full burden of supporting Wittgenstein’s expressive
interpretation of religious statements ultimately falls on the considerations he
brings forward about the desirability of adopting an interpretation that allows
us to avoid ascribing unreasonable beliefs to religious believers. Before we turn
to an examination of the intrinsic strength of that line of thought, however, we
do need to survey briefly some of the features of the usage of statements about
God that actually appear to offer strong support for the supposition that ‘God’
is intended to function as the name of a causally efficacious being.
The religion at the centre of Wittgenstein’s attention is Christianity, and the
following supplementary examples of the way religious language is used are
taken from the same source. However Christianity is sufficiently similar to
Islam and Judaism to make it grossly implausible to suppose that the sense of
128 Alan Bailey
the word ‘God’ as used by Christians is radically different from the sense it has
in these other monotheistic religions. Thus any evidence that Christians use
‘God’ primarily as the name of a causally efficacious being is automatically
evidence that this is how the word ‘God’ is employed in Islam and Judaism.
One important aspect of the way many Christians talk about God is their
willingness to construct or deploy in argument with non-believers alleged
proofs of God’s existence. In the case of St Anselm’s ontological argument,
the explicit aim is to persuade us to move from the premiss that we can form
a conception of a being greater than which none can be conceived to the
conclusion that such a being exists outside our minds.5 And other proffered
proofs argue for the existence of a specific kind of causal agent, and then
identify God with that agent. Bishop Berkeley, for instance, argues that a
mind of superhuman power must be causally responsible for the orderly
succession of perceptions that constitutes, in his opinion, the external world.6
William Paley, on the other hand, dispenses with Berkeley’s idealism but
argues that the adaptation of means to ends that we find in the natural world
provides us with an inference to the conclusion ‘A superhuman designer
exists’ that is as secure as the inference from the discovery of a watch to the
conclusion that it is the product of human contrivance.7 And St Thomas
Aquinas concludes the first of his ‘Five Ways’ as follows:
Another interesting use of the word ‘God’ by some Christians occurs when
they are trying to justify their opinions about matters of morality. Many
Christians who are pacifists attempt to vindicate their position by appealing
to the Ten Commandments. In the King James’ Bible (AV) one of these
commandments is translated as ‘Thou shalt not kill’, and the relevant verse
(Exodus 20. 13) is often cited as proscribing any participation in armed
conflict. In fact this verse should be translated as ‘Do not commit murder’,
but the significant point for our purposes is that people appeal to it as an
authoritative pronouncement that supports their own attitude to war. If an
expressive interpretation of statements about God is correct, however, then
an appeal to God’s commandments to justify one’s moral stance fails to do
any constructive work. Instead of offering an independent reason for one’s
stance, one is simply reaffirming that stance in different words.
It is also instructive here to consider the reports in the Gospels of Jesus’
miracles. These events are presented by the Gospel writers as one of the
principal signs of Jesus’ special relationship with God, and large numbers of
Christians, even today, would maintain that these events took place exactly
as described in the New Testament. However they would also insist that no
physician or any other person relying on his or her own powers could have
healed people in the way Jesus did. Consequently when they say that Jesus’
power to heal was given to him by God, they cannot be speaking
metaphorically or expressively. In the situation postulated by these Christians
there is a real shortfall of power that can only be overcome through the
intervention of a causally efficacious divine being.
According to Wittgenstein, we discover what is meant by people who
speak and write of God by looking at the way they use the word ‘God’: ‘The
way you use the word “God” does not show whom you mean, but what you
mean’ (CV, p. 58); ‘Grammar tells us what kind of object anything is.
(Theology as grammar.)’ (PI §373).
So far, however, our examination of the way ‘God’ is employed suggests
that the overwhelming majority of people who think of themselves as
religious believers intend it to function as the name of a causally efficacious
person who has no physical body. If this account of the meaning of ‘God’ is
to be overturned, the only implement that seems to lie to hand is the
contention that it would be inappropriate to adopt an interpretation of
statements about God that compels us to ascribe large numbers of
unreasonable beliefs to religious believers. Thus it is now time to undertake
an evaluation of the force of that line of argument.
There clearly are circumstances in which we would unhesitatingly
conclude that we needed to change our interpretation of words and sentences
so as to avoid ascribing unreasonable beliefs to people. Suppose, for example,
we have provisionally decided to translate the word ‘gip’ using the English
word ‘pig’. If we later find that we have good grounds to hold that the people
who use the word ‘gip’ believe that gips are common visitors to their gardens,
have feathers, and can fly, we would undoubtedly decide to revise our
130 Alan Bailey
on this matter: in most instances some explanation or other would have been
intemperately embraced, despite its lack of rational credentials. Moreover,
the second psychological mechanism, utilized above to account for belief in
paranormal phenomena, is likely to ensure that the most popular explanations
would have presented the existence of the Earth and living beings as the result
of the will of some exceptionally powerful agent. Consequently the obvious
limitations of human beings would have led to a belief in the existence of an
intentional agent who is far more powerful than any mere human but who
cannot be observed by means of our physical senses.
It seems, therefore, that the same psychological mechanisms used to
explain present-day belief in the existence of psychic phenomena would also
readily account for the generation in earlier times of widespread belief in the
existence of a causally efficacious but incorporeal being capable of creating
the Earth and all its inhabitants. Moreover, once a belief of this kind was
well-entrenched, the power of education and indoctrination would amply
explain its ability to survive in a less favourable intellectual climate.
At this point, however, it might be suggested that the true force of
Wittgenstein’s objection to ascribing unreasonable beliefs to religious
believers emerges only when we recognize that ascriptions of belief do not
make sense unless we are dealing with what Dennett calls an intentional
system. Dennett holds that it is only in the context of the assumption that a
particular organism has the beliefs ‘it ought to have, given its perceptual
capacities, its epistemic needs, and its biography’,12 that the supposition that
this organism possesses beliefs and other intentional states has any meaning.
And Dennett concludes that if the attribution of the belief that p to some
person would force us to construe that person as unreasonably believing that
p, then we are not entitled to regard that person as holding the belief that p.13
It is clear that if Dennett is correct in his account of the constraints on
meaningful ascriptions of beliefs, we would be mistaken if we interpreted
religious discourse as a manifestation of unreasonable beliefs about the
existence of a causally efficacious divine being. However, Dennett’s position
also offers us some new alternatives to an expressive interpretation of the
statements of religious believers. Dennett relativizes rationality to a person’s
biography: consequently it seems that it would be possible to say that belief
in the existence of a causally efficacious divine being is unreasonable for any
well-informed person who has studied the supposed evidence carefully while
simultaneously conceding that some people might be sufficiently ignorant to
ensure that such a belief is not unreasonable for them. Even more importantly,
Dennett imposes such strong constraints on the concept of belief that it
becomes plausible to hold that if he has accurately specified what is required
of a mental state in order for it to constitute a belief, then religious discourse
might simply be the product of a state of mental confusion that falls well
short of belief.
Another problem with using Dennett’s line of argument to buttress
Wittgenstein’s contention that we cannot appropriately explain religious
132 Alan Bailey
III
This examination of Wittgenstein’s extant writings on religion has amply
confirmed the expectation that they would manifest a preoccupation with
questions about the meaning of religious discourse. However it is important
to remember that we do not have access to any work on religion that
Wittgenstein intended for publication.
In the Investigations, for example, we are presented with a carefully
crafted study of the way we talk about minds and mental phenomena, and it
is clear that Wittgenstein has gone to great trouble to ensure that his remarks
are consistent with the method he recommends for eliminating philosophical
problems. Thus the contrast with Culture and Value and the Lectures and
Conversations is striking. In the case of Culture and Value, we simply have a
set of notes written by Wittgenstein for his own benefit. There is, accordingly,
no guarantee that any particular remark would have been endorsed by
Wittgenstein after considered reflection. And when we turn to the Lectures
and Conversations, we are confronted by a redaction of notes compiled by
students listening to Wittgenstein lecture. Thus there is a danger that these
students have set down what they thought Wittgenstein meant rather than
what he said; and it is, in any case, essential to bear in mind that these lectures
134 Alan Bailey
NOTES
1 See M.McGinn, Wittgenstein and the Philosophical Investigations (London:
Routledge, 1997), pp. 27–8.
2 G.Berkeley, A Treatise Concerning the Principles of Human Knowledge, in
Philosophical Works, ed. M.R.Ayers (London: Dent, 1975).
3 See D.Hume, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. N.Kemp Smith, 2nd
edn. (London: Thomas Nelson, 1947), pp. 141–2.
4 See R.Swinburne, The Coherence of Theism (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1977), pp. 283–8.
5 St Anselm, Proslogion, in Anselm of Canterbury, ed. J.Hopkins and
H.Richardson, vol. 1 (London: SCM Press, 1974), pp. 93–5.
6 Berkeley, op. cit., p. 85.
7 W.Paley, Natural Theology, in The Works of William Paley, Archdeacon of
Carlisle (Edinburgh: Peter Brown and T. & W.Nelson, 1825), pp. 435–9.
8 T.Aquinas, Summae Theologiae, vol. 2 (London: Blackfriars, 1964), pp. 13–14.
9 See S.Sutherland, Irrationality (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1994), p. 309.
10 See J.A.Paulos, Innumeracy (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1990), pp. 57–8.
11 See Sutherland, op. cit., p. 310.
12 D.Dennett, ‘Making Sense of Ourselves’, Philosophical Topics, 12:63–81.
13 D.Dennett, Brainstorms (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1978), p. 20.
14 D.Davidson, ‘On the Very Idea of a Conceptual Scheme’, in his Inquiries into
Truth and Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984).
15 Ibid., p. 197.
16 See D.Davidson, ‘Belief and the Basis of Meaning’, in his Inquiries into Truth
and Interpretation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984), p. 153.
17 Ibid
18 See S.P.Stitch, ‘Could Man Be an Irrational Animal?’, in H.Kornblith (ed.),
Naturalizing Epistemology (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1994).
19 Ibid., p. 344.
9 Wittgenstein and
Wittgensteinians on religion
Kai Nielsen
I
Wittgenstein once remarked, ‘I am not a religious man: but I cannot help
seeing every problem from a religious point of view.’1 Though he wrote very
little about either religion or ethics, it is true that a sensibility to and concern
for broadly speaking ethical and religious matters is pervasive in almost all
of his work. He wrote extensively about language, meaning, intentionality,
mind, consciousness, the self, logic, mathematics and necessity, but woven
into all these considerations, which have been central to the main historical
tradition of philosophy, is a religious and ethical concern. Perhaps it is better
characterized as an intense ethico-religious concern, for when he speaks of
ethics it is always in a distinctively religious way. But this would be badly
understood if it were taken, after the fashion of Richard Braithwaite and
R.M.Hare, to be a reductive view of religion in which religion is viewed as
morality touched with emotion associated with certain traditional narratives
which may or may not be believed.2 Wittgenstein linked ethics and religion
tightly. But, as we shall see, his thinking here was very different from that of
the reductive, basically straightforwardly ethical accounts of religion of
Braithwaite and Hare.
It should also be noted that Wittgenstein did not write treatises or even
articles on either ethics or religion and that he did not even discuss the topics
that moral philosophers normally consider. Moreover, it is clear that he would
have regarded both philosophy of religion and ethical theory with great
suspicion and even with disdain. John Hyman rightly observes:
‘Wittgenstein’s influence in the philosophy of religion is due to scattered
remarks, marginalia, and students’ notes. He never intended to publish any
material on the subject, and never wrote about it systematically.’3 But all of
that, as I will try to make plain, does not gainsay the import of my opening
quotation from him.
In understanding what Ludwig Wittgenstein has to say about religion, or
indeed about anything else, it is crucial to understand how Wittgenstein
proceeded in philosophy and why he proceeded in that way. Here we must
see that and how Wittgenstein was remarkable in generating and carrying
137
138 Kai Nielsen
the first was the primary origin of the ‘linguistic turn’ in philosophy, and
inspired both logical positivism and Cambridge analysis in the interwar
years. The second shifted analytic philosophy away from the paradigm
of depth-analysis defended in the Tractatus and cultivated by logical
positivists…and Cambridge analysts toward the different conception of
‘connective analysis’, which was a primary inspiration of Oxford analytic
philosophy…5
II
I shall very briefly say something about what Wittgenstein’s second
revolution consists in and then will turn to a detailed consideration of what it
comes to for religion. Again there is a paucity of material directly on religion;
during this later period, as well as in the earlier, Wittgenstein wrote nothing
for publication specifically and in detail about religion. But there are many
things that are very suggestive, though often only indirectly, for thinking
about religion in quite different ways than have traditionally been done—
ways which I think cut through or rightly bypass much of the cackle that
goes for ‘the philosophy of religion’. Fortunately, as far as texts go, we have
in a recent work written by a former student, close friend and well-known
interpreter of Wittgenstein, Norman Malcolm, a work (Wittgenstein: A
Religious Point of View?) which provides a detailed collection of remarks on
religion made by Wittgenstein along with an analysis by Malcolm of those
remarks followed by a substantial critique of Malcolm’s account by Peter
Winch.6 In this account of Wittgenstein on religion by two prominent
Wittgensteinians, who are also philosophers of importance themselves, we
have a perceptive and faithful rendition of Wittgenstein’s views on religion,
plus, particularly on Winch’s part, the beginnings of a probing critique of
them. (Winch is less of an uncritical disciple than Malcolm is.) I shall build
on this material seeking to etch out (a) a portrayal of Wittgenstein on religion
in his later philosophy and (b) an account of some emendations provided by
140 Kai Nielsen
Wittgensteinians (principally Winch) that will not only bring out the force of
Wittgenstein’s later account, but will, pointing to its vulnerabilities, enable
us better to assess its soundness and import, both in its pristine form and in
its critical Wittgensteinian reformulations. Here we can hopefully examine
Wittgenstein’s account of religion at its full strength. I shall attempt to do
something of this.
But first for a thumbnail general account of what the later Wittgenstein was
up to. In Philosophical Investigations (1953), the central work of his later
philosophy, as well as in work beginning as early as 1930 and in work following
Philosophical Investigations, and most particularly in his last work, On
Certainty (1969), Wittgenstein articulates his changed conception of how to
proceed in philosophy and applies it to a range of philosophical problems.
Propositions are no longer construed as having a fixed logical form and, more
generally, language is no longer construed as having a fixed and timeless
structure, but is viewed as changeable, and not infrequently changing, and these
forms of language are now seen as our historically and culturally contingent
forms of life. The picture theory of meaning of the Tractatus is completely
abandoned in his later work. The conception that words stand for simple
objects that are their meanings is now regarded by Wittgenstein as a bit of
incoherent philosophy. Instead the notions of language-games and practices
are introduced. In being socialized—in learning, as we all must if we are at all
to navigate in the world, to be human—we come to have practices in which
words and actions are interwoven. In this activity, in learning to play these
language-games, we come to understand words by coming to know their uses
in the stream of life, and with this we come to know how to use words in the
course of our various practice-embedded activities.
With this, Wittgenstein abandoned his earlier formalist Tractarian demand
that language, if coherence is our goal, requires determinacy and exactness and
that the sole function of language is to describe. Rather language is seen as an
activity that has many different functions, is embedded in different practices
which answer to and structure our different needs, interests or purposes. For
someone to understand a word, it is not sufficient to bring the learner face to
face with its putative referent while repeating the word. In many cases nothing
like this is possible and in all cases, or at least almost all cases, the learner must
come to understand what kind of word he is being taught; to grasp this an
extensive training needs to have taken place in which the learner comes to be at
home with the everyday activities—the social practices—of which remarks
using the word are a part. As Wittgenstein put it in an oft-quoted remark from
his Philosophical Investigations: ‘For a large class of cases—though not for
all—in which we employ the word “meaning” it can be defined thus: the
meaning of a word is its use in the language’ (PI §43).
There is, on Wittgenstein’s account, no standing free of our practices and
forms of life or escaping the context, including the historical contexts, in
which they are embedded. Both the Tractarian (on the traditional reading)
and the metaphysical realist conception of an independently articulated world
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 141
we see what has been called Wittgenstein’s ‘quietism’. Quietism or not, for us
here it is a key question whether, and if so how, it applies to religion—to
Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism and the like. What is at least initially
unsettling in this context in thinking about Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians
such as Malcolm and Winch is that it seems that, if their way of characterizing
how to proceed in philosophy is correct, this means that no philosophical or
any other kind of reasonable criticism, or for that matter defence, is possible
of forms of life or, indeed, any of form of life, including Hinduism,
Christianity and the like. Is this where we are at? Is this the end of the line?
III
It can be responded to such Wittgensteinianism that religions, and most
strikingly Christianity with which Wittgenstein and Malcolm are most
concerned, are inescapably in part metaphysical religiosities.26 Moreover, the
part that is metaphysical cannot be excised from the rest, leaving the rest
intact. Without a metaphysical part as a settled element (component) in that
form of life, the form of life will not even be recognizable as Christianity,
Hinduism, Judaism, or Islam. There are no doctrineless or creedless religions.
Religion is a doing, a committing yourself to act or try to act in a certain way,
but it is not only that. In Christianity, for example, God is said to be the
ultimate spiritual being—the very ground of the world—transcendent to the
world and, in being so, eternal and beyond space and time. And it is an
essential part of that very religion to believe that human beings have immortal
souls such that they—that is we—will not perish or at least will not perish
forever when we die: when, that is, we lose our earthly life. And in addition
there is what Kierkegaard called the scandal of the Trinity, but still, he
believed, a scandal to be accepted trustingly on faith. These are central beliefs
for Christianity, and without them Christianity would not be Christianity. It,
of course, is not only a doctrinal system. It is also, as Wittgenstein and
Kierkegaard stress, a demanding way of life that requires of believers—
genuine believers—a reorientation of their lives. But it is also, and
inescapably, a belief system with a set of doctrines.
This belief system is a metaphysical belief system and Christianity
integrally is a metaphysical religiosity. It simply comes with the religion. But,
if what Wittgenstein, Malcolm, Winch and the pragmatists say is so,
metaphysical belief systems are all incoherent: ‘houses of cards’, as
Wittgenstein said. But then that very form of life, metaphysically infused as it
is, should be said by Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians to be incoherent. But
that is not at all what they say.
Still, that anti-metaphysical strain is central to their accounts. But, on
another equally central part of Wittgenstein’s account, Christianity can’t be
incoherent, for Christianity, as other religions as well, is a language-game—
an employment of language embedded in a pattern of human life—and thus
a form of life. But forms of life and language-games cannot on Wittgenstein’s
148 Kai Nielsen
Just think, Drury, what it would mean to have to preach a sermon every
week. You couldn’t do it. I would be afraid that you would try and give
some sort of philosophical justification for Christian beliefs, as if some
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 149
One of the things Christianity says, I think, is that all sound doctrines
are of no avail. One must change one’s life. (Or the direction of one’s
life.)
That all wisdom is cold; and that one can no more use it to bring one’s
life into order than one can forge cold iron.
A sound doctrine does not have to catch hold of one; one can follow it
like a doctor’s prescription.—But here something must grasp one and
turn one around.—(This is how I understand it.) Once turned around,
one must stay turned around.
Wisdom is passionless. In contrast faith is what Kierkegaard calls a
passion.
(CV, p. 53)
150 Kai Nielsen
He came to have, mixed together with this striving to turn his life around and
his realizing that this was what religion was about, an intense desire for purity
together with an equally intense sense of his own impurity, his sinfulness and
guilt, his standing under divine judgment, his need for redemption and
forgiveness. He had a keen sense of a judging and redeeming God, but the
conception of a creator was foreign to him and, as Malcolm put it, ‘any
cosmological conception of a Deity derived from the notion of cause or of
infinity would be repugnant to him’.34
In spite of Wittgenstein’s statement ‘I am not a religious man’, I think that
it is, as Malcolm puts it, ‘surely right to say that Wittgenstein’s mature life
was strongly marked by religious thought and feeling’.35 Kierkegaard had
percipiently shown how difficult it is to be religious, how many people are
deceived in thinking they are religious when they are not, and that some
people who would honestly say they are not, and even some—say, militant
atheists—who would vehemently assert that they are not, are nonetheless
religious, and indeed deeply so. It is also the case that with his clarity of
intellect, together with his deep religious sensitivity, Wittgenstein is likely to
have had a keen sense of what a religious form of life is. I have claimed, as
have many others, that there is no doctrineless religion and that religion
inescapably involves making cosmological (metaphysical) claims. 36
Wittgenstein firmly rejects this. Is he right to do so?
IV
Concerning what was discussed in III and what I continue to discuss here, it
will be necessary, as Winch reminds us, ‘to observe the distinction between
Wittgenstein’s own religious reflections and his philosophical comments on
religious discourse’.37 I shall centrally be concerned with the latter and show
concern with the former principally to help us, if it can, to gain a purchase on
how we should think and feel about religion. I want to try to see what kind of
form of life it is, what kind of language-game it is, and what role it can and
should play in our lives. And what philosophically we are justified in saying
about these matters.
Malcolm’s account of how Wittgenstein understands religion and how he
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 151
And indeed Wittgenstein has it—and here both Malcolm and Winch
follow him—justification there is not possible and, moreover, there is no need
for it. Asking for it is not only obtuse but is wrong: morally wrong.
There are at least three issues here. First, it seems fair enough to say that a
plain untutored person—say a minimally educated person living in an isolated
community of believers—is being reasonable—or at least not unreasonable—
in so believing. Moreover, it would, in most circumstances, be sadistic to
challenge such a person’s faith—a faith that that person regards as an
undeserved gift from God. It would be unnecessary and pointless cruelty,
causing, if it was at all psychologically effective, unnecessary and pointless
suffering. Second, there is the question whether, if that person began to feel—
say quite without wishing it—the irritation of doubt, whether (a) there are
considerations available to an honest, reflective person sufficient to still,
without subterfuge or self-deception, those doubts or (b) whether this is even
an intelligible or legitimate possibility: whether it makes sense to have such
doubts? They may themselves rest on philosophical confusions. Moreover,
perhaps concerning something so basic—something so much a part of the life
of some people—we have something which does not admit of such
rationalization, such a reasoning out of things? Third, whether, that isolated
person aside, for anyone in our modern cultures there are considerations
which that person, or several persons reasoning together and sensitively
feeling through the matter, could articulate that would show such beliefs to
be not only coherent but not unreasonable? Or to come to the opposite
conclusion? Are these, as it seems Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians
believe—must believe?—bad questions? But if that is claimed, it seems to be
in order for us to ask: Just why are these bad questions? Or are they really
bad questions? Do we just have, in maintaining they are, Wittgensteinian
dogma here?
I think any Wittgensteinian would respond to this last query, and the second
one as well, by rejecting them out of hand. It is practices which give the
intelligibility and coherence to talk—words as they are used in their living
contexts, in this case the context of a living engaged faith. If theorizing, he
would say, makes the talk seem incoherent or unreasonable, then so much the
worse for the theorizing. Moreover, and in addition, religion is something
special, for it is not a matter, except peripherally, of the intellect but of the
heart. The intellect in this context can only dispel bad philosophical reasoning
that gets in the way of faith. There is in such fideistic reasoning a great distance
between the confident doing of natural theology by Aquinas and Scotus and
the fideistic reasoning of Kierkegaard and Wittgenstein: between the confident
claim that if we reason carefully and attend to the facts we can see that it is
irrational not to believe in God and the acceptance of God simply on faith—on
a faith, or a trust, that eschews all search for or recognition of the
appropriateness or even the very possibility of justification, except in the purely
negative sense of showing the mistake of those who would say that without
justification your faith is in vain. For to say that—to demand justification
154 Kai Nielsen
But the reference to the Devil here is, of course, no more an explanation—
nor does Wittgenstein think that it is—than is a reference to the will of God.
Either viewed as an attempt at an explanation would be what Wittgenstein
called an unnecessary and stupid anthropomorphism (ibid.). But faced with
all the horrible contingencies of life, the suffering, cruelty, indifference, pain,
jealousy, failures of integrity, the breaking of trust—the whole bloody lot—
some would speak of neither God nor the Devil, or of the goodness, in spite
of it all, of the world, or of the malignancy or maliciousness of the world.
Indeed they would think (pace William James) that such talk makes no sense.
Some would say, as I would, ‘That’s how things are’ without reference to
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 157
about the greater adequacy of what I call my more austere That’s how things
are’ way of viewing things. I will now argue that this is so: that it is not a case
of having my cake and eating it too. We have genuine descriptions and
explanatory practices, which are alternatives to each other: for example, the
giving of a physiological description of bodily movements or a description in
terms of actions and intentions; or, to take another, the giving of a
commonsense description of tables, bits of mud, water flowing, the moon
being pink on a given night, in contrast to giving a scientific physical
description where we will say different things about solidity, colour and the
like. These are alternative descriptive and explanatory practices utilized for
different purposes. But none of these descriptions are ‘closer to reality’ or
more adequate sans phrase than any other. We can say only that for different
purposes one is more adequate than another; not that one is a more adequate
or a better telling-it-like-it-is than another—period. There the story about
my perspectivism and contextualism is perfectly in place. It is also the account
that Richard Rorty and Hilary Putnam would give of things.
In saying, ‘That’s God’s will’, ‘That’s the Devil’s work’, ‘That’s how things
are’, do we not also have, in a way similar to describing things in terms of
bodily movements and describing things in terms of human actions, different
perspectives answering to different interests with none of them being in some
general, ‘perspective-neutral’, sense more adequate? We can and should retort
by remarking that with ‘That’s God’s will’ or ‘That’s the Devil’s work’ we
have metaphysical utterances penetrating into our common life. They are
metaphysical conceptions. And they, as metaphysical conceptions, are,
Wittgenstein and both Malcolm and Winch following him argue, and, as we
neo-pragmatists argue as well, utterances which, in being metaphysical
utterances, are incoherent, yielding pseudo-descriptions and pseudo-
perspectives from which no intelligible descriptions, interpretations or
explanations could flow. They yield nonsense, but not ‘intelligible nonsense’
somehow conveying cognitive depth as traditionalist interpretations of the
Tractatus claim Wittgenstein obliquely hints at. If Wittgenstein, the
Wittgensteinians and the neo-pragmatists are right in seeing metaphysical
claims as houses of cards that require philosophical therapy to break their
spell, we do not have three alternative perspectives here but only one—one
that (a) in effect summarizes a bunch of empirical observations and more or
less concrete moral observations and (b) makes a morally freighted
generalization about them. On the other hand, we have two metaphysical
fantasies that have crept into the language-games of some people. These
metaphysical fantasies are, as Wittgenstein puts it in other contexts, wheels
that turn no machinery, conceptions that do no work in these practices, and
the people who use such phrases are only under the illusion that they have
some understanding of what they are saying and that these metaphysical
conceptions are functioning parts of our social practices with their embedded
language-games. There are no metaphysical forms of life. (If it is replied that
they do rhetorical work, this is in effect to concede the case.) It is not like
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 159
saying that we use physiological descriptions for certain purposes and action-
intention descriptions for other purposes and that both can be perfectly in
place for their own purposes but no one of them is just telling it the way
things are. The three allegedly alternative characterizations under discussion
consist in one actual characterization and two pseudo-characterizations; and,
of course, if this is so, we can, and should, say the one genuine one is more
adequate. But that is not at all to say that it gestures at ‘the one true
description of the world’. There is no such thing.
Some (including Wittgenstein) might deny that ‘It’s God’s will’ or ‘It’s the
work of the Devil’ are metaphysical utterances. If ‘God’ and ‘the Devil’ are
taken to denote Zeus-like entities, then these utterances are not metaphysical.
They are implicit, very vague, empirical hypotheses. They are, that is, just
crude, plainly false, empirical propositions plainly disconfirmed. Such
religious beliefs are superstitions, and Wittgenstein was keenly aware of that
and rejected such religious beliefs and such a way of looking at religion with
disdain. But it is very unlikely that many Christians, Jews or Moslems so
superstitiously conceive of God and the Devil. Indeed by now most of them
do not. And where they do, Wittgenstein would have no sympathy at all with
that. Where, alternatively, ‘God’ is construed as an infinite individual
transcendent to the universe, we plainly do have a metaphysical claim—and
a very esoteric one at that—and as such it is held to be nonsensical not just by
positivists but by Wittgensteinians and neo-pragmatists such as Putnam,
Rorty and myself.63 If to that it is said that is not how to construe ‘God’
either, then it is difficult to know, unless we want to go back to the crude
anthropomorphic construal or to a purely symbolic construal, how we are in
some non-metaphysical way to construe ‘God’. Just what is this non-Zeus-
like, non-purely symbolic, non-metaphysical construal of ‘God’? Do we really
have any understanding of what we are talking about here?
If instead it is said ‘That’s how things are’ is itself a metaphysical
statement, this should be denied, for it functions as a summarizing, somewhat
moralizingly emotive, proposition standing in for (a) a lot more particular
propositions such as people suffer, the wicked often flourish, starvation and
malnutrition are pervasive, droughts and devastating earthquakes occur,
people are struck down in their prime, alienation is pervasive, tyranny often
goes unchecked, and the like, and (b) the comment that this goes on at all
times and in all places without much in the way of abatement. This—(b) in
particular—may be an exaggeration, but that surely does not make it a
metaphysical statement.
Suppose someone retorts that Jews and Christians do not have to treat
‘That’s God’s will’ or ‘That’s the Devil’s work’ in either the superstitious or
the metaphysical way I attributed to them. Keep in mind, the response goes,
that practice gives words their sense. Some mathematicians, when they speak
of numbers, say they are abstract entities: real things but abstract things. And
with this they become entangled in metaphysics. Indeed we have the shadow
of Plato here. But they could, and most do, legitimately refuse to so theorize
160 Kai Nielsen
that we, if we reflect a bit, would not wish to say. Consider again Wittgenstein’s
remark in Culture and Value that we ‘might speak of the world as malicious’ or
‘easily imagine the Devil created the world, or part of it’ or that ‘the whole scheme
of things will be aimed at evil from the very start’. We not only cannot (pace
Wittgenstein) easily imagine these things: we do not understand these utterances.
We only, if we do not think, have the illusion of understanding them by extension
from some familiar utterances we do understand. We understand what it is for a
person to be malicious or an action or attitude to be malicious. We have truth-
conditions or assertability conditions for such claims. But for the world to be
malicious? We can’t intelligibly impute intentions to the world. That makes no
sense at all. Speaking of the world being malicious is but a misleading way of
making the perfectly secular utterance: ‘Many people are malicious and this
maliciousness is pervasive in our lives.’ Similarly, while we understand ‘Sven
created a new recipe’ or ‘Jane created a more efficient electric car’, we do not
understand ‘The Devil created the world’ or, for that matter, ‘God created the
world’. The former two sentences have truth-conditions or assertability
conditions. The latter two do not. Similarly language has gone on a holiday with
the claim: ‘The whole scheme of things will be aimed at evil from the very start.’
Aside from not understanding what ‘the very start’ comes to here, more
importantly we are, with such a remark, again imputing intentions and aims to
what it makes no sense to say has or can have intentions or aims. To say
Shakespeare’s Richard III aimed at evil or the Nazi regime or the Reagan regime
aimed at evil makes sense, but neither the whole scheme of things nor the world
can be intelligibly said to aim at things either for good or for evil. A scheme of
things or a world cannot have aims, form intentions, have desires, goals, and the
like. There is and can be no such teleology of nature. There is no such functional
language-game. Language is idle here. In support of this, I have supplied what
Wittgenstein has called grammatical remarks. But would not Wittgenstein, of all
people, perfectly well realize that? That is the way he repeatedly reasons. And
the grammatical remarks I have assembled above seem to be plainly so. It looks
like Wittgenstein is in a double bind.
Of course Wittgenstein is right, as he says in a sentence following the one
quoted above, that ‘things break, slide about, cause every imaginable
mischief. But that, minimally hyperbolic though it is, is a purely secular
utterance. We have not even the hint of a religious language-game here. If
that is what we ‘really are saying in saying that the whole scheme of things
will be aimed at evil’, we have turned it, by stipulative redefinition, into an
utterly secular platitude without a whiff of religion or religious sensibility.
Where we understand what we are saying we do not have a religious
language-game at all; where we have one we do not—the superstitious
anthropomorphic ones aside—understand what is said and thus cannot
understand what it is for something to be, for example, God’s will, and thus
we cannot do God’s will or fail to do God’s will.
Suppose someone says that that is a philosopher’s hat trick. People do
God’s will. People, following God’s will, make pilgrimages to Lourdes, go to
162 Kai Nielsen
Is this the end of the line? Should we, vis-à-vis religion, take some such anti-
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 163
critical assessments, engaging with our lives as well as just with our
cogitations—critical assessments that pass without metaphysical
extravagance or any other kind of extravagance beyond Wittgensteinian
philosophical quietism and neutralism. This is done without trying to have
some ‘ultimate vocabulary’ or some ultimate point of reference or claiming
that there is one and only one true description capturing how the world just
is anyway. Indeed such talk makes no more sense than William James’ talk of
an ‘ultimate datum’.
Wittgenstein shows us well the incoherence of such conceptions. But we
have seen how we can, and sometimes should, criticize practices, and not just
stop with the reminder that this language-game is played. But our criticism
will itself rest on other practices. There is no Archimedean point, independent
of all practices, from which to criticize any of them. But from this—to make
a good Peircean point—it does not follow that any practice is immune from
or beyond criticism. We can’t criticize them all at once or stand free of all of
them and criticize them all at once. But where there is a clash among the
practices or where the irritation of doubt is at work—real live Peircean doubt,
not what Peirce well called Cartesian paper doubt—concerning any one, or
several, of our practices, criticism is possible and in order. So we can see how
a pragmatist need not, and should not, acquiesce in quietism. And we can see
also how we can be pragmatists and consistently say that the Christian faith
or any other faith or any set of beliefs and responses embedded in practices
can rest on a mistake or (pace Putnam) be in deep and massive error.68 And
this holds true not only for religious forms of life, but for any practice or
form of life. We start with practices, and it is important to see that and how
many of them are crucial for our understanding and our lives and are
irreplaceable. There is no place else for us to be than to start with practices
and to remain with practices. Moreover, taking them together, we are stuck
with them. There is no perspective outside of or beyond our practices as a
whole. There is, that is, no leaping out of our skins. But for any one or several
or particular clusters of practices, where for specific reasons we come to have
trouble with some specific practice or specific cluster of practices, it or they
can either be reformed (sometimes deeply reformed) or sometimes even set
aside. There is, to repeat, no practice which is immune from criticism. And
the same is true, at least in principle, of clusters of particular practices. So we
can repeatedly, relevantly and intelligently criticize our very practices and
the beliefs and attitudes that are a part of them. This includes our faiths—
that is, our trustings. It is just that (1) we cannot criticize them all at once or
stand free of all of our practices, and (2) that in criticizing a practice or a
cluster of practices we must also be using practices. Thus we have Peircean
fallibilism and Peircean critical common-sensism—something that was fully
incorporated into the texture of Dewey’s philosophical practice.69 With this,
and without falling into philosophy and the conceptual confusions
Wittgenstein was concerned to dispel, we can do something critical
concerning our forms of life. We can reasonably engage in an activity here
Wittgenstein and Wittgensteinians on religion 165
for which Wittgenstein did not make space and indeed did not envisage. With
his feeling for a religious sense of life he would probably have thought it all
hubris. But need it be?
NOTES
1 Rush Rhees (ed.), Ludwig Wittgenstein: Personal Recollections (Oxford: Oxford
University Press, 1984), p. 79.
2 See Richard Braithwaite. ‘An Empiricist’s View of the Nature of Religious Belief’,
in Malcolm L.Diamond and Thomas V.Litzenberg (eds). The Logic of God
(Indianapolis, IN: Bobbs-Merrill, 1975), pp. 127–47; and R.M.Hare, ‘The
Simple Believer’, in Gene Outka and John R.Reeder. Jr. (eds). Religion and
Morality (New York: Anchor Press, 1973), pp. 393–427.
3 John Hyman, ‘Wittgensteinianism’, in Phillip L.Quinn and Charles Taliaferro
(eds). A Companion to Philosophy of Religion (Oxford: Blackwell. 1997). pp.
150–7.
4 P.M.S.Hacker, ‘Wittgenstein’, in Robert L.Arrington (ed.), A Companion to the
Philosophers (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999), p. 538.
5 Ibid.
6 Norman Malcolm, Wittgenstein: A Religious Point of View?, ed. with a Response
by Peter Winch (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1994).
7 Hacker, op. cit., pp. 545–6.
8 Ibid. 546.
9 Ibid.
10 Kai Nielsen, Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion (London: Macmillan,
1982), pp. 43–64.
11 N.Malcolm, Wittgenstein: A Religious Point of View?, p. 74.
12 Ibid.
13 Ibid., p. 75.
14 Ibid., p. 76.
15 Ibid., first italics added.
16 Ibid., pp. 75–7.
17 Ibid., p. 76.
18 Ibid., p. 77, italics added.
19 Ibid., p. 78.
20 See Ibid., pp. 79–80.
21 Ibid., p. 81.
22 Ibid., p. 82.
23 Ibid.
24 Ibid.
25 Ibid.
26 See Axel Hägerström, Philosophy and Religion, trans. Robert T.Sandin (London:
Allen &Unwin, 1964).
27 See N.Malcolm, op. cit., p. 10.
28 Ibid., p. 17.
29 Ibid., p. 11.
30 Ibid., p. 32.
31 Ibid., p. 17.
32 See N.Malcolm, ibid.
33 Ibid., p. 19.
34 Ibid., p. 10.
35 Ibid., p. 21.
166 Kai Nielsen
36 See K.Nielsen, God, Scepticism and Morality (Ottawa: Ottawa University Press,
1989); and K.Nielsen, ‘Atheism Without Anger or Tears’, in Hendrik Hart et al.
(eds), Walking the Tightrope of Faith (Amsterdam: Rodolpi, 1999), 80–127.
37 Peter Winch, ‘Discussion of Malcolm’s Essay’, in Wittgenstein: A Religious Point
of View?, p. 133.
38 See Winch, Ibid., p. 100.
39 Ibid.
40 Ibid., pp. 104–5.
41 Ibid., p. 106.
42 Ibid.
43 Ibid., p. 104.
44 Ibid.
45 Ibid., p. 111.
46 N.Malcolm, op. cit., p. 84.
47 Ibid., p. 92.
48 P.Winch, op. cit., p. 121.
49 Ibid.
50 N.Malcolm, op. cit.. Chapter 1.
51 P.Winch, op. cit., p. 121.
52 Ibid., p. 124.
53 Ibid., p. 108.
54 Ibid., p. 109.
55 Ibid.
56 Ibid., p. 110.
57 Ibid.
58 Ibid., p. 113.
59 Ibid., p. 114.
60 Ibid .
61 H.Putnam, Pragmatism (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995), pp. 27–56.
62 See H.Putnam, Renewing Philosophy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1992), pp. 80–107.
63 See K.Nielsen, Introduction to the Philosophy of Religion; Philosophy and
Atheism (Buffalo, NY: Prometheus Books, 1985); and God, Scepticism and
Modernity.
64 James Conant, ‘Kierkegaard, Wittgenstein and Nonsense’, in T.Cohen et al. (eds),
Pursuits of Reason (Lubbock, TX: Texas Tech University Press, 1993), p. 207.
65 P.Winch, op cit., p. 128.
66 See R.Rhees, Rush Rhees on Religion and Philosophy, ed. D.Z.Phillips
(Cambridge; Cambridge University Press, 1997).
67 See K.Nielsen, Naturalism Without Foundations (Amherst, NY: Prometheus
Press, 1996), pp. 75–155.
68 See H.Putnam, Pragmatism.
69 See K.Nielsen, op. cit., pp. 295–328.
10 ‘Theology as grammar’
Wittgenstein and some critics
Robert L.Arrington
167
168 Robert L.Arrington
rather that it is not just one sensible option among three sensible ones—the
other two are not meaningful. ‘That’s God’s will’ is, according to Nielsen, a
metaphysical fantasy. ‘God created the world,’ he claims, has no truth-
conditions; therefore we can’t understand it.
Nielsen does not give us in his essay a precise picture of the reasons behind
Wittgenstein’s discontent with metaphysics. At times it appears he thinks
Wittgenstein rejects metaphysical claims (such as ‘God is outside space and
time’) on the grounds that they are unverifiable, that they make appeal to
transcendent entities beyond the grasp of experience. At other times he takes
Wittgenstein to say that metaphysical claims (like ‘The world has an aim’)
violate the grammatical rules of language, rules that specify proper usage. With
regard to some metaphysical propositions, Wittgenstein might indeed argue in
these ways (although not, I think, with regard to the two examples Nielsen
mentions). But these accounts miss the distinctive faults that Wittgenstein finds
with metaphysics. In the Tractatus, metaphysical statements are meaningless
because they are abortive attempts to describe elements of logical form, which
can only be shown, not said. In his later philosophy, Wittgenstein claims that
metaphysicians misinterpret their assertions as factual propositions when in
reality they are conceptual ones. ‘Philosophical investigations: conceptual
investigations. The essential thing about metaphysics: it obliterates the
distinction between factual and conceptual investigations’ (Z §458). Many of
the houses of cards Wittgenstein wishes to destroy (PI §118) are metaphysical
statements which are confused because the metaphysician attributes to them
the properties of both factual and conceptual propositions. They are viewed by
the metaphysician as being about the world (factual) and also as necessarily
true (conceptual).2
Nielsen is right to this extent: in his later philosophy Wittgenstein does
continue to regard metaphysical statements as senseless. Take the realist
metaphysical claim that there are physical objects. “There are physical
objects” is nonsense,’ Wittgenstein tells us in On Certainty §35. And he goes
on to ask: ‘Is it supposed to be an empirical proposition?’ The implication
here is that There are physical objects’ is not an empirical assertion—what
empirical evidence could prove or disprove it? So far, what Wittgenstein says
is consistent with Nielsen’s interpretation of him. But there is more to be
taken into account. What if someone (perhaps G.E.Moore) tried to prove
that there are physical objects by pointing to an example of one and saying
‘This is a physical object’? Wittgenstein’s reply is noteworthy:
What sort of proposition is: ‘The class of lions is not a lion,…’? How is it
verified? How could it be used?—So far as I can see, only as a
grammatical proposition. To draw someone’s attention to the fact that
the word ‘lion’ is used in a fundamentally different way from the name
of a lion….
At this point, he makes the contrast with the Tractarian conception of the
sentence in question:
Even though ‘the class of lions is not a lion’ seems like nonsense, to which
one can only ascribe a sense out of politeness; still I do not want to take it
like that, but as a proper sentence, if only it is taken right. (And so not as
in the Tractatus.) Thus my conception is a different one here. Now this
means that I am saying: there is a language-game with this sentence too.
(RFM, p. 182)
statement. Such statements are used to explain the meaning of certain terms.
The sentence about ‘class’ employed in this fashion is perfectly all right. It is
only when one attempts to employ it with a metaphysical emphasis, namely
to describe a fact about the essence of ‘classes’, that one goes wrong.
We might make a similar suggestion regarding ‘There are physical objects.’
This proposition might be used, not to make a factual, empirical claim, but
to say (very misleadingly) that ‘physical object’ has a use and meaning in our
language. ‘There are physical objects’ is not a sensible claim if it is taken to
be a factual one. If it were a factual claim, we could specify the conditions in
experience that, if they occurred, would show that the claim is true, and we
could specify the conditions in experience that, if they occurred, would show
us that it is false. But the debate between the idealist and the materialist (or
Cartesian dualist) is not of this sort. An idealist, like Berkeley, claims that it is
senseless to speak of matter, and hence of material or physical objects. We
have, Berkeley asserts, no idea of matter. Berkeley does not argue that it is
simply factually false to claim that there are physical objects; he claims that
all talk of physical objects and matter is meaningless. Berkeley’s idealism,
then, consists in a recommendation about which concepts make sense: he
rules out the concept of a physical object and uses instead the concept of an
idea in the mind. Of course, this isn’t exactly the way Berkeley saw it. He
thought he was telling us something about the world—i.e., making a factual
claim about reality (esse est percipi)—even while his arguments clearly show
that it is a conceptual one he is making. Hence Wittgenstein’s diagnosis that
the metaphysician (in this case Berkeley) is confusing factual and conceptual
issues. Likewise, the realist or materialist who claims that there are physical
objects thinks of himself as giving us a truth about the world. But what his
claim amounts to—if we want to say that it amounts to anything—is a
comment authorizing the use of physical object terminology. There are
physical objects’ really means something like ‘It makes sense to speak of
objects having place, motion, weight, etc.’ The materialist is simply confused
in taking ‘There are physical objects’ as a factual assertion rather than a
conceptual rule licensing a certain kind of talk.
As we have seen, in his later writings Wittgenstein calls such conceptual
rules ‘grammatical statements’ or ‘grammatical remarks.’ There is nothing
wrong with metaphysical statements, I understand him to say, if they are
taken for what they really are, namely, grammatical remarks. These
grammatical remarks don’t tell us anything about the world—rather, they
provide us with the ‘means of representation’ that we are to employ in talking
about the world. These means of representation are rules for the proper uses
of words. Using words in accordance with such rules, we are able to make
judgments that can be assessed as true or false, or as acceptable/unacceptable
in some other way. The normativity involved in any language is the result of
the fact that the grammar of the language authorizes the use of some
utterances and not others, and at the same time authorizes the mode of
assessment (true or false, acceptable or unacceptable) appropriate to this
172 Robert L.Arrington
divine being is the acceptance of the grammatical statement ‘God exists and
is my creator.’ Such a statement tells us how we are to talk of God, namely as
an existent being—not as one who may or may not exist—and as a being
who is my creator. To talk of God at all is to talk of such a being, for that is
what the religious believer means by God. So the belief that God exists and is
creator of the world is a distinctive kind of belief—and, of course, if one
follows the later Wittgenstein at all, one should be ready to acknowledge
that a word like ‘belief need not always be used in the same way and hence
may not have the same sense or meaning. Wittgenstein need not deny that
‘God exists and is my creator’ is expressive of a belief in the reality of a divine
and causally efficacious being. It may not be expressive of a certain kind of
belief (expressed in a contingent proposition) but indeed be expressive of a
different kind (expressed in a grammatical proposition).
In his various remarks on religious belief, Wittgenstein stresses the fact
that religious believers do not hold their central beliefs with probability or
well-grounded confidence; they hold them with certainty, ‘unshakably’ as
Wittgenstein puts it. Surely this is the case with ‘God exists and is my creator.’
The religious believer does not think that he has good or convincing evidence
that God is the creator of the world. Belief in a causally efficacious divine
being is not acceptance of an hypothesis, not even an exceptionally
wellgrounded one. It is a belief held unshakably, one totally removed from
the traffic of debate and argument, one that has no uncertainty attached to
it. But it is precisely this type of belief or proposition that Wittgenstein labels
‘grammatical’: ‘To accept a proposition as unshakably certain—I want to
say—means to use it as a grammatical one: this removes uncertainty from it’
(RFM, p. 81). ‘God exists and is my creator’ is, for the religious believer, a
grammatical proposition.
If ‘God exists and is creator of the world’ is a grammatical statement, it is
not a presupposition of religious discourse in the sense of being a proposition
that is merely assumed to be true of the world. It is presupposed as a way of
giving meaning to everything we say about the world: all aspects of nature
and human nature are to be understood in terms of their source in God and
in terms of God’s providential relation to his creatures. The import of this
grammatical rule is to require that all descriptions, decisions, etc., be
formulated or completed in terms of the notion of God’s creative power,
God’s judgments, God’s grace, or God’s love and anger. What is at issue here
is a system of representation, a way of talking and thinking about all things.
And to say that the religious believer is passionately committed to this system
of reference is to say that it stands fast for him, that he takes it as a matter of
course. The passionate aspect of the commitment perhaps suggests that in
taking the religious grammatical system for granted, the religious believer
also knows that many other people (heathens, savages) do not. But these are
the very people who, according to his grammatical scheme, are alienated or
separated from God and who therefore live in sin. Hence the religious
believer’s commitment to his grammatical system is also a commitment to
‘Theology as grammar’ 177
seeing human history as a conflict between goodness and sin, salvation and
damnation—and these are matters provoking the most intense passions.
Nielsen, Hyman and, by implication. Bailey are right to say that religious
belief involves doctrine. But the components of this doctrine are not
contingent propositions requiring support and proof. They are grammatical
ones instructing us in how to engage in religious discourse and the form of
life containing it. Thus the believer who moans ‘I am a thoroughly worthless
wretch’ or ‘I have sinned’ is simply applying to himself the religious
grammatical rules defining human nature. For the wretched one, God’s law
is simply given—this law and the correlated notions of fallen and sinful
human nature are simply ‘in the archives,’ accepted as a matter of course.
Likewise, the Christian view that Jesus rose from the dead is not a disputable
historical claim that might possibly be in error and hence be in need of more
historical defense. The resurrection of Jesus is accepted, as believers often
say, as a matter of faith, not a matter of theory or knowledge. The central
tenet of Christianity—that God became man in Christ—is part of the
conceptual scheme Christians use in talking about all of history: it defines
what history means for the Christian.
Bailey and Hyman think that support for the idea that ‘God’ is treated by
believers as the name of an existent and causally efficacious being comes from
the fact that believers refer to the arguments of philosophers like Anselm,
Aquinas, and Paley both in support of the existence of such a being and in
response to the denials of his existence made by non-believers. If believers try
to prove the existence of God by appeal to the ontological, cosmological and
teleological arguments, this would seem to imply that these believers think
the belief in God’s existence needs proof—and indeed that such proof can be
provided.
In response, I think it is fair to say that most of the believers who do appeal
to these arguments are of a philosophical bent, and this rules out most
believers. Wittgenstein would not be impressed with the reactions of the
philosophers and would-be philosophers, since he would see their very
philosophy as a source of distortion and confusion. With regard to religious
discourse, the philosophers themselves, or at least Anselm and Aquinas,
would be held responsible by Wittgenstein for much of the confusion that
surrounds the question of the existence of God. These ‘metaphysical’
theologians would be guilty in his eyes of the same confusion he attributes to
metaphysicians in general, namely that of confusing conceptual and factual
inquiries. Indeed, these two medieval thinkers might stand as paradigm cases
of metaphysicians who confuse grammatical statements with factual ones.
‘God exists,’ which should be construed as a grammatical remark, might be
confusedly taken (and is so taken by these medievals) as asserting a matter of
fact—and then one wants some support for it, some proof that it is true.
Anselm and Aquinas oblige and offer their proofs. But the very project is
wrong-headed if ‘God exists and is creator of the world’ is a grammatical
rather than factual claim.
178 Robert L.Arrington
It is this attitude toward reason which leads Luther, in The Bondage of the
Will, to speak of reason as ‘the stupid thing’ and as ‘foolish’ and ‘blind.’ For
the Christian, the limitations of reason come out in some very clear ways.
Paradox, as Kierkegaard stressed, is at the heart of Christianity. Perhaps the
greatest paradox is that of Christ, who is both man and God, mortal and
non-mortal. One cannot rationally accept this paradox, Kierkegaard argued,
and yet, he maintained, without accepting it one is not a Christian. But such
a proposition (‘Christ is both man and God’) is not open, for the believer, to
rational refutation or any other kind of refutation. It is one of those
propositions that are placed in the archives, out of the traffic of debate and
refutation. Anyone who rejects this proposition is simply one who rejects the
Christian scheme for conceptualizing the world. Anyone who appeals to
reason to reject this proposition as incoherent is someone who operates with
a concept of reason wholly distinct from the concept that operates within
Christianity. Christianity does not tolerate the kind of rational scrutiny found
in logical criticism of the Trinity, such rational scrutiny itself being incoherent
within the Christian grammatical scheme. Moreover, to engage in such a
rationalistic attack on Christianity is to be guilty, within the Christian scheme,
of the sin of pride.
It remains to look at Bailey’s claim that we have every right, pace
Wittgenstein, to attribute unreasonable beliefs to religious people. According
to Bailey, Wittgenstein’s strongest argument for his conviction that religious
believers are not engaged in bad science—making claims about the world
that are woefully lacking in evidential warrant—is that in general it is a bad
interpretive practice to attribute widespread unreasonable beliefs to people.
Something like the principle of charity should guide our efforts to understand
religious belief, and suggesting that beliefs in a causally efficacious divine
being are unreasonable violates this principle. Thus Bailey is led to think that
Wittgenstein offers an expressive account of religious belief as a way of
avoiding the conclusion that religious believers are unreasonable.
Bailey grants that it makes no sense to attribute nothing but unreasonable
beliefs to people, but since religious believers are perfectly normal in their
beliefs once they are outside the sphere of their religious concerns, the
attribution of unreasonable religious beliefs against the broad background of
reasonable secular beliefs is perfectly legitimate. Just as we are willing to
attribute unreasonable beliefs in astrology and psychic phenomena to people
who are otherwise normal, we can do this with religious beliefs as well.
Moreover, the very psychic mechanisms we appeal to in explaining the beliefs
in astrological and psychic events—the need for some explanation of events
‘Theology as grammar’ 181
what is clearly not true outside this sphere, in the nonhuman and inanimate
order of nature. But instead of seeing the sources of religious beliefs as failed
instances of general human attributes, one might want to consider the
possibility that these sources are found in ways in which human beings
manifest their human nature—in distinctive human drives and actions for
which we have no notion of failure or success.12 These may be something like
the human need to engage in ceremonial activities; they may not be far
removed from the human gesture of kissing a picture of the face of a loved
one; or they may be close to the fact that we express our pains through cries
and (later) verbal utterances. Are ceremonies false? They may be improper in
some ways—not properly conducted—but falsity does not seem to apply
here. Can one make a mistake in kissing the picture of a loved one? Can one
make an error in crying out in pain? These are just ways human beings
behave. Likewise, having a trusting, or fearful, response to the world we find
ourselves in—or a combination of the two!—may best be characterized as a
basic human response to life as everyone knows it. Perhaps it is a response
that is not perfectly universal, but it is one that surely is immensely
widespread—not a response expressed everywhere in terms of the same
stories and ceremonies, but some drive or action that might be seen faintly in
all of them, as it were in its myriad manifestations. To reject such a response
as unreasonable is to reject this aspect of our humanity—but for what
reasons?
I have tried to show in the above reflections on some of the criticisms of
Wittgenstein found in this volume that in various ways the critics do not take
sufficiently to heart and mind the idea of theology as grammar. They do not
perceive that religious assertions are made against the background of a
distinctive system of reference or representation, whose rules are expressed
in numerous grammatical propositions. This failure is part of a double one,
for alongside it is the failure to recognize that their own remarks and
criticisms are framed within the context of a different grammar. Whatever
the critics say may be perfectly reasonable to those others who operate within
the same grammar. But for those, like the religious believer, who operate
outside it, and who think and talk differently, the criticisms carry no weight
whatsoever. Wittgenstein, in his remarks on religious belief, is trying simply
to provide a perspicuous representation of some of the elements of religious
grammar. The upshot of this grammatical investigation will be the dissolution
of the philosophical problem of the existence of God—there is no such
problem; there is only confusion over what is being said and done in the area
of religion. Removing this confusion allows religious believers to ‘go on’
doing what they have been doing, without being confronted by philosophical
obstacles. Equally, to be sure, this exercise in Wittgensteinian philosophy also
allows the secularists to ‘go on’ in what they are doing, thinking and talking
about the world in ways that make no reference to a divine sphere or to a
fear of or trust in an awesome presence, the presence of the divine. The two
practices are simply two of the ways in which human beings are human, part
‘Theology as grammar’ 183
NOTES
1 See Kai Nielsen, ‘Wittgensteinian Fideism’, Philosophy, vol. 42 (1967):191–209,
2 The later Wittgenstein gives us as well other diagnoses of the errors of
metaphysicians. Some of them, he argues, produce false or misleading
grammatical models, e.g. the Cartesian model of how we talk about the mind.
The proper response to these metaphysical errors (these grammatical illusions) is
to give a perspicuous representation of the actual grammar of language, and
thus ‘to bring words back from their metaphysical to their everyday use’ (PI
§116).
3 To be sure, Wittgenstein locates another use for ‘Red exists’: it is used, he says,
to assert that something that exists has that color (PI §58). This latter statement
is straightforwardly an empirical one. Hence it is not a metaphysical proposition
that tries to say something like: red exists in its own right. Moral: many alleged
metaphysical propositions which are, in their metaphysical use, senseless, are
meaningful if seen either as empirical propositions or grammatical guidelines.
4 But it could be argued that these assertions also express grammatical
propositions.
5 See L.Wittgenstein, Philosophical Remarks, p. 55; Philosophical Grammar, pp.
97, 184; Zettel §331.
6 See my ‘The Autonomy of Language’ in J.V.Canfield and S.G.Shanker (eds),
Wittgenstein’s Intentions (New York and London: Garland, 1993).
7 We might say that theology offers proofs in the same way mathematics does. But
mathematics, Wittgenstein thinks, generates grammatical propositions. What we
need to understand is how proofs function is such grammatical domains as
theology and mathematics.
8 But see Hyman’s final endnote (p. 11).
9 Martin Luther, ‘Epistle Sermon, Trinity Sunday’ (Lenker Edition, vol. IX:#2–
18), included in A Compendium of Luther’s Theology, ed. Hugh T.Kerr
(Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1966), p. 39.
10 Perhaps we should not say that Christianity has an epistemology, a theory of
knowledge. Christianity incorporates a concept of knowledge, not a theory of it
which needs to be defended against alternative theories.
11 See Wittgenstein’s On Certainty §§93ff, 162, 167.
12 See the essay in this volume by Brian Clack.
13 I am grateful to Mark Addis, John Hyman, and Grant Luckhardt for comments
on an earlier draft of this paper.
Index
Bailey, Alan ix, 174–5, 177–8, 180–1 faith 4, 66–7; cognitivist theory of 66–7
Baker, G.P. 98–100 Feyerabend, Paul 146
Banner, Michael 20, 28 fideism 12, 85–100
Beattie, J.H.M. 27 figurative language 9–10
Bell, R. 83 foundationalism 101–2, 104, 109–12;
Berkeley 121–2, 128, 136, 171 strong 102–3
Bouveresse, Jacques 6, 11 Frazer, James 12–14, 16–18, 20–2, 24,
Bouwsma, O.K. 64–5, 74, 83 27–8, 122–4
Braithwaite, R.B. 19, 28, 108, 137, 165 Frege 1, 4
Brenner, William viii Freud, S. 79, 83, 155
Bunyan, John 55
genealogical account 76
Calvin, John 116 Gier, Nicholas 63
Camus, Albert 157 God 3, 5, 7–8, 122, 124–9, 174–9; as
Canfield, John 64, 183 causally efficacious 127–9; creator
Carnap, Rudolph 138–9 52–7, 61–3, 107–8; and free will
Cavell, Stanley 154 58–60; reality of 112–15
Chisholm, Roderick 103 Goethe 44
Clack, Brian vii–viii, 28, 183 Gramsci 155
Conant, James 154, 166
Crosson, F. 97 Hacker, P.M.S. 98–100, 138, 141, 165
Hägerström, Axel 165
Davidson, Donald x, 132–3, 136 Haller, Rudolf 98
Democritus 8 Hamann 149
Dennett, Daniel x, 131–2, 136 Hare, R.M. 137, 165
Descartes 63, 102 Harrison, R. 50
Dewey, John 69, 82–3, 152, 155, 164 Hart, Hendrik 166
185
186 Index