Emotion, reason, and truth

Kristor writes:

I have been contemplating the recent threads on Rod Dreher and the Texan of the Year controversy, and now I come to contrast Dreher’s approach to things with that of Sir Antony Flew. Flew’s conversion is of profound potential significance for our culture, because in Flew the very best of the atheists has deserted the atheist camp, at a time when an angry sophomoric atheism (of Dennett, Dawkins, & al.) has gained a great deal of social momentum. His decision will make every atheist philosopher in the world pause, and reconsider. This alone could have huge consequences a century hence. It is crucial, in grappling with the immensely important fact of Flew’s conversion, to understand that it occurred not as a result of any epiphany, or of any emotional storm, and not suddenly or precipitously, but slowly, deliberately, methodically, and entirely as an operation of his intellect. To this day he avers that his emotional response to religion as an activity is like the aesthetic response to music of the tone-deaf. He just doesn’t “get it,” the same way I am totally mystified by the appeal of gambling. Indeed, it could be said that the only respect in which his approach to the problem of theism is emotional, is that he feels almost nothing about it. This has been true since he was a child, and was at first a subject of some anxiety for him, since he is the son of a Methodist preacher.

Flew is a true philosopher. The whole ship of his being is steered by the rudder of his intellect, which has fixed its attention relentlessly on eternal things, on the Truth. Dreher, on the other hand, does not seem thus integrated. His passions seem to run his intellect, rather than the reverse. His intellect is sharp, and he has not been altogether blinded to the truth; but he is pulled this way and that, distracted, confused. It has been well known for thousands of years that, whenever the body or the passions rule the person, disaster looms. The pragmatic worldly goal both of Greek philosophy and Hebrew Law was the proper ordination of the human person, and thus derivatively of society. So, Christianity does not hate the body, does not hate the passions—does not hate sex, or anger, or enjoyment of the fruits of earth—but hates only that disorder of the human person that makes them governors who are fit only to serve.

If ever Flew darkens the doors of a church, it will be because he has rationally decided that formal communal worship is a moral requirement for a theist. If he reaches that conclusion, he will force himself to Mass, whether he enjoys it or not. This inner kingship of Flew’s rational intellect, together with his fearless will to follow and proclaim the truth as best he can, and with his whole being, whatever the cost, is an apt exemplar of the moral ideal for all of us, and brings into sharp relief our moral predicament at every moment of our lives. At every moment, it is tempting to do less than we could, less than we know we ought, because doing the best thing is difficult, and in the short run not nearly so much fun, as doing something less, or other, than what we ought to do. And here’s the thing: liberalism’s response, nominalism’s response, modernism’s response, to this fact is to insist that there is no such thing, really, as “best.” That’s why atheism is so important to them. When your moral standard is “Whatever,” you can indulge yourself however you wish. And, in order to preserve your right thus to indulge, you will ardently defend everyone else’s right to behave as they wish—except those who, behaving as they wish, insist that we ought often to behave better than we wish.

The central animus of modern nominalist liberalism is hatred of the limit, in all its forms. So Dreher, though he values America—or, at least, values the ideals concretely embodied in the men, women, families, communities, and nation of America—cannot seem to bring himself to the point of insisting that ideals must, if they are to have any meaning, impose limits on our behavior. He cannot set any limit to immigration of salients of foreign cultures; they are all Texans. If just anyone can be Texan, or American, by virtue of having stepped across the border, in what sense is there such a thing as a concrete Texas, or America? And if there is no concrete Texas or America, how can it make sense to talk about a border? If all the illegals who now reside in Texas are Texans, why not admit as Texans everyone else who still lives in the countries they came from? Where can we fairly draw the line?

If I had to put my finger on the central distinguishing difference between traditionalism and liberalism, it would lie not in any particular public policy or ethical proscription, but in the observation that liberalism hates the limit, and seeks to ignore or to transgress and destroy it. We see this in the liberal approach to art, to the possibility of scientific knowledge, to the family, to sexual morality, to authority in all its forms, to foreign policy (liberal foreign policy would if it could utterly denigrate the nation), to the market (which liberalism hates, because the market disciplines and limits, and rewards discipline), to the limitations of our bodies, etc. Traditionalism on the other hand loves the limit, seeks to find it, to understand it, and to respect it.

- end of initial entry -

N. writes:

The essay by Kristor is one of the finest pieces of writing I have been privileged to read in years. Kudos to VFR for providing a place for such exposition.

Rick Darby writes:

I must admit to never having heard of Sir Antony Flew, but in any case if a reputed philosopher arrives at a belief in the transcendent after a long time in the vacuum of atheism, one perhaps ought simply to celebrate the fact and not be too concerned about how the conversion came about.

Your correspondent says that Sir Antony’s conversion was purely a change of mind, not a change of heart. I’m bound to be a fraction skeptical about whether this was a spiritual change, as well as a philosophical one. At most, it seems to me, a purely intellectual process can only result in a new view of the utility of belief. The letter does not explain what Sir Antony now believes, but he would hardly be the first person to decide that religious celebration is a good thing for society regardless of its basis in spiritual reality, if that is in fact where he is now at.

I don’t think I’m going too far out on a limb to suggest that a survey of the writings and teachings of advanced spiritual men and women throughout history—by which I mean figures conceived as saviors or founders of religions, as well as mystics and saints—generally cite the need for a trans-rational factor in experiencing a touch of God. That doesn’t necessarily mean crude emotionalism, but can include the mysterious process whereby eternity breaks into the consciousness of an individual. Such an “opening” may not be experienced as feeling in the normal, everyday sense (although the mystics often talk of infinite joyousness or ecstasy), but results in a shift of consciousness that cannot be mistaken for a change of opinion, however momentous.

Also, while I agree with your correspondent about one of the prime characteristics of liberalism being a childish rebellion against limits of any sort, I do not see how that can necessarily be laid at the door of atheism. Although I think atheism would be a pretty bleak way of life, I can accept that there are atheists who are otherwise emotionally mature. By the same token, we have plenty of rip-roaring believers who are enablers of open borders and suicidal tolerance.

LA replies:

I agree with Mr. Darby and would add that a belief in God arrived at solely through reason and logic seems almost like a contradiction in terms. Yes, reason can lead one to the conclusion that there must be a divine creator, but that’s not quite the same as what believers mean by believing in God. I think people believe in God, in the first instance, because they sense, intuit, feel, experience, see—that he’s there.

Gintas writes:

While Kristor makes some good points (in the latter part of his comment), I think he’s going too far in his praise of reason and of Flew. From the Christian view the key component in Truth is revelation, you can know things by this revelation, but I’m not sure how one reasons—and only reasons—his way to an acceptance of revelation. Flew himself, supposedly at the top of his reasoning faculties, was pushing atheism; plenty like him have reasoned themselves into atheism despite many fine, reasonable arguments from theists. I suspect something more is at work in Flew than one final heave of his reason.

All of this isn’t to promote the emotions against reason. This is a false split, and a parsimonious one at that; belief encompasses the whole man—reason, emotions, will, and other qualities. To focus entirely on reason is reductionist.

It may be that in comparing Flew and Dreher, Kristor has reached for a Grand Theory to explain them. We must remember that Flew is a philosopher, and Dreher, a journalist.

Kristor replies:

N. is too kind. I have a response to Rick Darby’s comment, and yours:

So far as I can tell from what Flew has written about his change of mind, it is indeed so far strictly that, and no more. He has gone from being a philosophical atheist to being a philosophical theist. So he believes in God in rather the way one would believe in, say, quarks. Despite his conviction of its truth, theism is for him a purely theoretical position. His reasoning has led him to the door of religious belief, but not through. He has seen, but not tasted. He doesn’t think theism is merely useful, he thinks it is true. Still, he doesn’t seem to have used it himself.

But this is I think an extremely significant fact. For Flew is among the more important philosophers of the 20th Century, and is arguably the most important philosophical atheist in history. More famous atheists—e.g., Russell, Nietzsche—were far less careful, searching, and thorough. Flew is held in high regard by all sides in the philosophical debate over theism, not only because he is so smart, but because he is a nice guy, an admirable man; a philosopher’s philosopher. If he had flipped from anaesthetic atheism to full-blown Thomistic ecstasy, other philosophical atheists would naturally conclude that he had in his dotage undergone some sort of chemical disaster in his central nervous system, had gone philosophically haywire, and that there was therefore no need to pay further attention to him. They would discount his reasons for his change of mind. And this would prevent them from a serious consideration of his new arguments, which would in turn prevent some of them from changing their own minds.

As it is, Flew remains as dry as dust. So other atheists can’t ascribe his change of mind to irrational factors. They must take his arguments seriously. When they do, some will change their minds. I cannot but think that this will have the long term effect of subtly steering the consensus among technical philosophers further away from atheism. As the professional philosophers go, so will the physicists. Eventually the shift to theism could permeate down to biologists, journalists and liberal priests.

Rick Darby is right that rebellion against limits is not limited to atheists, many of whom are extremely disciplined people. But for a theist, a rebellion against limits as such is an unprincipled exception; and so likewise is any adherence to limits an unprincipled exception for atheists. If atheism is correct, then everything is mere chaotic happenstance, and there are therefore no such things as limits really to be found in nature. In that case, all our apprehensions of Goodness and Truth are but figments of the deluded imagination of our hearts. Thus while an atheist can behave and think in a disciplined, rational way, he cannot propose any ultimate justification for doing so, and indeed cannot justify anything he does.

If on the other hand theism is correct, then everything that happens is limited by the facts of God’s existence and will. The Divine Limit is for the theist the type and model, and source, of all the limits found in nature, which make for its orderliness and beauty. The theist may be intellectually sloppy, to be sure. But he must in the end recognize the Divine Limit informing all things, and obey; and he can justify his preference for rationality, morality, beauty, and so forth, however poorly his attempts to achieve them may turn out.

Kristor writes:

With such impressive and talented interlocutors as your commenters, one is forced to reach for higher and higher levels of play. Gintas, for example, makes brilliant and important points. He writes:

“From the Christian view the key component in Truth is revelation, you can know things by this revelation, but I’m not sure how one reasons—and only reasons—his way to an acceptance of revelation.”

Me neither, because that’s not how it was for me. I tasted long before I saw, and cannot conceive of never having tasted. But there is no great difficulty in understanding how one could reason one’s way to an acceptance of revelation.

In the first place, God exists necessarily or not at all, and a necessary being informs everything that happens, including reasoning (this is part of what “necessary” means, in modal logic). Under the Christian hypothesis, then, there is simply no such thing as human reasoning unaided by revelation. On the contrary, everything that happens is aided by revelation: “all things come of Thee, Oh Lord.”

In the second place, Augustine (and quite a few Doctors and Fathers both before and after him) suggested that the Platonic Forms are simply God’s Ideas, which He contemplates eternally; so that, when we reason aright (logically, mathematically, or musically), we are thinking parts of His thought. And this is really not so great a stretch. If a proposition is necessarily true, God must always have known it to be true; when we then know it to be true, we must therefore be knowing a bit of what God knows, and thus partaking in His life, experiencing a part of His experience. This would explain the sublime delectation and utter conviction of truth that accompanies mathematical understanding. So, e.g., when Gödel demonstrated his Incompleteness Theorem, he was (in part) experiencing a revelation. “Theory” started its life as “theoria,” the Orthodox theological term for the mystical contemplation of God.

Gintas goes on:

“I suspect something more is at work in Flew than one final heave of his reason.”

Me too. But Flew has no inkling of this yet, apparently. We should pray for him.

Finally, Gintas writes:

“All of this isn’t to promote the emotions against reason. This is a false split, and a parsimonious one at that; belief encompasses the whole man—reason, emotions, will, and other qualities. To focus entirely on reason is reductionist.”

Yes. The rational faculty is properly king of the human person, but without subjects there can be no king. The whole person is involved to some degree in everything we do. The question is whether our persons, and what we are doing, are properly ordered.

Posted by Lawrence Auster at January 08, 2008 11:17 AM | Send