Beyond Babel : Religion and Linguistic Pluralism [1 ed.] 9783031421266, 9783031421273

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Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43

Andrea Vestrucci   Editor

Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism

Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures Volume 43

Editor-in-Chief Purushottama Bilimoria, The University of Melbourne, Australia, University of California, Berkeley, CA, USA Series Editor Christian Coseru, College of Charleston, Charleston, SC, USA Associate Editor Jay Garfield, The University of Melbourne, Melbourne, Australia Assistant Editors Sherah Bloor, Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, USA Amy Rayner, The University of Melbourne, Melbourne, Australia Peter Yih Jiun Wong, The University of Melbourne, Melbourne, Australia Editorial Board Members Balbinder Bhogal, Hofstra University, Hempstead, USA Christopher Chapple, Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles, USA Vrinda Dalmiya, University of Hawaii at Manoa, Honolulu, USA Gavin Flood, Oxford University, Oxford, UK Jessica Frazier, University of Kent, Canterbury, UK Kathleen Higgins, University of Texas at Austin, Austin, USA Patrick Hutchings, Deakin University, The University of Melbourne, Parkville, Australia Morny Joy, University of Calgary, Calgary, Canada Carool Kersten, King's College London, London, UK Richard King, University of Kent, Canterbury, UK Arvind-Pal Maindair, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, USA Rekha Nath, University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa, Tuscaloosa, USA

Parimal Patil, Harvard University, Cambridge, USA Laurie Patton, Duke University, Durham, USA Stephen Phillips, The University of Texas at Austin, Austin, USA Joseph Prabhu, California State University, Los Angeles, USA Annupama Rao, Columbia University, New York, USA Anand J. Vaidya, San Jose State University, San Jose, USA

The Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures focuses on the broader aspects of philosophy and traditional intellectual patterns of religion and cultures. The series encompasses global traditions, and critical treatments that draw from cognate disciplines, inclusive of feminist, postmodern, and postcolonial approaches. By global traditions we mean religions and cultures that go from Asia to the Middle East to Africa and the Americas, including indigenous traditions in places such as Oceania. Of course this does not leave out good and suitable work in Western traditions where the analytical or conceptual treatment engages Continental (European) or Cross-cultural traditions in addition to the Judeo-Christian tradition. The book series invites innovative scholarship that takes up newer challenges and makes original contributions to the field of knowledge in areas that have hitherto not received such dedicated treatment. For example, rather than rehearsing the same old Ontological Argument in the conventional way, the series would be interested in innovative ways of conceiving the erstwhile concerns while also bringing new sets of questions and responses, methodologically also from more imaginative and critical sources of thinking. Work going on in the forefront of the frontiers of science and religion beaconing a well-nuanced philosophical response that may even extend its boundaries beyond the confines of this debate in the West – e.g. from the perspective of the ‘Third World’ and the impact of this interface (or clash) on other cultures, their economy, sociality, and ecological challenges facing them – will be highly valued by readers of this series. All books to be published in this Series will be fully peer-reviewed before final acceptance.

Andrea Vestrucci Editor

Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism

Editor Andrea Vestrucci AI Systems Engineering University of Bamberg Bamberg, Germany Faculty of Theology University of Geneva Geneva, Switzerland

ISSN 2211-1107 ISSN 2211-1115 (electronic) Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures ISBN 978-3-031-42126-6 ISBN 978-3-031-42127-3 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. This Springer imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland Paper in this product is recyclable.

Contents

A Journey Beyond Babel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Andrea Vestrucci Part I

1

Religious Limits of Language

Divine Language . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Graham Oppy

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Language Without a Code: Islamic Geometry and Modernity . . . . . . . . Wendy M. K. Shaw

25

At the Foot of Babel: Disclosure and Concealment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ted Peters

49

Ineffability: Its Origins and Problems . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Fr. Anselm Ramelow

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Would We Speak If We Did Not Have to Die? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hans-Christoph Askani

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Part II

Interreligious and Interlinguistic Encounters

Interreligious Empathy and Linguistic Plurality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Catherine Cornille

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A Śākta Theory on Religions in a Linguistic Pluralism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 Pravina Rodrigues On the Power of Imperfect Words: An Inquiry into the Revelatory Power of a Single Hindu Verse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121 Francis X. Clooney On the Oscillation Model and Its Logic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133 Stanisław Krajewski v

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Part III

Contents

Religious Identities in Translation

Just as Good as the Original? Establishing the Septuagint as Sacred . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 Ashley L. Bacchi Multilingualism and the Early Years of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama Movement: Navigating Linguistic Needs, Muslim Identity, and Colonial Pressures . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 Mashal Saif “Expression to Our Christmas Feeling”: Schleiermacher’s Translation of Religion into the Bourgeois Family . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179 Daniel Weidner Testimony, Authorless Text, and Tradition: Toward Hermeneutic Pluralism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 Purushottama Bilimoria Part IV

Scientific Codes and Religious Meanings

Gersonides – Translating Divinity Within the Limits of Knowledge . . . . 215 Snezana Lawrence The Revival of Alchemy: The Cumulative Creation of a Tradition . . . . . 227 Ingrid Malm Lindberg Credition and Complex Networks: Understanding the Structure of Belief as a Way of Facilitating Interreligious Dialogue . . . . . . . . . . . . 245 Sara Lumbreras Human Dignity After the Human . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 257 Zachary R. Calo Part V

Formal Languages Dealing with Religious Concepts

A Simplified Variant of Gödel’s Ontological Argument . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271 Christoph Benzmüller Religion Plurality and the Logic of the Concept of God . . . . . . . . . . . . . 287 Ricardo Sousa Silvestre Two in One. What the Logic of Christology Can Teach Us . . . . . . . . . . . 303 Franca d’Agostini The Trinitarian Doctrine in the Language of Category Theory . . . . . . . 325 Fábio Maia Bertato Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 345

About the Contributors

Hans-Christoph Askani is Professor Emeritus of Systematic Theology at the University of Geneva. He studied theology, philosophy, and German studies in Tübingen, Zurich, Paris, and Berlin. He received his doctorate with a thesis on Franz Rosenzweig’s understanding of language. From 1994 to 2005, he taught Systematic Theology at the “Institut protestant de théologie” in Paris, and from 2005 to 2019, the same subject at the Faculty of Theology of the University of Geneva. He is interested in the border areas between theology and philosophy, Judaism and Christianity, poetic language, and the language of Christian faith. His important publications include: Das Problem der Übersetzung dargestellt an Franz Rosenzweig. Die Prinzipien und Methoden der Rosenzweisgschen und BuberRosenzweigschen Übersetzungen, Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck (HUTh 35), 1997; Schöpfung als Bekenntnis, Tübingen, Mohr Siebeck (HUTh 50), 2006; Le pari de la foi, Genève, Labor et Fides, 2019. Ashley L. Bacchi, PhD, is Assistant Professor of Jewish History and Ancient Mediterranean Religions at Starr King School for the Ministry. Bacchi has cultivated an interdisciplinary approach to contextualizing the Hellenistic Mediterranean, which includes religious studies, classics, art history, archaeology, cultural history, literary theory, and feminist theory. This approach is exemplified in her book Uncovering Jewish Creativity in Book III of the Sibylline Oracles: Gender, Intertextuality, and Politics (Leiden: Brill, 2020). Christoph Benzmüller holds the Chair of Artificial Intelligence Systems Engineering at the University of Bamberg, is Adjunct Professor at the Freie Universität Berlin, and collaborates closely with the University of Luxembourg, among others. He is a member of the Federation of German Scientists (VDW) and a German national contact for the Confederation of Laboratories for Artificial Intelligence Research in Europe (CLAIRE). For Benzmüller, AI is less a technology than a scientific discipline that should conceptually focus more on the exploration and experimentation with the abstract representation of objects. For Benzmüller, the vii

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About the Contributors

exploration and flexible processing of abstract representational objects within hybrid (or neuro-symbolic) AI architectures that merge symbolic and sub-symbolic techniques is a key challenge and opportunity for modelling (strongly) intelligent AI systems. Explicit, declarative representations are also particularly relevant for the realization of trusted, controllable AI systems, since they not only make (normative and other) knowledge transparent and justifiable, but also enable efficient and precise communication between humans and machines. Fábio Maia Bertato is Researcher and Director (2021–2025) of the Centre for Logic, Epistemology, and the History of Science (CLE) of the State University of Campinas (Unicamp). He had a degree in Mathematics from the State University of São Paulo (Unesp – 2001) and a PhD in Philosophy from the State University of Campinas (Unicamp – 2008). He is the Editor of the Brazilian Journal on the History of Mathematics (RBHM, since 2011) and a Member of the Board of the Brazilian Society of History of Mathematics (SBHMat, 2023–2027). His work concentrates on logic, philosophy, and the history of mathematics, and the logical philosophy of religion. Purushottama Bilimoria works in the areas of Indian and Cross-Cultural Philosophy, Continental Philosophy, Philosophy of Religion, Critical Thinking, and Diaspora Studies. A Principal Fellow at the University of Melbourne, he is Permanent Fellow of the Oxford Center for Hindu Studies; he was named as Lead Scientist (in 2021–2022) of Purushottama Centre for Study of Indian Philosophy and Culture at Peoples’ Friendship University of Russia, in Moscow. Co-founder of the Australasian Society for Asian and Comparative Philosophy, he also serves as Co-Editor-inChief of Sophia and Assoc. Editor for the Journal of Dharma Studies. His recent publications include: History of Indian Philosophy (with Amy Rayner, 2019, 2021), Religion and Sustainability (UNGSD series, edited with Rita D. Sherma et al., Springer 2021), Contemplative Studies and Hinduism and Jainism (2 volumes edited with Rita D. Sherma et al., Routledge 2021, 2023); Indian Ethics Vol. 2: Women, Justice, Ecology and Bioethics (with A. Rayner and R. Sharma, Routledge 2023). He teaches at San Francisco State University, California, and periodically at the University of California, Berkeley and Merced (USA) and the University of Melbourne (Australia). Zachary R. Calo is Professor of Law at Hamad bin Khalifa University in Doha, Qatar, and Senior Counsel at McNair International. He is also Professor of Law (Adj.) at the University of Notre Dame Australia, Visiting Professor and Central Asia Research Fellow at Tashkent State University of Law (Uzbekistan), and Visiting Professor at Northwestern University in Qatar. In addition, he is Research Scholar in Law and Religion at Valparaiso University, Fellow of the Center for the Study of Law and Religion at Emory University, and Associate Editor of the Oxford Journal of Law and Religion. He holds a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law, B.A. and M.A. from The Johns Hopkins University, Ph.D. in History from

About the Contributors

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the University of Pennsylvania, M.A. in Religious Ethics from the University of Virginia, and LLM in dispute from the Straus Institute at Pepperdine University School Law. He is Co-editor of Agape, Justice, and Law: How Might Christian Love Shape Law? (Cambridge University Press) and Christianity, Ethics, and the Law: The Concept of Love in Christian Legal Thought (Routledge). Francis X. Clooney, S.J., joined the Harvard Divinity School faculty in 2005, where he is the Parkman Professor of Divinity and Professor of Comparative Theology. After earning his doctorate in South Asian Languages and Civilizations (University of Chicago, 1984), he taught at Boston College for 21 years before coming to Harvard. From 2010 to 2017, he was the Director of the Center for the Study of World Religions at Harvard. He is a leading figure globally in the developing field of comparative theology, a discipline distinguished by attentiveness to the dynamics of theological learning deepened through the study of traditions other than one’s own. His recent books include Reading the Hindu and Christian Classics: Why and How It Matters (University of Virgina Press, 2019) and Western Jesuit Scholars in India: Tracing Their Paths, Reassessing Their Goals (Brill, 2020). Catherine Cornille is Professor of Comparative Theology at Boston College, where she holds the Newton College Alumnae Chair of Western Culture. Her areas of research focus on Theology of Religions, Comparative Theology, Interreligious Dialogue, and Religious Hybridity. She is the author of The Im-Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue (2008), Christian Identity Between Secularity and Plurality (2015), and Meaning and Method in Comparative Theology (2020). Her edited volumes include Many Mansions? Multiple Religious Belonging and Christian Identity (2002), Interreligious Hermeneutics (2010), Women and Interreligious Dialogue (2013), The Wiley-Blackwell Companion to Interreligious Dialogue (2013), and Atonement and Comparative Theology (2021). She is founding and managing editor of the book series Christian Commentaries on non-Christian Sacred Texts which has published 10 volumes. Franca d’Agostini is an Italian philosopher. She earned degree and Ph.D. in Philosophy at the University of Turin and has taught for many years Logic and Philosophy of Science at the University of Turin (Politecnico) and at the University of Milan (Department of Economics, Political and Social Sciences). She currently teaches Logic and Argumentation Theory at the University of Milan. Her areas of specialization are: Philosophical Logic, Metaphysics, Meta-philosophy, and History of Twentieth-Century Philosophy. Her main topics are truth, paradoxes, and the analytic and continental divide. She is author of many articles in major journals and of 16 books, some of which have been translated in various languages. Among her books, Analitici e Continentali (1997), Logica del nichilismo (2000), Disavventure della verità (2002), The Last Fumes. Nihilism and the Nature of Philosophical Concepts (2008), Paradossi (2009), and La verità al potere. Sei diritti aletici (co-authored with Maurizio Ferrera, 2019).

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About the Contributors

Stanislaw Krajewski, Professor at the Faculty of Philosophy of the University of Warsaw, has been involved in research in the field of logic and philosophy of mathematics as well as philosophy of dialogue, Jewish experiences, philosophy of religion, and interfaith dialogue. A founding Co-chair of the Polish Council of Christians and Jews, he co-authored the post-World War II section of the core exhibition in Polin, the Museum of the History of Polish Jews, opened in Warsaw in 2014. Krajewski edited the special issues “Theology in Mathematics?” Studies in Logic, Grammar and Rhetoric 44/57 (2016), “Logic and the Concept of God,” Journal of Applied Logics, 6 /6 (2019), and “Theological Discourse and Logic,” Logica Universalis, 13/4 (2019). His publications on Judaism, Jewish experience, and Christian-Jewish dialogue include the books Poland and the Jews: Reflections of a Polish Jew (Cracow: Austeria, 2005); The Mystery of Israel and the Mystery of the Church (in Polish, 2007); (Co-editor) Abraham Joshua Heschel: Philosophy, Theology and Interreligious Dialogue (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2009); What do I owe to Interreligious Dialogue and Christianity (in English and Polish: Cracow: The Judaica Foundation, 2017). Snezana Lawrence is a mathematical historian who teaches and researches the themes from the history of mathematics that can offer new insights into the processes of how we create, learn, and communicate mathematics. She is particularly interested in learning about the historical developments and creativity manifested in the mathematical sciences in different cultures, and shares some of what he has found out in her researchers with her readers in this book. Snezana is a Chair of History and Pedagogy of Mathematics International Study Group (an affiliate of the International Mathematics Union) for 2020–2024. She is a Diversity Champion for the Institute of Mathematics and Its Applications, and a Senior Lecturer at the Department of Mathematics and Design Engineering, Middlesex University. Snezana was Co-editor, with Mark McCartney, of the Mathematicians and Their Goods (2015, Oxford University Press), and her latest book is A New Year’s Present from a Mathematician (2019, CRC Press/A K Peters/Routledge). She is the Series Editor for History, Recreational Mathematics. Twitter @mathshistory, @snezanalawrence www.mathsisgoodforyou.com Ingrid Malm Lindberg received her Ph.D. in Philosophy of Religion at Uppsala University in 2021. In her Doctoral thesis, she investigates the role of imagination in a variety of scientific and religious practices. Since 2018, Malm Lindberg has been the secretary of the European Society for the Study of Science and Theology (ESSSAT). In her current research project at the Centre for Multidisciplinary Research on Religion and Society (Uppsala University), she examines how different historical alchemists conceptualized imagination, and the way in which this influenced the tradition of alchemy as a whole. Sara Lumbreras is Professor at the ICAI School of Engineering of the Universidad Pontificia Comillas. She is currently Deputy Director of Research Results at the Technological Research Institute and manages the Chair of Science, Technology and

About the Contributors

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Religion together with Jaime Tatay. She is the author of more than 50 academic publications and has directed or participated in more than 20 projects with private companies and public institutions. Her research focuses on the development and application of decision support techniques to complex problems. She works with classical optimization techniques such as Benders decomposition, heuristics, and Artificial Intelligence. She has developed applications for the energy sector (mainly in network design), the health sector, and in finance. She also has five years of experience in the private sector (JPMorgan London). She develops a line of research in philosophy of technology and the implications of Artificial Intelligence in anthropology. Graham Oppy is Professor of Philosophy at Monash University. He is the Editor of Australasian Philosophical Review. His main field of expertise is philosophy of religion. He is the author of Ontological Arguments and Belief in God (CUP 1996); Philosophical Perspective on Infinity (CUP, 2006); Arguing About Gods (CUP, 2006), The Best Argument Against God (Palgrave, 2013), Describing Gods (CUP, 2014), Reinventing Philosophy of Religion (Palgrave, 2014), Naturalism and Religion (Routledge, 2018), Atheism: The Basics (Routledge, 2018), Atheism and Agnosticism (CUP, 2018), and (with Kenny Pearce) Is There a God? (Routledge, 2021). He is the Editor of Handbook of Contemporary Philosophy of Religion (Routledge, 2015), Ontological Arguments (CUP, 2018), and Companion to Atheism and Philosophy (Wiley, 2019). He is Co-editor (with Nick Trakakis) of History of Western Philosophy of Religion (Acumen, 2009) and Interreligious Philosophical Dialogues (Routledge, 2018), and (with Joseph Koterski) Theism and Atheism: Opposing Viewpoints in Philosophy (Macmillan, 2019). Ted Peters is Distinguished Research Professor Emeritus in Theology and Ethics at Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary and the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, CA, USA. He co-edits the journal Theology and Science at the Center for Theology and the Natural Sciences. He is author of GOD—the World’s Future: Systematic Theology for a Postmodern Era (Fortress, 3rd ed., 2015) and Sin Boldly! (Fortress, 2015). He has just released The Voice of Public Theology (ATF 2023). His personal website is: www.TedsTimelyTake.com; his Patheos Blog site is: https:// www.patheos.com/blogs/publictheology. Fr. Anselm Ramelow is a Catholic priest in the Order of Preachers. He is Professor of Philosophy at the Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology in Berkeley and a member of the Core Doctoral Faculty at the Graduate Theological Union. He also taught at the University of San Francisco and the Munich School of Philosophy and is Senior Fellow at the Berkeley Institute. He obtained his doctorate under Robert Spaemann in Munich on Leibniz and the Spanish Jesuits (Gott, Freiheit, Weltenwahl, 1997) and did theological work on George Lindbeck and the question of a Thomist philosophy and theology of language (Beyond Modernism? – George

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About the Contributors

Lindbeck and the Linguistic Turn in Theology, 2005). He contributed articles to the Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophy and essays on topics at the intersection of philosophy and theology, as well as a translation and commentary on part of Aquinas’ De veritate. He continues to work on questions of free will, philosophy of religion (miracles, existence, and nature of God), and philosophical aesthetics. Pravina Rodrigues is Adjunct Faculty at Starr King School for the Ministry, Oakland, CA, and Postdoctoral Fellow at the Jesuit School of Theology of Santa Clara University, Berkeley, CA. She is Assistant Editor for the Journal of Dharma Studies (Springer) and Associate Editor of a 34-chapter volume at the intersection of ecology and religion titled Religion & Sustainability: Interreligious Resources, Interdisciplinary Responses. The volume was published under the United Nations Sustainable Development Goal Series by Springer in 2022. Dr. Rodrigues holds a Ph.D. in Theology and Ethics from the Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, California. She specializes in Hindu-Christian comparative theologies. Mashal Saif’s research interests include Islam in contemporary South Asia, the trans-temporal dynamics between medieval and modern Islamic discourses, postcolonial theory, and the anthropology of the state. Dr. Saif’s first monograph The ‘Ulama in Contemporary Pakistan: Contesting and Cultivating an Islamic State was published in 2020 with Cambridge University Press. Her co-edited volume State and Subject Formation in South Asia was published in 2022 with Oxford University Press. She is currently working on her second monograph, tentatively titled, Traditional Islam and Contemporary Technologies. Dr. Saif’s scholarly articles have appeared in a variety of journals: Modern Asian Studies, The Journal of Shi’a Islamic Studies, Islamic Studies, Fieldwork in Religion, Annali, and Thinking About Religion. She also authored several book chapters, book reviews, and encyclopedia articles. Dr. Saif’s research has been supported by a range of awards and fellowships, including from the American Institute of Pakistan Studies and the American Academy of Religion. Wendy M. K. Shaw (Ph.D. 1999) has held professorial positions in universities in the United States, Turkey, Switzerland, and Germany. Her work focuses on postcolonial art historiography and decolonial art history of the Islamic world and the modern Middle East. She is author of Possessors and Possessed (University of California Press, 2003), Ottoman Painting (IB Tauris, 2011), and Loving Writing: Techniques for the University and Beyond (Routledge, 2021). Her book What Is “Islamic” Art (Cambridge University Press, 2019) has been awarded Honourable Mention for the 2020 Albert Hourani Book Prize of the Middle East Studies Association of North America and received the Islamic Republic of Iran World Book Award in 2021. Ricardo Sousa Silvestre holds a Ph.D. in Philosophy from the University of Montreal (Canada). He has authored and edited several books, including the volumes Concepts of God in Vaiṣṇavism: Philosophical Perspectives (Routledge, 2023)

About the Contributors

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and Beyond Faith and Rationality: Essays on Logic, Religion and Philosophy (Springer, 2020), and authored over 40 papers and book chapters on Logic, Philosophy of Religion, and Epistemology. He has also guest-edited the special issues on the Concept of God (2019) and Formal Approaches to the Ontological Argument (2018) of the Journal of Applied Logics (College Publications), the special issue on Logic and Philosophy of Religion (2017) of Sophia: International Journal of Philosophy and Traditions (Springer), and the special issue on Logic and Religion (2017) of Logica Universalis (Springer). He is currently President of the Logic and Religion Association (LARA) and Professor at Federal University of Campina Grande and Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (both in Brazil). Andrea Vestrucci teaches and conducts research for the Department of Applied Computer Science at the University of Bamberg, Germany (Chair of AI Systems Engineering). He is also a Research Professor at Starr King School for the Ministry, Oakland, CA. He dovetails the philosophical and computational approaches to AI by exploring metaphysical and theological arguments and cognitive models in automated reasoning environments. He focuses on ethical issues raised by automated intelligent systems in interaction with groups and communities’ values and decisionmaking processes. Amongst his recent publications: Theology as Freedom: On Martin Luther’s De servo arbitrio (Mohr Siebeck, 2019), and the edition of the special issue “Religion and Artificial Intelligence: Recent Advances and Future Directions” Zygon 57/4 (2022). Formerly Professor at the Federal University of Ceará, Brazil, and Researcher at UC Berkeley (Consortium for Interdisciplinary Research), he is the recipient of the Australian Award, and a laureate of the Academic Society of Geneva. Daniel Weidner is Professor of Comparative Literature at the Martin-Luther-University Halle-Wittenberg. He was Professor of Cultural History and Theory at the Humboldt-University in Berlin and Associate Director of the Center for the Study of Culture and Literature; he was a Visiting Professor at Stanford, Gießen, Basel, Chicago, Zürich, Yale. His research focuses on the relation between literature and religion, on the history and theory of literary studies and cultural theory, and on German-Jewish Literature. Recent English Publications include: The Father of German Mysticism. The Writing of Gershom Scholem, Indiana UP 2022; Prophetic Politics. Special Issue of Political Theology (ed. with Nitzan Lebovic) 2020; The History of Dogma and the Story of Modernity. The Modern Age as the Second Overcoming of Gnosticism, in: Journal for the History of Ideas 30(1) (2019), 75–90; The Political Theology of Critical Philosophy: Reading Kant’s Ideas of Religion, in: Modern Language Notes 131(5) (2016), 1325–1346; “Going together without coming together”: “Die Kreatur” (1926–1929) and Why We Should Read German Jewish Journals Differently, in Naharaim 10(1) (2016), 103–126.

A Journey Beyond Babel Andrea Vestrucci

1 Babel: From Plurality to Pluralism The story of the Tower of Babel serves as a compelling narrative illustrating the intricate relationship between a divine entity and human language. In this tale, God imposes the existence of multiple human languages as a form of punishment for humankind’s audacious desire to be on par with the deity – to be godlike. The story narrates the religious origin not of a single human language, but of the plurality of human tongues. God introduces this plurality of human languages in the world to maintain a separation between humanity and divinity. And this separation, this distinction, is represented and vehiculated by the plurality of human languages. I try to unpack this. The story of the Tower of Babel reveals a connection between the plurality of human languages and God. Although this plurality is the fruit of a divine negative decision and initiative, nevertheless this negative decree entails a positive outcome: the restoration of the appropriate, rightful relationship between humans and God. This rightful relationship is the one that maintains the distinction between humans and God: it is a relationship in which humans do not aim to be godlike, for they respect the inequality between them and God. Language serves as a medium to express this inequality between humans and God – and their appropriate relationship – in two ways. Firstly, as seen, the newborn plurality of human languages is a tangible representation of the divide between humans and God, i.e., of the fact that humans reside ‘below,’ and God is ‘above’. The vertical movement from ‘below’ to ‘above’ is no longer possible to humans A. Vestrucci (✉) AI Systems Engineering, University of Bamberg, Bamberg, Germany Faculty of Theology, University of Geneva, Geneva, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_1

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because of the plurality of human tongues. Secondly, language(s) express the difference between humans and God in another way: by uttering this difference. The inequality between humans and God finds its voice in human tongue – and, following Babel, it finds its voice in many tongues. Thus, the plurality of human languages simultaneously embodies and articulates the prohibition of humans aspiring to be like God. The linguistic plurality enables a positive bond with the divine and, at the same time, it encourages a positive examination of this bond. “Bond” and “examination” are two possible etymologies of the word ‘religio.’ The connection between languages and religion can be negative too. Language allows us to curse and deny the divine, to avoid discussing or communicating with it, and to overcomplicate the expression of religious ideas. However, regardless of whether the connection is positive or negative, the association with religious content is a common characteristic among different languages. If we envision human languages as sets containing all possible utterances in that language, then discussing religious experiences, concepts, and traditions might represent an intersection among these sets. Moreover, language conveys and spreads religious messages, practices, and identities: religions rely on the plurality of languages to exist in the human world among individuals of various identities. Thus, religions provide a specific access to language(s). When considered from a religious perspective, languages are not simply isolated sets or fragmented remnants of an ancient and mythical linguistic unity. Languages are interconnected through their essential role in religious paths, practices, texts, stories, and encounters. This interconnection transforms the plurality of languages into a pluralism. In their relationship (whether positive or negative) with religions, languages – the consequences of the Tower of Babel’s destruction – are interlinked: they echo one another as spoken religious experiences. This linguistic pluralism encompasses the physical (visual, spatial), affective, pragmatic, and social dimensions that manifest religious traditions and identities. Furthermore, this religion-based interconnection among languages is not limited to natural languages alone; it extends to alternative mediums through which meaning is conveyed. These mediums can include music, fine arts, scientific codes, formal languages like mathematics, logic, and even artificial intelligence (AI) languages. The meanings conveyed through these mediums may not find satisfactory expression through linguistic means or codes. Music’s resistance to translation into natural language serves as a compelling example (Vestrucci, 2015).

2 Going Beyond Babel This religion-based transition from linguistic plurality to linguistic pluralism necessitates the effort to speaking about the many languages’ religious intersections. Since language itself is used to articulate the entanglement of languages in religions, this

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transition from linguistic plurality to linguistic pluralism involves a specific use of language. This applies to the present introduction as well, where I have employed English as a linguistic medium to outline the relationship between linguistic pluralism and religions. In other words, the specific access that religions provide to languages opens the door to a specific use of languages on languages themselves. By employing a language – regardless of the specific language chosen – in this “meta” manner, we overcome the boundaries narrated in the story of the Tower’s destruction. This does not mean that the languages, in this “meta” use, return to the original, primordial tongue prior to Babel. Rather, it suggests that the act of discussing the connection between languages and religions reconnects all languages to what, according to the Babel narrative, constitutes their origin and, thus, their unity: religion itself. A language that explores the interaction between languages and religions goes Beyond Babel. Interestingly, the story of Babel itself goes “beyond Babel” because it serves as a narrative (a linguistic utterance) about the emergence of a linguistic plurality. Moreover, this story is contained within a text that multiple religious traditions consider sacred. This text is a linguistic product on the intricacies – including the linguistic intricacies – of the religious relationship between humans and God. This volume aims to accomplish the same feat: to venture beyond Babel. It examines the position of languages when faced with religious pluralism, and explores how religions contribute to interconnecting all languages within a diverse, pluralistic framework. By presenting concrete and specific case studies, the volume seeks to deepen our comprehension of the co-evolution of linguistic pluralism and religious pluralism. This co-evolution encompasses two directions: Firstly, as mentioned, languages can acquire interconnectedness by reflecting on their role as vessels for religious meanings, identities, rites. Secondly, religions can discover commonality by contemplating their influence on languages, including deliberate efforts to renew, modify, and challenge semantics, pragmatics, and logical rules to effectively convey religious messages across linguistic and identity-based boundaries. Each chapter in this book goes beyond Babel as they all employ language to address inquiries regarding the impacts of religions on languages and how languages can navigate religious meanings from diverse traditions, including but not limited to Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, and Christianity. Some of the questions explored “beyond Babel” in this book include: What sets human language(s) apart from divine language? How can sacred meanings be translated into vernacular and historically contextualized linguistic forms? Can a universal or formal language aspire to the divine? How can communication be established and grounded between different religious traditions? Is there room for interaction between religious expressions, scientific codes, and formal languages? Are artistic mediums more effective in conveying religious meanings than natural languages?

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3 Specificities In this manner, the volume aims to bridge a gap in existing literature in several ways. Firstly, it stands out for the diversity of its twenty-one contributors. A glance at the table of contents reveals the range of affiliations, backgrounds, research fields, nationalities, and academic career stages represented. The chapters are authored by esteemed senior scholars, established researchers, and exceptional junior doctorate holders hailing from the US, the UK, Brazil, Australia, Qatar, Germany, Switzerland, Spain, and Italy. Their expertise spans religious studies, computer science, the history of science, philosophy, fine arts, theology, linguistics, and legal studies. This rich diversity is thoughtfully organized into five parts, each focusing on a specific aspect of the interplay between religions and the pluralism of languages. Secondly, building upon the previous point, the chapters are far from being monotonous or one-dimensional. Instead, they offer a vibrant polyphony of approaches, encompassing philosophy, sociology, history, art, and even computational perspectives. While some chapters delve into historical dynamics and ongoing debates, others present original and groundbreaking contributions in their respective fields, such as interreligious dialogue, logic, hermeneutics, and systematic theology. Throughout, there is a consistent and rigorous attention to specific case studies. Instead of engaging in abstract and arbitrary generalizations, each chapter provides in-depth analyses of historical and theoretical instances. Even contributions with seemingly abstract titles, such as Oppy’s or Askani’s, offer meticulous examinations of topics like the connection between God’s language and thought, or the semantic status of prayer. As a result, the volume features inner correspondences and echoes between contributions, such as discussions on ineffability, the notion of sacred languages, and the relationship between language and tradition. Thirdly, the volume ventures into two topics that are seldom explored in scholarly works of this nature: the religious limits of language and the pluralism of formal languages, including logics and mathematics. Opening the volume with chapters on the religious limits of language is crucial, as it encapsulates the liminality inherent in the endeavor to journey beyond Babel. In order to reflect on how religious experiences and concepts restrict the expressive capabilities of language, one must employ language to discuss language itself. This raises intriguing questions: Does this process imply that language overcomes its ‘religious’ limitations? Or does this linguistic reflection on language remain subject to the same religious constraints? Equally significant is the volume’s inclusion of a closing section that introduces readers to the pluralism of formal languages, encompassing not only the diverse array of logics but also specialized mathematical languages. The plurality of formal languages is an integral part of linguistic pluralism. It is an intellectual and experiential challenge to reconceptualize religious ideas in formal terms. As the chapters in the final section reveal, this challenge leads to advancements in both formal and theological domains. The complexity typically associated with these formal languages arises precisely because they are formal, employing syntactic and semantic rules distinct from those of natural languages. To address this issue, I specifically

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requested that the contributors to the last section compose their chapters with an imaginary reader in mind, someone unfamiliar with the particular formal language under examination. Consequently, all chapters in the final section adopt a clear and linear style, effectively introducing readers to formal languages in a careful and progressive manner.

4 Structure and Content Our journey beyond Babel is marked by five distinct stations, each corresponding to a specific part within this volume: “Religious Limits of Language,” “Interreligious and Interlinguistic Encounters,” “Religious Identities in Translation,” “Scientific Codes and Religious Meanings,” and “Formal Languages Dealing with Religious Concepts.” Each part delves into a unique aspect of the intricate interplay between religious and linguistic pluralisms.

4.1

Religious Limits of Language

The first part revolves around two interconnected topics: the modifications language undergoes in order to express the divine, and the inherent inadequacy of language in capturing the divine. These two themes are not mutually exclusive: language may be modified to communicate about the divine (thus giving rise to a “religious language” or a religious use of language) precisely because conventional language might fall short in comprehending the divine. Simultaneously, the inability of language to fully grasp the divine might stem from the fact that language deals with something that surpasses its inherent limitations. The opening chapter by Graham Oppy explores the “other side” of the matter: the concept of a divine language. Does a divinity employ language? If so, what characterizes a divine language? How does it differ from human natural languages? Is there a language exclusively used by a divinity, inaccessible to non-divine beings? Oppy addresses these inquiries by considering a theistic notion of divinity that encompasses omnipotence, omniscience, and monotheism. Wendy Shaw examines Islamic non-figurative, geometric artistic representations of the divine. Shaw perceives the religious use of geometry as a “language without a code,” emphasizing the non-semiotic nature of geometric patterns in Islamic art. These patterns do not form a grammar but possess the potential for conveying spiritual messages. Islamic geometries recalibrate the tension between the secular and the sacred, as the non-figurative expression of the divine allows for the translation of spiritual meanings into the observer’s semantic framework. The chapter also presents a comparative analysis between the works of Iranian artist Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian and Dutch artist M. C. Escher, demonstrating how the meaning

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of geometrical forms in both artists’ works resonates with notions found in Islamic sources, even though these artistic works are not overtly or intentionally religious. The subsequent two chapters offer distinct perspectives on the theme of ineffability – the limitation of natural language in capturing the divine. Ted Peters connects ineffability to the encounter with an ultimate, transcendent reality that lies beyond language and thought, thus eluding direct descriptions. Only analogical linguistic formulations, such as symbols and metaphors, can be utilized to communicate about the divine. This ineffability also extends to sacred texts, which are only “obliquely referential.” On the other hand, Ramelow connects ineffability to the philosophical reflection about the Christian God; in particular, ineffability results from the metaphysical speculation on divine simplicity: divine simplicity is the lack of the distinctions between essence and existence, subject and predicate – and these distinctions are essential for speaking about something. This ineffability evaporates in religious practices such as prayers and liturgy, where God is addressed directly – not to mention the divine act of revelation, where God speaks to people. Interestingly, these two perspectives on ineffability entail two specific approaches to interreligious dialogue. Peters, connecting ineffability to religious experience, posits that different religious experiences share the notion of a metaphoric discourse about the divine, and he draws parallelisms between Christian and Daoist languages. Ramelow claims that interreligious dialogue is undermined by a too-strong emphasis on ineffability, but it is strengthened by switching to the very source of the notion of ineffability, that is, metaphysical reflection. In the final chapter of the first part, Hans-Christoph Askani establishes a connection between the religious limitation of language and human awareness of mortality. According to Askani, just as life constantly alludes to its eventual end, language expresses something beyond language itself – the semantic referent. Thus, we engage in speech because we do not fully possess the content of our utterances; our linguistic acts originate from a realm beyond our initiative, and they terminate beyond our intentions. This “transcendence” of language is inherent in all our linguistic acts, but there are instances where language’s transcendence becomes explicit in our utterances, such as in the religious act of prayer. Askani focuses on three forms of prayer: supplication, praise, and lamentation. These prayer forms express what language cannot encapsulate and simultaneously confess language’s inherent insufficiency.

4.2

Interreligious and Interlinguistic Encounters

The second part of the book is entirely dedicated to the exploration of interreligious dialogue. While interreligious dialogue may be the first topic that comes to mind when addressing religious pluralism, the four contributions in this section present fresh and original approaches to this classical theme. Aligning with the overarching aim of the volume, the chapters in this part highlight, in various ways, that interreligious dialogue extends beyond mere verbal communication. It encompasses

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emotions, flourishes through engagement with texts from different religious traditions, and even finds expression in the specific structures of language itself. Catherine Cornille offers a pioneering contribution on the role of empathy in interfaith encounters. Often dismissed as overly subjective, “interreligious empathy” plays a vital role in alleviating difficult or traumatic interreligious relationships. It fosters new religious experiences by emotionally engaging with other devotions and practices, and enriches religious identities through a positive openness to alternative ways of seeking and embodying hope, consolation, and wisdom. Cornille elucidates the relationship between empathy, sympathy, and imagination, emphasizing that interreligious empathy is nurtured by language. This occurs not only through communication and attentive listening, but also through non-verbal exchanges of body language in rituals and practices, constituting an embodied common ground for dialogue that transcends words. Pravina Rodrigues presents a comparative theology from a Śākta perspective. Rodrigues focuses on the Great Goddess, who embodies both the primordial matter of the universe and its transformation into diverse forms. This notion of “nondifference” between the world and the Goddess is linked to the fractal theory of religious diversity. According to this theory, the macro-diversities observed among religions are mirrored within the multifaceted religious identities of individuals. Similarly, the immanent presence of the Goddess in all forms and phenomena is echoed in the patterns that constitute individuated forms. By emphasizing the simultaneity of irreducible uniqueness and general patterns, the Śākta perspective enriches the fractal model for the investigation of religious phenomena, embracing contradictions and ambiguities. In Francis X. Clooney’s chapter, Hinduism encounters Christianity through a comparative analysis of two sacred texts: Tiruviruttam, a sacred poem written by the Tamil mystic poet Śaṭakōpan (eighth century CE), and the Song of Songs from the Bible. Clooney invites us on a pilgrimage from one text to the other. As pilgrims, we engage with different religious languages and texts, approaching this foreign reality with respect because it holds glimpses of our own identity. Amidst the differences, we discover another language, alternative rituals, and distinct texts, which contribute to enriching our own religious identity. Clooney’s precise analysis of the verses from Tiruviruttam elucidates the role of poetry in sacred texts as an expression of the limitations of language in conveying divine messages. The final chapter in this section, by Stanisław Krajewski, explores the tension between a radical incommensurability between religions and an intersection, a common ground, among all religious traditions, similar to Rodrigues’ chapter. However, instead of the “fractal model,” Krajewski introduces the “oscillation model.” This model describes the entanglement between two incompatible approaches for explaining a situation, where the assumption of one approach leads to considering the second approach, and vice versa. Thus, the incompatibility of the two approaches is dynamically transcended through oscillation, with each fluctuation building upon the value of the previous step. Drawing on this model, Krajewski offers new interpretations of the structure of interfaith dialogues, with specific reference to the Judeo-Christian dialogue and the layered meaning of the term “Jew.”

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Religious Identities in Translation

The third part of the book delves into the intricate realm of translation, the function that preserves meaning between languages. In the context of religions, this topic encompasses various facets, including the delicate balance between sacred and profane languages and the preservation or transformation of religious identities during the process of linguistic transition. It also includes the temporal dimension of translation, examining how religious messages may undergo variations to maintain their meaningfulness across centuries. Additionally, it raises questions about what is gained and lost when approaching a sacred text through the lens of hermeneutics. Ashley L. Bacchi’s contribution centers on the theme of Jewish identity – already a topic in Krajewski’s chapter. Bacchi focuses on the status of Hebrew as a sacred language and its interconnectedness with one’s self-identification as a Jew. Bacchi explores early responses to the question of whether the Septuagint, the renowned Greek translation of the Pentateuch, held the same sacred status as the original text. By examining three sources – the Letter of Aristeas, Philo of Alexandria, and Flavius Josephus – Bacchi contextualizes and illuminates the differences among their narratives. This includes the emphasis on divine intervention in the translation and the social and political aspects associated with it, shedding light on the connection between translation and the notion of identity in the Diaspora. Mashal Saif’s chapter reconstructs another case of the interrelation between religious identity and the use of multiple languages: multilingualism in the religious teaching proposed by Muslim scholar Muhammad ‘Ali Mongiri in late nineteenthearly twentieth century South Asian Islam. Saif delves into Mongiri’s arguments in support of his vision of Islamic education encompassing English, Arabic, and Urdu, with each language playing a distinct role in the didactic vision advocated by the Nadwat al-‘Ulama religious reform movement. The chapter also explores the historical and sociological roots of the attitudes of early twentieth-century Indian Muslims toward each of the three languages. This includes the complex relationship between the English language, British colonialism, and Christianity, as well as the perception of Arabic as preeminent in religious matters but of secondary importance in everyday settings, when compared to English. Daniel Weidner’s chapter addresses the topic of vernacular theology, which involves the translation of religious terms and concepts into a secular, temporally situated idiom imbued with the spirit of a particular historical epoch. Weidner examines Schleiermacher’s lesser-known fictional dialogue titled Christmas Eve (1806), which portrays the festive gathering of three bourgeois couples for a home celebration of Christmas. The analysis encompasses two translational levels: the translation of the Christian notion of Incarnation into the language and idioms of nineteenth-century German bourgeoisie, and also into the intricate tapestries of the specific lives and dialogues of the fictional characters. By examining the interactions between these two levels, where boundaries often ambiguously overlap, Weidner elucidates how religious source language and historical target language influence each other, resulting in a constant re-actualization of translation.

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The final chapter of the third part, authored by Purushottama Bilimoria, explores the limits of philosophical hermeneutics when applied to sacred texts. Similar to the previous chapter, this contribution examines two translational levels: firstly, the translation of the ideas of “authority” and “authorship” into the Mīmāṃsā theory of language and its interpretation of Vedic texts; secondly, the influence of religious notions and philosophical concepts on each other. Bilimoria investigates the parallels and differences between the Mīmāṃsā idea of authorship and modern European hermeneutics’ interconnection between text and meaning. The chapter delves into the philosophical and religious implications of embracing the notions of tradition tied to timeless knowledge, of a text as devoid of authorship, and of a language as lacking origin.

4.4

Scientific Codes and Religious Meanings

The fourth part of the book delves into the intricate relationship between two specific uses of language: the religious and the scientific. Traditionally, interpretations of the religion-science relationship vary from no overlap to mutual integration, with each religious tradition having its own history of engagement with scientific methods and discoveries. The chapters in this part approach this issue from the perspective of the interaction between religious topics and scientific findings, investigating examples of how science and religion intersect and influence each other. Snezana Lawrence’s contribution retraces the entanglement between theological speculations and mathematical discoveries in Gersonides, the Jewish Occitan polymath of the fourteenth century. Gersonides applied mathematical methods to religious topics, using scientific proof techniques such as the diaporematic method and mathematical induction to investigate issues like the kabalistic permutations of Hebrew letters and the compatibility of free will with God’s knowledge of future contingents. By highlighting the affinities and dissimilarities with Maimonides, the chapter clarifies Gersonides’ belief that God’s message is accessible to human reasoning, suggesting that a life dedicated to knowledge leads toward God and even imitates God. Ingrid Malm Lindberg’s chapter examines the epistemological ambiguity of alchemy, a discipline situated between science and spirituality – simultaneously a precursor to chemistry and a self-transformation practice. Malm Lindberg explores the reinvention of the alchemical tradition within the context of late nineteenth-early twentieth century British occultism. Victorian materialism spurred the emergence of alternative and esoteric avenues for seeking meaning within reality. Rather than rejecting science outright, these paths engaged with scientific methods and sought to interact with them. Contrary to the notion of alchemy and chemistry as competing paradigms, the chapter reveals a dynamic interplay, where alchemy serves as a text through which atomic discoveries and the Victorian crisis of faith are grasped. In line with Bilimoria’s chapter, this is connected to the Gadamerian notion of tradition as a source for the interpretation of the present. Sara Lumbreras focuses on the Credition model, which explains belief networks and the processes of belief emergence, revision, and extinction. The Credition model

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is the result of interdisciplinary research involving neuroscientists, computer scientists, anthropologists, philosophers, and theologians. The model considers the process of believing as constituted by rational and emotional components. Lumbreras examines how Artificial Intelligence (AI) techniques, such as Reinforcement Learning, can enhance our understanding of the Credition model. The chapter connects this belief model to the process of religious belief and proposes its usefulness in gaining insights into the dynamics of various religious belief systems. The final chapter of the fourth part, by Zachary R. Calo, analyzes the interactions between two perspectives on the use of technology for human enhancement: one perspective concerns transhumanism/posthumanism positions, and the other perspective refers to Christian theological anthropology. While both perspectives envision a salvific future for humanity, the source of salvation differs. Transhumanism focuses on integrating human technological advances into the human body, while the theological perspective emphasizes divine grace as the source of salvation. Calo highlights how both posthumanist and theological approaches connect human dignity with embodiment, risk control, and the ability to build relationships, while acknowledging that interpretations of these aspects may vary in affirming human dignity.

4.5

Formal Languages Dealing with Religious Concepts

The fifth part of the book delves into a less-explored facet of linguistic pluralism: the pluralism of formal languages. This encompasses various formal systems such as classical logic, modal logics (e.g., alethic logic, deontic logic, temporal logic, epistemic logic), non-monotonic logics (like paraconsistent logic), free logic, intuitionistic logic, fuzzy logic, and mathematics itself, with its distinct terminologies for each branch. How does this array of formal languages intersect with religions? Can religion notions be captured by logic and mathematics? Christoph Benzmüller intertwines the ontological proof of the existence of a Godlike being with two formal languages: the modal logic employed by Kurt Gödel in his formulation of the proof (1970) and the language of the symbolic AI program Isabelle/HOL, an interactive theorem prover. This chapter offers a summary of Benzmüller’s (et al.) decade-long exploration of Gödel’s ontological proof within various automated reasoning environments. This investigation has yielded unexpected insights, such as demonstrating the inconsistency of Gödel’s original proof axioms and deriving modal collapse from Dana Scott’s version. Additionally, the chapter introduces a simplified version of Gödel’s ontological proof that avoids modal collapse, utilizes more intuitive definitions, and provides a new lens into the logical structure of the proof. This supports the fruitful collaboration between humanities and computer science. In the following chapter, Ricardo Silvestre addresses two issues concerning the concept of a Godhead. The first problem, known as the “unicity of extension,” arises when each concept of a Godhead is assumed to correspond to a distinct entity, potentially undermining the monotheistic perspective in philosophy of religion. The

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second problem, termed “conceptual unity,” revolves around how different concepts of Godheads can be united within the set of ‘concepts of Godhead.’ These challenges are linked to the distinction between plurality (pertaining to irreducible concepts of Godheads) and pluralism (based on a shared aspect among all ‘Godhead’ concepts), as outlined in this introduction. To tackle these problems, Silvestre explores a theory of ideal concepts of a Godhead that maps sets of properties (varying across different Godheads) to their maximal possible perfection or ‘ideal.’ The different sets of properties ensure the unicity of extension, while the idealization of each set ensures conceptual unity. Silvestre also formulates a semantics of possible ‘theological’ worlds that accounts for both theistic and atheistic perspectives. The final two contributions delve into formal investigations of problems within Christian theology that appear to harbor contradictions. Franca d’Agostini employs paraconsistent logic to examine dyophysitism – the Christian notion that Jesus possesses both human and divine natures. Paraconsistent logic studies true contradictions (such as conjunctions of the form “p and not p”) by limiting the validity of the principle of non-contradiction. D’Agostini argues that a specific approach to paraconsistency, known as “conjunctive paraconsistency,” provides the most faithful formalization of the Christological thesis concerning the unity of human and divine natures in Christ. By meticulously analyzing the Athanasian Creed, the chapter presents a crystalline argumentative progression, revealing the unique insights that the theological problem offers for enhancing paraconsistent logic. This includes outlining the characteristics of a paraconsistent logic that embraces the notion of truth as ἀλήθεια. In the final chapter, Fábio Maia Bertato investigates the Christian notion of the Trinity within the framework of category theory, a branch of mathematics concerned with mathematical structures. This chapter contributes to the emerging interdisciplinary research in theology and category theory, complementing existing works such as Heller (2019). Like the preceding chapter, this exploration also deals with an apparent contradiction: how can the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost be God without leading to the notion of three separate gods or each being the other two? Guiding the reader through the fundamental concepts of category theory, Bertato addresses the logical challenges posed by the Trinity through its representation in categorical language. Furthermore, Bertato examines three significant topics: the Eastern Orthodox rejection of the Filioque, the extension of the model to include more than three divine persons, and the identity between God and divine attributes.

5 Origin and Future Steps In 2018, during my time as a researcher at the Consortium for Interdisciplinary Research at UC Berkeley, I had the privilege of organizing an international conference titled “Religion and Language,” with the support of the Berkeley Center for the Study of Religion. The conference featured presentations by esteemed scholars in the fields of philosophy of religion, Judaism, Hinduism, Jainism, and Christian

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Catholic and Protestant theology. Volume contributors Purushottama Bilimoria and Anselm Ramelow were amongst the keynote speakers. Following the conference, a call for paper was launched on the topics of the conference, together with personal invitations of contribution to selected researchers. The enthusiastic participation by a large number of scholars fostered the idea of organizing a volume on the topic of the interactions between religious pluralism and linguistic pluralism. The Springer series Sophia was the perfect place for the realization of this volume. I would like to thank all contributors for their participation in this project, the editors of Sophia Springer series for their invitation to host this volume, Springer Editor Christopher Coughlin for his support throughout the process, and the anonymous reviewers for their valuable comments. These people’s work made possible for the vision and legacy that followed from that conference to be finally realized. The conclusion of one project invariably marks the beginning of new paths. From this book, the seeds of a new undertaking may sprout – a second volume of Beyond Babel. This second volume would serve as a platform to incorporate themes and perspectives that could not be covered in the present work, adding new stations in the journey beyond Babel. For example, one new section could focus on teachings, rituals, texts, and practices of indigenous religions from diverse continents, encompassing traditions in Australia, New Zealand, Japan, China, and Africa. Another section would explore theologies from the perspectives of black and indigenous people of color, while a further section would delve into LGBTQ+ identities in religious contexts. These sections would enrich the project’s postcolonial aims and foster the pursuit of diversity, which lies at the heart of this endeavor. Additionally, it would be valuable to include a section addressing the issue of defining religion, within the spectrum ranging from formulating a general definition that encompasses all religious traditions to acknowledging the impossibility of such a definition in light of the irreducible specificities of different religions. Ultimately, it is the readers and their reception of this book who can make the continuation of this project possible. I wish you an eventful and inspiring journey beyond Babel. Bamberg, October 2022

References Heller, M. (2019). The logic of God. Edukacja Filozoficzna, 68, 227–244. Vestrucci, A. (2015). Music, analogy and the beauty of everydayness. On music’s sense: First movement. Knowledge Cultures, 3(3), 42–71. Special issue “Aesthetic knowledge”.

Part I

Religious Limits of Language

Divine Language Graham Oppy

Some Jews maintain that the Hebrew language was invented by God and taught by God to the original human users of that language. Some Jews and Christians maintain that the language that God used in creating the natural realm was invented by God. Some Jews and Christians maintain that the language in which God spoke to Adam prior to the fall was invented by God and given to Adam by God. Some Jews and Christians maintain that, although Adam invented the Hebrew language, God used the Hebrew language to communicate with historically significant users of that language, such as Moses and Abraham. Some Muslims maintain that, although God did not invent the Arabic language, God used the Arabic language, through the angel Gabriel, to reveal the Quran to Muhammad. Some Hindus maintain that Vedic Sanskrit, the language of liturgy, is the language of the gods. Some Hindus claim that the Vedas are impersonal, authorless revelations of sacred sounds and texts heard by meditating sages. While it is not clear how to understand this, perhaps we are meant to think that there is divine language in the absence of any divine producer of that language. Some Sikhs maintain that the first Guru—Guru Nanak—was a ‘mouthpiece’ for God. It is not clear how we are to think of the languages involved in this conception of the origin of the Sikh scriptures. Most plausibly, God is taken to have communicated with Guru Nanak in the (largely) Punjabi language of the Dasam Granth. These views about divine language raise various philosophical questions. In this chapter, I propose to make a survey of some of the questions that arise if we take seriously the idea that God is a language producer and language user. In the coming discussion, I shall assume that a divine language might be a language invented by God, or a language used exclusively by God, or a language used by God in communication with other users of that language. G. Oppy (✉) Monash University, Melbourne, VIC, Australia e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_2

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1 Divine Linguistic Competence We may assume, given that God is omnipotent and omniscient, that there is no problem of principle that arises in connection with the use of a language by God to communicate with other users of that language. Given that God is omnipotent and omniscient, God is perfectly competent in the use of every possible language in every possible circumstance. On the one hand, God knows everything there is to know about the syntax, semantics and pragmatics of every possible language at every possible stage in its development. On the other hand, God knows everything there is to know about every possible communicative context. If there is an antecedent fact of the matter about how anyone addressed in any particular possible communicative context will interpret God’s words in that context, then God knows how anyone addressed in any particular possible communicative context will interpret God’s words in that context. And if there is no antecedent fact of the matter about how anyone addressed in any particular possible communicative context will interpret God’s words in that context, God has complete knowledge of how anyone addressed in any particular possible communicative context might interpret God’s words in that context. (Perhaps, if there is no antecedent fact of the matter how anyone addressed in any particular possible communicative context will interpret God’s words in that context, God will have complete knowledge of the chance that someone addressed in some particular communicative content will interpret God’s words in a particular way in that context.) We may further assume, given that God is omnipotent and omniscient, that there is no problem of principle that arises in connection with the invention of a language by God, at least in the case where God invents the language for the use of created language users. Given the points noted in the previous paragraph, it might seem plausible that, if God wishes, God will be able to match language using populations to languages that are best calculated to suit their linguistic needs. And, even if it turns out that there are always many different languages that would serve equally well to meet the linguistic needs of given populations, it surely seems plausible that, if God wishes, God can match language using populations to languages that suffice to meet the linguistic needs of those populations. The interesting questions about divine language concern languages that are invented by God solely for God’s own use, or that are used exclusively by God even though they are not invented by God. Suppose that we take seriously the idea that God’s act of creation proceeded as described in, for example, Genesis 1:3. ‘And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.’ In order for God to say ‘Let there be light’, there must be some language in which God says this. What is the provenance of this language? One thought is that God invents the language in which God says ‘Let there be light’. On this line of thought, God has made a private language, and is able to use that private language in order to make things happen: there is light simply because God says, in God’s private language ‘Let there be light’.

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Another thought is that the language adverted to in Genesis 1:3 is God’s language of thought. If we take this line, then we suppose that what happens is that, in God’s language of thought, God has the thought ‘Let there be light’, and that suffices to bring it about that there is light. Of course, there are many theists who do not take seriously the idea that God’s act of creation proceeded as described in Genesis 1:3. But this is merely an illustrative example. Among those theists who do not take seriously the idea that God’s act of creation proceeded as described in Genesis 1:3, there are those who suppose that there is a divine language that is used exclusively by God. The question that we are about to take up is whether those theists should suppose that there is a divine language that is used exclusively by God.

2 Divine Private Language The idea that God has made a private language—and that God is able to use this private language in order to make things happen—is likely to be met with at least the following two questions. First: Is it so much as possible that God makes a private language? Second: Even if it is possible that God make a private language, is there any reason to think that God would make a private language? In particular, is there any reason to think that God has ‘needs’ that can be satisfied by the making of a private language? In Philosophical Investigations, §243, Wittgenstein (2009) defines a private language as one in which the references of words are known only to the single speaker of the language. While Wittgenstein has in mind, in particular, that the words refer to the immediate private sensations of the speaker, the idea is more general: the words in a private language are taken to be necessarily comprehensible only to the speaker because that which defines its vocabulary is necessarily inaccessible to others. Consider the scenario described in Genesis 1:3. It might be supposed that the language that God uses employs vocabulary that is necessarily inaccessible to others. First, it might be supposed that any language that God uses prior to creation is necessarily inaccessible to others since, necessarily, prior to creation, there is no one other than God. To this, it can be replied that, while it is true that there cannot be someone else prior to creation who understands the divine language that God employs in creating, it is perfectly possible for there to be someone posterior to creation who understands that language. The mere fact that God exists alone prior to creation does not create an in principle objection to the possibility that there is someone else who understands, posterior to creation, the language that God used prior to creation. Second, it might be supposed that any language that God uses prior to creation is necessarily inaccessible to others since not even God can make it the case that there are others who so much as understand the reasons that God has for acting as God does. The point here is one about the otherness of God. If, as many theists suppose,

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there is an unbridgeable gulf between creator and creatures, and if, in particular, there is an unbridgeable gulf between the understanding of God and the understanding of creatures, then it seems plausible, as a matter of principle, that the meaning of the vocabulary in the language of God is necessarily inaccessible to others. This second consideration seems to me to make it plausible that, if there is a divine language, then it is necessarily inaccessible to others. Perhaps, though, some might think to reply that Christians may avail themselves of the doctrine of the Trinity in order to avoid this conclusion. Speaking somewhat loosely—or perhaps fancifully—if each of the members of the Trinity speaks the divine language, then it is not true that any of them speaks a language that is necessarily inaccessible to others. Among the hard questions here is whether we should suppose that the members of the Trinity are ‘others’ to one another in a sense that will support the idea that the divine language is not a private language. If it is orthodoxy that there is just one divine will that underwrites divine action, then it seems to me that it cannot be orthodoxy to claim that the members of the Trinity communicate with one another using divine language. But if that is correct then, in the relevant sense, the divine language is, indeed, a private language. While the interpretation of ‘the private language argument’ in Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations remains hotly contested, it seems relatively uncontroversial to say that Wittgenstein argues either for the view that language is essentially social or for the view that language is at least potentially social. If there is good reason to suppose that language is either essentially social or potentially social, then there is good reason to suppose that there cannot be a divine language of the kind that we have been discussing. For, as we have just seen, it is plausible that, by the lights of orthodoxy, the divine language would be neither essentially or potentially social. Even if we suppose that Wittgenstein raises serious difficulties for the idea that human beings can make private languages, we might wonder whether those difficulties will carry over to the case of God and divine language. Wittgenstein’s arguments seem to be centrally concerned with difficulties involved in what we might call mental ostensive definition: establishing persisting connections between signs and contents of current cognitions. Theists might doubt that it is appropriate to suppose that God has ‘current cognitions’; and, even if they allow that God does have ‘current cognitions’, they might suppose that there are no difficulties here for a being that is both omniscient and omnipotent. However, if God does not have ‘current cognitions’, then it is hard to see how God can come to make a divine language, since it is hard to see what else could suffice to establish the meanings of the vocabulary of the divine language. And if God does have ‘current cognitions’, then, at the very least, we need some further assessment of Wittgenstein’s arguments: it is, after all, not to be expected that an omnipotent and omniscient being can do what is genuinely impossible. It is beyond the scope of the present chapter to further pursue the question whether there is an argument in Wittgenstein’s Philosophical Investigations that can be used to make a plausible case for the claim that not even God could make a private language. It seems to me that this question is really of what we might

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properly call ‘purely academic interest’. For it seems to me that, even if God could make a private language, God would have no reason to make a private language, and so would not make a private language. (For further discussion of Wittgenstein’s views about private language, see Wrisley (2019).) Suppose that God does have the capacity to establish persisting connections between signs and contents of divine cognitions. Given that God is necessarily omnipotent and necessarily omniscient, the establishment of persisting connections between signs and contents of divine cognitions cannot enable God to have cognitions that God did not have prior to the establishment of those persisting connections between signs and contents of divine cognitions. More generally: given that God is necessarily omniscient, there is no epistemic or cognitive benefit that God can gain by establishing persisting connections between signs and contents of divine cognition. Since God is necessarily perfect, God would not bother to do anything that it is pointless for God to do. So: God would not make a divine language grounded in the establishment of persisting connections between signs and contents of divine cognitions. There are points in the preceding argument where I appeal to what I claim to be ‘orthodox’ opinions. I do not deny that it is possible for theists to have ‘unorthodox’ opinions. So it should not be thought that the above is meant to be a rigorous argument for the claim that it is matter of purely academic interest whether God could make a private language and, in any case, God would not make a divine language grounded in the establishment of persisting connections between signs and contents of divine cognitions. The most that I wish to claim is that I expect that many theists currently active in philosophy of religion will find the claims that I have advanced attractive, if not compelling.

3 Divine Language of Thought Some may suppose that, even if it is granted that God would not make a divine language, it remains open that there is a divine language. In particular, it might be supposed, there is nothing in the preceding considerations that rules out the existence of a divine language of thought. Fodor (1975)—following a tradition that goes back at least to Augustine—claims that thinking is essentially linguistic: thinking occurs in a mental language. If it is necessarily the case that thinking occurs in a mental language, and if God thinks, then God’s thinking occurs in a divine mental language: the divine language of thought. (For further details about discussion of language of thought hypotheses, see Rescorla (2019).) There is much in Christian tradition that supports the claim that God thinks. While it would perhaps be a mistake to suppose that our thought is anything more than loosely analogous to God’s thought, the various meanings associated with ‘Logos’—ground, opinion, expectation, word, plea, speech, account, reason, proportion, discourse, and so forth—directly support the claim that, in identifying God with Logos, Christian tradition expressed a commitment to the idea that God thinks.

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Moreover, support among contemporary Christian philosophers for certain kinds of arguments for the existence of God—e.g. the arguments from intentionality, numbers, and sets in Walls and Dougherty (2018)—is clearly predicated on the idea that God thinks. The intentionality of God’s thoughts cannot be the primitive form of intentionality if God does not have thoughts. Numbers cannot be ideas in the mind of God if God does not have thoughts. Sets cannot be products of God’s thinking things together if God does not have thoughts. Finally, there are—admittedly controversial—ways of understanding Imago Dei which rely on the claim that God thinks: what allegedly distinguishes human beings from other creatures, and makes it the case that, unlike other creatures, human beings are in God’s image, is that human beings are able to have rational, self-reflective thoughts. Given that God thinks, the remaining assumption that we need to investigate is whether it is necessarily the case that thinking occurs in a mental language. We have already seen that some philosophers suppose that it is impossible that there are mental languages, since such languages would be necessarily private. Fodor himself argued both that there are no good arguments against private languages and that, even if there were good arguments against private languages, they would not apply to mental languages. However, it is not clear that Fodor successfully prosecutes either part of this case. Fodor argues that considerations about productivity and systematicity strongly support the claim that thinking occurs in a mental language. It is not clear that considerations about productivity carry over to the case of divine thought; it is not clear that there is any distinction between competence and performance to be drawn in connection with God’s thought. (I take it for granted that it is impossible for God to have thoughts that are ungrammatical according to the grammar of God’s language of thought.) However, there is at least some prima facie plausibility to the thought that considerations about systematicity carry over to the case of divine thought. It is plausible that any thought—including God’s thought—is systematic; and it is plausible that systematicity of thought would be explained by the systematicity of the language of thought, if there is a language of thought. However, what remains to be considered is whether the systematicity of thought is best explained by the systematicity of the language of thought, and, in particular, whether the systematicity of divine thought is best explained in terms of the systematicity of the divine language of thought. In the general case, there are alternative proposals: for example, Braddon-Mitchell and Jackson (1996) and Camp (2007) have both supported the idea that the systematicity of thought might be better explained by its map-like rather than its language-like features. Given that we have already acknowledged that divine thought might be rather different from human thought, even if it turns out that human thought requires a human language of thought, it seems open to us to suppose that divine thought requires only a divine map of thought. To the extent that the case for a divine language of thought rests on systematicity, it is not clear that we have any reason to prefer the hypothesis of a divine language of thought to the hypothesis of a divine map of thought. (There is a separate debate about whether natural languages are systematic—see, e.g. Pullum and Scholz (2007). I ignore this debate for the purposes of the current discussion. If

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natural languages are not systematic, then there is no support at all for the language of thought hypothesis in considerations about systematicity.) The idea that divine thought is more ‘map-like’ than ‘language-like’ is not without precedent. Alston (1986, 288ff.) argues that there are historical defences— provided by Aquinas and Bradley—of the view that God’s knowledge is not propositional (‘language-like’). Whether or not there is more to divine thought than divine knowledge, we might suppose that the primary consideration to which Alston appeals—the absence in God of the kinds of limitations that require our knowledge to be divided into propositional ‘parcels’—extends to the case of divine thought. On the other hand, we might suppose that there is just one complete true proposition that is the object of God’s knowledge; on that additional assumption, it seems that considerations about division into propositional ‘parcels’ are completely beside the point. Despite Alston’s valiant effort to separate the claims that Aquinas and Bradley make about the non-propositional nature of God’s knowledge from their more controversial metaphysical views, there are grounds for thinking that you need something like commitment to Aquinas’ divine simplicity or Bradley’s higher immediacy in order to justify the claim that God’s thought is non-propositional. While I do not expect theists to be of one mind on this matter, I do expect that many theists will prefer the hypothesis of a divine map of thought to the hypothesis of a divine language of thought. Suppose that we do think that there is a divine language of thought. In that case, it seems, we are thinking that, in the order of explanation, the language of thought is prior to divine thoughts. This is puzzling. Consider God prior to creation of anything else. The only thing that exists is God. God has the capacity for thought. This capacity is dependent upon the divine language of thought. Since the divine language of thought is a language, it has the usual elements of a language: lexicon, grammar, and so forth. But what is the source of the meaning of the elements in the lexicon of the divine language of thought? Given the fundamental role that God’s thought is meant to play in the creation of everything else, it seems problematic to suppose that meaning is conferred on the elements in the lexicon of the divine language of thought prior to the creation of anything else. It is not an accident that contemporary language of thought hypotheses—in the work of Chomsky, Fodor, and their followers—take it for granted that human language of thought has an evolutionary history. One of the main reasons for supposing that there is a language of thought is that we can appeal to the language of thought to explain human first-language acquisition. But this explanatory advantage vanishes if the language of thought must itself be acquired. However, if the language of thought is innate, then the only plausible explanation is one that appeals to our evolutionary history: our language of thought has been hardwired into us over the long haul of human evolution. But, of course, there is nothing that corresponds to evolutionary history in the case of God. It cannot be the case, for example, that God’s language of thought is forged in some prior evolutionary period. Since it seems that there is no explanation that could be given of the meanings of the terms in the lexicon of the divine language of thought, it seems that there is very good reason to suppose that there is no divine

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language of thought. Perhaps it might be objected that, for example, the bootstrapping account of the origins of divine concepts in Leftow (2012) can fill this explanatory gap. But it seems that any such account requires some semantic primes (see Wierzbicka, 1996); and yet it also seems that there is no plausible source for semantic primes in a divine language of thought. (A referee suggests that, perhaps, meaning is conferred on the elements of the lexicon in the divine language of thought by God’s knowledge of the possibilia that he can create. I think this suggestion is incoherent. If there is a divine language of thought, then God’s knowledge is framed in that language; but then it is hopelessly circular to suppose that God’s knowledge confers meaning on the elements in the lexicon of that language.) The conclusion that I am tempted to draw is that theists should reject the idea that there is a divine language of thought. Given considerations about the otherness of God, it is reasonable for theists to suppose that there is some sense in which God thinks and has thoughts. However, given the limited literal content we can ascribe to this claim, it is hard to see good reason for theists to embrace the further claim that there is some sense in which there is a divine language of thought.

4 Concluding Remarks In this chapter, I have given preliminary consideration to questions about whether God is a language producer and language user. I have argued: first, that—setting other considerations aside—there is nothing particularly problematic about the idea that God produces and uses natural languages; second, that theists should reject the idea that God has a private divine language; and third, that theists should reject the idea that God has a language of thought. I regard the arguments that I have given in the chapter as preliminary and provisional; I will not be surprised if they meet with strenuous opposition. Perhaps I should note in closing that there is nothing in the arguments that I have given that tells against the traditional claims that I mentioned in my introductory remarks. We do not need to suppose that there is a divine language of thought in order to further suppose that particular human languages were invented by God and transmitted to human beings at some point in the past. Of course, naturalists will suppose that there are more theoretically satisfying naturalistic accounts of the origins of those languages; but that point is not relevant to the arguments that I have been advancing in this chapter. Acknowledgement Thanks to Andrea Vestrucci and two referees from Sophia for constructive advice on the initial draft of this chapter.

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Appendix In this chapter, I make use of some terminology from philosophy of language that may not be familiar to all readers. I include a brief account of this terminology here. 1. Competence: Language users’ linguistic competence is their grasp of rules of grammar: their knowledge of their language enables them to recognise grammatical errors. By contrast, linguistic performance refers to actual uses of language that, for human language users, often devolves into ungrammaticality because of, for example, inattention, mid-sentence changes of mind, bilingual interaction effects, limitations of memory, and the like. 2. Productivity: To say that language is productive is to say that it offers us an unlimited ability to engage in novel communication. Given a lexicon with just a few thousand useful items, we have an unlimited supply of sentences that we can use and understand. 3. Systematicity: Roughly, a language is systematic if, whenever it can be identified that a sentence is grammatical, it can be simultaneously identified that any variant of that sentence in which there is substitution of constituents belonging to the same grammatical category is also grammatical. Example: When I recognise that ‘John loves Mary’ is grammatical, I also recognise that ‘Mary loves John’ is grammatical. 4. Language of Thought: The language of thought hypothesis is that thought takes place in a mental language, that is, in a system of mental representation that has syntactic structure. The best know exposition and defence of this hypothesis in in Fodor (1975). 5. Map of Thought: The map of thought hypothesis is that thought takes place in a system of mental representation that, rather than having syntactic structure, has the kind of structure that is displayed in maps. Maps are similar to languages in their employment of discrete recurring constituents with arbitrary semantics that are combined according to systematic rules. But maps are unlike languages in their employment of spatial isomorphism as the underlying framework for the combination of constituents. 6. Semantic Primes: Semantic primes—or semantic primitives—are simple elements in the lexicon that are not defined in terms of other elements in the lexicon. According to the current version of the theory developed by Wierzbicka and her co-workers, there are 65 semantic primes in terms of which the meanings of all other words can be explained.

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References Alston, W. (1986). Does God have beliefs? Religious Studies, 22, 287–306. Braddon-Mitchell, D., & Jackson, F. (1996). The philosophy of mind and cognition. Blackwell. Camp, E. (2007). Thinking with maps. Philosophical Perspectives, 21, 145–182. Fodor, J. (1975). The language of thought. MIT Press. Leftow, B. (2012). God and necessity. Oxford University Press. Pullum, G., & Scholz, B. (2007). Systematicity and natural language syntax. Croatian Journal of Philosophy, 7, 375–402. Rescorla, M. (2019). In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The language of thought hypothesis (Summer 2019 ed.). The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/ language-thought/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Walls, L., & Dougherty, T. (Eds.). (2018). Two dozen (or so) arguments for God: The plantinga project. Oxford University Press. Wierzbicka, A. (1996). Semantics: Primes and Universals. Oxford University Press. Wittgenstein, L. (2009). Philosophical investigations. 4th ed. (G. E. M. Anscombe, P. Hacker, and J. Schulte, Trans.). Blackwell. Wrisley, G. (2019). In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), Private language (Fall 2019 ed.). The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2019/entries/private-language/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023

Language Without a Code: Islamic Geometry and Modernity Wendy M. K. Shaw

After the twelfth century in societies of Islamic hegemony, isometric polyhedral geometries were frequently used on surface treatments of objects large and small, from architecture to metalwork, book pages to tombs.1 While explicit emic theorizations of such treatments are rare, references to surface treatments from early in their use to the modern period frequently infer relationships with the Divine.2 Conversely, modern art historical accounts of these geometries insist on their decorative nature. This modern discussion of Islamic pattern as non-representational and non-meaningful coincides with increasing assertions of Islamic art as characterized by an absolute ban on images.3 Islamic arts are left

This is a revised and updated version of the author’s article “Islamic Geometries: Spiritual Affects Against a Secularist Grid,” published in Sophia 61, 41–59 (2022). https://doi.org/10.1007/ s11841-022-00905-4 I use the phrase ‘societies of Islamic hegemony’ because these societies were not exclusively Muslim. They included large populations of non-Muslims, such as (in various regions and times) Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, Zoroastrians, ancestor worshippers and animists. Many of these populations shared languages and literary cultures with the hegemonic power, including visual, musical, and even at times spiritual practices. 2 ‘Allah’ is the word commonly used by monotheists in Islamic hegemonic lands to refer to the Divine. This Divine is defined in various ways, ranging from the anthropomorphic connotations of the English use of ‘God’ to the ninety-nine attributes indicating the Divine in Islamic tradition. My preference for the term ‘the Divine’ points to the culturally loaded and often ineffectively translated understandings of the Abrahamic monotheistic deity. 3 The supposed Islamic image-ban, often mislabeled as ‘iconoclasm,’ has been disproven in many works that point to its occasional nature as well as the misapprehension of its logic, which expresses a concern with comparison of the artist with the capacities of the unique Divine (thus risking polytheism). See Gruber and Shalem (2014). 1

W. M. K. Shaw (✉) Independent scholar, Berlin, Germany © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_3

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between a rock and a hard place: characterized by a medium that fails to express meaning, the pictorial form understood as meaningful is rendered un-Islamic. This distinction – between the geometric form understood as traditional, iconic of identity but void of signification, and pictorial form understood as signifying, anti-religious, and thereby appropriate for a secular rubric of art – coincided with similar shifts in European artistic practice. During the same moment that the wheat of Islamic pictorialism was being separated from the chaff of Islamic geometries, European artistic practice was separating the wheat of modernist abstraction from the chaff of historicist pictorialism. Not entirely coincidentally, modernist abstraction frequently resembled Islamic pattern in its reliance on isometric grids, as well as the tension in articulating their potential meaning. How could geometry be declared traditional and anti-intellectual in the Islamic context yet progressive and innovative in modern Europe? Does geometry convey meaning? If so, what is that meaning and how is it conveyed? This paper first contrasts articulations of geometric meaning in Islamic discourses with European discussions of geometry between language and ornament in relation to both Islamic and modernist art. It then explores an example of the tension between secularity and spirituality attributed to geometry in discussions of modernist abstract painting and Islamic art in the 1970s. Finally, it considers the expressive capacity of historical Islamic isometric geometries in their transfer into the idiom of modernism in the work of Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian (1928–1919) and in the prints of M. C. Escher (1898–1972). Testing early Islamic theories of geometry as infusing the subject with meaning, these examples suggest how geometry induces similar responses in diverse subjects, suggesting that it communicates regardless of cultural context. Geometry emerges as a language without a code, peculiarly capable of articulating meaning without the linguistic properties of culturally informed encoding and decoding (Hall, 1973).

1 Between Theorization and Affect in Islamic Articulations of Geometric Meaning In 1976, the influential Islamic art historian Oleg Grabar considered contemporary associations between Islamic geometries and spirituality as misguided. He argued that without a universally acknowledged theorization attributing meaning to geometry, it would be impossible to affirm its meaning in Islamic cultures (Grabar, 1992, 51).4 His argument relies on both semiotic and hermeneutic methodological 4

This assertion contradicts his earlier speculation, articulated in Grabar (1973), that decorative schemes in Islamic architecture were purposefully arbitrary in order to avoid competing with the regularity of the Divine hand in nature (202–203). J. M. Rogers critiques this assertion as lacking sources, comparing it with Panofsky’s ‘forced’ parallel between Gothic architecture and scholasticism. The critique underscores Grabar’s application of methodologies developed for European art histories to the Islamic context. See Rogers (1973, 164).

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premises. Under the de Sausseurian postulate of the arbitrary nature of the sign, he assumed that the attribution of value to a signifier depends on a shared code. For example, the cross symbolizes Christianity because its repetition under cultures of Christian hegemony gives it meaning beyond two short intersecting lines. Grabar also relies on dominant art historical methodologies developed by Erwin Panofsky through neo-Kantian hermeneutics (Hart, 1982; Moxey, 1986). Such models built on Lutheran traditions of sola scriptura, interpreting scripture as a blue-print for religion (Elias, 2012, 43–83). Thus for a practice to be properly ‘Islamic’, it would have to be designated and disseminated from text and communicated to believers as a shared code. With these premises, Grabar correctly observes that same is not true of geometry in Islam: there is no well-circulated, universally acknowledged text or ritual that announces an express semiotic relationship between geometric forms and the Divine. Yet this does not mean that geometry does not produce meaning. Rather, our recognition of its mode of articulation depends on our model for the functioning of signs. Both modern and historical theories of affectivity suggest non-semiotic modes through which geometry might convey meaning. Anthropologist Alfred Gell recognizes ‘affective’ objects as agents of their own meaning through enchantment (Gell, 1998). Similarly, the tenth-century Islamic scholars known as the Brethren of Purity explain that the physical study of geometry enables the mind to recognize abstraction, training the senses to move from appearance to structure and serving as an initial step towards the study of theology.5 Liberated from its slumber in the physical world, the soul comes to recognize all forms of sensory data, like those of heavenly bodies and music, in its own essence. If they were to be informed that the ultimate aim of studying the propaedeutic sciences is training the apprentices’ minds to receive the forms of the sensible entities through the sensory faculties, and to imagine their forms as they are in themselves through the faculty of ratiocination. If the sensible entities were to be concealed from being perceivable through the senses, then the images formed of them, which have been transmitted from the sensory faculties to the faculty of imagination, and from the faculty of imagination to the faculty of ratiocination would persist. The faculty of ratiocination then transmits [these forms] to the faculty of memory in such a way that they are visualized in the essence of the soul.

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A secret organization of theologian-philosophers seeking reconciliation between Platonism and Islam under political doctrinal pressure in Basra and Baghdad, the Brethren of Purity anonymously authored fifty-two epistles for lay people about how to be Muslim. Their interpretations of music and geometry draw heavily on the Pythagorean tradition attributing divinity to proportionality, already well-incorporated into Islamic philosophy. While it is impossible to know exactly to what extent the epistles circulated, they were important enough to have been included in the Ottoman educational curriculum in the sixteenth century. Such circulation by no means fulfils Grabar’s expectation of theory that circulates widely enough to become doctrinal. Indeed, without a dominant ruling body, most concepts in Islam (beyond that of the shahada or ‘witnessing’ of the unitary Divine and the prophecy of Muhammad) circulate discursively rather than doctrinally. Yet questions about the centrality of such thought marginalizes the argument made by the Brethren: that the mediation of theory is not necessary for spiritual recognition. If their assertions are true true, the question of their importance is irrelevant.

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The Brethren thus promote geometry as a secret agent converting pragmatists into spiritualists through a natural and inevitable psychological process: In consequence, the soul abandons the use of the sensory faculties in grasping data when being self-reflective, since it finds all the forms of the sense data in its own essence. It [the soul] is therefore in no need of the body, and is ascetic while dwelling in the world with it. It is alert to the slumber of inattentiveness and wakeful in the slothfulness of ignorance. [The soul] rises up by its own potency and is autonomous by itself. It departs from the body and exits the ocean of matter, and is saved from being captivated by nature. It is freed from slavishness to its bodily desires, and it is delivered from the pain of missing its corporeal pleasures. It is elevated higher as He said: Good words rise up to Him and He lifts up the righteous deed [Q35:10]. He meant by it the ‘chastened soul’ that is recompensed with the finest of rewards. This is the ultimate aim behind the studying of the propaedeutic sciences that the sons of the philosophers and the pupils of the ancients graduated from. This is the credo of our righteous and esteemed brethren. (El-Bizri, 2012, 159)

A subject thus acquires knowledge not through analysis, concentration, or theorization, but through distraction enabling soaking in the ‘ocean of matter,’ articulated through the experience of geometric surfaces. Unlike an image that gives absence the illusion of presence, or that tells a story, such geometries enable absence in order to enable apprehension of the ineffable. This ultimately informs a habitus of recognition of the similitudes between geometric order and the order of divine creation. Geometry teaches theology. It needs no intermediary. In contrast to Grabar’s understanding, then, the Brethren consider geometry as instructing without theorization in a manner resembling Gell’s theory of affect. They understand geometry as articulating a language already within the ‘essence’ of soul and heavens alike, thus communicating without any representational intermediary. Recognition of this communication relies not on the propagation of doctrine so much as abduction by the trained internal eye. As Lisa Golombek and Annemarie Schimmel point out, focusing less on history or moralization than representational Christian counterparts, ‘Islamic art does not teach the glory of God by admonition but rather through example or imitation’ (Golombek & Schimmel, 1975, 89). This does not preclude the existence of visual representations of religious histories and devotional manuals, or any of a myriad of historical and devotional works that relied on pictorialism as part of their expressive programs (Gruber, 2018). However, the aesthetic evocation of the Divine easily occurred without pictorial representation through rhythmic pattern on Qur’anic pages and calligraphic panels, as well as in mosques, shrines, tombs, and ritual often incorporating trance-inducing music and heady scents. One articulation of the Brethren’s promise of geometry communicating beyond mathematical prowess emerges through poetic evocations of geometry, particularly in architectural descriptions. For example, this segment of the Persian-language epic poem about the love of Zuleikha for the Prophet Joseph by the theologian and poet Nur ad-Din Abd ur-Rahman Jami (1410–1492) hinges on the capacity for architecture to articulate erotic desire for the Divine: She took by the hand the master artist: From his hand’s every finger, a hundred arts and more! Accomplished in architect’s rule, A guide in astronomy’s laws.

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His figuration made easy the Almagest’s toil And his doubt might cause Euclid to fear; If his grip lacked a compass, He traced its work with two fingers; When he wished a line’s mark, of a sudden, From his innermost nature, drew he straight – and without ruled paper! He might leap far as high as the satin-dark arch. And fix correlations upon Saturn’s own vault! When his hand took a turn to the chisel, The very stone turned softer than the rawest wet brick; When he set his mind on to design, Lovely traces in thousands sprang up there in tendrils; The world’s structures, and all without zenith or base, Might he show, all of them, on the nail of his finger; Through the painting he wrought, when so cast he his glance, From his pen- brush, adorned he the Tablet of Being; In figuration, whatsoever from his pen-brush he drew, From its flow, every soul sprang alive! Upon a stone, if he traced a bird’s figure, The very stone turned weightless – flew forth from its place! (Barry, 2004, 204)

This is clearly not any old love shack. Rather, the only fitting enticement for a prophet is the world redrawn, not as it appears in nature, but in its cosmic dimensions. This artist who articulates the universe with a compass and then imbues the resulting figurations with life can be none other than the Divine. The world is a palace of seduction in which the underlying order revealed by compass and ruler (the standard means of drawing geometries) causes befuddlement, wonder, and awe in the Divine akin to the transgressive and transcendent moment of sexual union approached, if not realized, in this setting (Shaw, 2019, 237–246). The poem simultaneously reflects an experience of architectural awe that a reader may have experienced and informs the reader as to how such awe might be informed by awareness of divine creation as guiding the hand of human artisans. Similarly, Margaret Graves suggests that the interaction between three-dimensional, everyday objects and the mathematical structures of surface treatment that invite the subject to move between the realms of materiality and immateriality, rendering the objects ‘allusive’ in relation to their everyday presence (Graves, 2018). Thus geometric forms do not represent the Divine so much as reminding those who inhabit them of the Divine agency enabling the physical world to reflect, through its proportions, the ineffability beyond them. The ease with which poetic metaphors confuse substance resembles the allusions between forms, where a vessel may also be a house or a bird in a realm where all forms are manifestations of a Divine will. Perhaps the most succinct articulation of the phenomenon is in Jalal al-Din Rumi’s collected discourses: ‘The mystics’ words appear in a hundred different forms, but if God is one and the Way is one, how can their words be other than one? They do appear in different guises, but in substance they are one. Variety occurs in form; in substance all is unified’ (Thackston, 1994). For nineteenth-century Europeans, however, the encounter with such variety was not a call to unity so much as a call to taxonomy. Divided into regional and temporal

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zones, pattern became a means of recognizing identity, attributing heritage, and extracting utility from colonial encounters.

2 Between Grammar and Ornament in European Articulations of Geometric Meaning The architects and art historians who first brought the isometric pattern of the Islamic world to European attention expressed no awareness of, or even interest in, how it might have produced meaning locally. Instead, they established compendia copying, collecting, and categorizing surface treatments that enabled their industrial and architectural deployment to express both newly defined regional identities and exoticism.6 Applying the colonial logic of mining global resources for European industrial development, these albums rendered the aesthetic visual cultures of the planet as mutually equivalent, potentially interchangeable formal units. Separated them from their material forms and spatial substrates to produce abstract patterns devoid of context, forms lost existing intracultural significations and became signals of regional identity within a globalizing order. Conceived as grammars rather than as dictionaries, these compendia avoided attributing semiotic meanings to geometric patterns. They considered how forms might best be placed in relation to each other to formally articulate meanings unique to the modernity that brought them together. Emphasizing structural logic through terminologies like ‘architecture’ (Jones), ‘tectonic’ (Jacobsthal), ‘aesthetic geometry’ (Bourgoin), and ‘graphic alphabet’ (Blanc), European grammars of ornament established the isometric polyhedral geometries of Islamic hegemonic cultures as decorative forms useful for a modern, secular, rational world of manufacture (Labrusse, 2016). The attribution of a linguistic term like grammar to visual forms encouraged an organizational scheme favoring tropes like transcultural progressive movement traceable to unified origins. In the 1850s, Gottfried Semper had paved the way ‘for a methodic parallel between linguistics and the science of form,’ while Max Müller 6

These include Claude-Aime Chenavard (1836) Album de l’ornemaniste, recueil compose de fragmens d’ornemens dans tous les genres et dans tous les styles; Pascale Xavier Coste (1837–1839) Architec- ture arabe, ou monuments du Kaire; Girault de Prangey (1846) Monuments arabes d’Égypte, de Syrie, et d’Asie Mineure, dessinés et mesurés de 1842 à 1845; Jules Goury and Owen Jones (1842 and 1845) Plans, Elevations, Sections, and Details of the Alhambra: From Drawings Taken on the Spot in 1834; Owen Jones (1856) The Grammar of Ornament; Auguste Racinet (1869–1873) L’Ornament Polychrome; Osman Hamdi and Marie de Launey (1873) Usul-i Mi ‛mari-i ‛Osmani/ L’Architecture ottomane; Léon Parvillée (1874) Architecture et decoration turques au XVe siècle; Johann Eduard Jacobsthal (1874) Grammatik der Ornamente; Charles Blanc (1880), Grammaire des Arts decoratifs; Jules Bourgoin (1880) Grammaire elementaire de l’ornement; Heinrich Dolmetsch (1887) Der Ornamentenschatz: ein Musterbuch Stilvoller Ornament aus allen Epochen; Imperial Archaeological Commission (1905), Les mosquées de samarcande. For further analysis of these texts, see Labrusse (2016) and Graves (2021).

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had established language as a scientific endeavor that used forms to excavate origins (Labrusse, 2016, 323). Alois Riegl recognized the problem of interpreting ornament: ‘the innate arbitrariness of the relation between signifier and signified in the linguistic sign is not encountered in the relationship between a viewer and an ornament, a relationship in which the subjective—that is, also bodily—involvement of the viewer plays a primary role’ (quoted in Labrusse, 2016, 324). His Stilfragen of 1893 incorporated historicized the grammars of a previous generation, attributing extrinsic meaning to style as evidence of cultural inter- action. His framing assertion—that Hellenistic naturalism followed a Hegelian ‘forward-oriented march’ towards Islamic abstraction—produced an allegory of cultural difference that considered emic meaning irrelevant to the study of a history of forms (Flood, 2016a, 83). Relieved of its intellectual heritage, Islam was reformulated as a category indicating identity and tradition. His association of subjectivity with purely individual experience excluded it from his understanding of scientific knowledge, in sharp contrast to the Brethren who described such subjectivity as the vessel of Truth. Some critics even interpreted geometry as reflecting a racialized (and even demonic) Semitic aversion to images, going so far as to attribute Picasso’s engagement with Cubism to his Andalusian roots (Flood, 2016b, 46). As Margaret Graves points out, reductive approaches to Islamic pattern during this formative era ‘minimized the cognitive dimensions of Islamic ornament and obscured the extent of the craftsmen’s achievements,’ establishing ‘a modernist paradigm of two-dimensionality for ornament’ (Graves, 2021, 21). Associations with Islam were often framed as repressive rather than affirmative, exemplified by Racinet’s comment that the interdiction against figural imagery in Islam led to the construction of ‘ornament, the framing of which was an amusement to their geometrical minds’ (quoted in Graves, 2021, 39). The insistence on Islam as characterized by an intrinsic lack of figuration, articulated by Hegel as reflecting an insufficient balance between transcendence and immanence achieved in Christian representations of the Divine, foreclosed the possibility of Islamic thought reflecting on aesthetic meaning in a mode distinct from that of European interlocutors (Flood, 2016b, 49). Subsequent Islamic art historians divested themselves of such demeaning inferences by avoiding the attribution of meaning entirely. In 1949, Ernst Kühnel (1882–1964) underscored the ‘obviously decorative intention’ of isometric geometries, in which ‘the eye of the viewer is not arrested by the pleasant detail, but. . . by the kaleidoscopic passing of an ever-changing and disappearing harmony of unreal forms . . . decisive is a decorative intent which is devoid of a meaningful purpose.’9 Following disparaging French Orientalist evaluations of Islamic art as rigid, joyless, and sterile that emerged under colonial regimes of the 1930s, in 1979, Richard Ettinghausen attributed the extensive use of pattern to a culturally essentializing psycho-pathology of horror vacui, using the word ‘syntactic’ to consider the integrated totality or Gestalt of patterned form (Flood, 2016b, 52; Ettinghausen, 1979). In 1983, Oleg Grabar defined ornament as ‘any decoration that has no referent outside of the object on which it was found, except in technical manuals.’ He distinguishes this from ‘decoration,’ defined as ‘anything applied to a structure or

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an object that is not necessary to the stability, use, or understanding of that structure or object.’4 In 1988, Lisa Golombeck suggested a ‘textile mentality’ (Golombek, 1988). In 2006, Jonathan Bloom and Shiela Blair put a positive, but equally essentializing, spin on horror vacui by renaming it ‘Cosmophilia,’ or love of ornament (Blair et al., 2006). In contrast, Gülru Necipoğlu and Yasser Tabbaa have considered geometries as Neoplatonic inheritances and as political signifiers, suggesting that initial intrinsic doctrinal meanings probably dissipated over time (Necipoğlu, 1995; Tabbaa, 2001). Such signifiers are often magnified in the modern period, where geometry can indicate regional affiliation, through use in modern art or institutions like airports, or a broader connotation such as ‘Islamicity’ itself, as with its frequent use in museums and galleries of Islamic art. Such interpretations conceive of the meaning of geometry in a semiotic framework, such that particular forms gain meaning when they denote specific entities, such as a dynasty or a nation. A third branch of contemporary interpretation connects geometry with mystical traditions often called ‘Sufism.’ Diverse and historically integrated with standard extrinsic practices of Islam, Sufi discourses and rituals aim to guide the individual towards a personal union with the Divine, generally through the legacy of an inspired leader. Their multiplicity, as well as their historical function as a bridge between religious cultures at times resulting in conversion, makes them ideal as an ecumenical platform for Islam in a secular framework. This is clearly articulated by architect Nader Ardelen, who with Laleh Bakhtiar co-authored The Sense of Unity: the Sufi Tradition in Persian Architecture, published in 1973. Speaking in Bahman Kiarostami’s 2019 film Monir, about the life and work of Iranian artist Monir Farmanfarmaian (1922–2019), Ardalan explains: Islamic thought, particularly the core of Islamic aesthetics that comes about when you study Sufism and the symbolism that comes about when you study Sufi creative people, this is an inspiration because you find symbolic meaning in the choice of things. I saw these beautiful mosques and buildings and other things, so heavily influenced by geometry. And so I started to study what was the root of geometry and I wrote the theories. (Kiarostami 2015, minute 12).

Like the Europeans who mined art for pattern, Ardalan mines pattern for theory divested of its Islamic sources. As indicated in the dedication, the book ‘published on the occasion of the twenty-fifth centenary of the foundation of the Persian Empire, with the assistance of The Ministry of Science and Higher Education of Iran’ transformed texts conveying religious concepts into a national inheritance indicative of modernity. Nonetheless, the texts with which he develops his discussion function as Islamic not because they preach scripture so much as operating within an echo chamber of allusions, in which the Qur’an is understood as containing signs of the divine that are equivalent to signs manifest in nature. The poetic quotations that function alongside photographs to illustrate his theorization represent Islam not because they formulate injunctions, but because through mutual reference and repetition, they establish the ground understood as true within Islam. The disassociation of Sufism from Islam enabled its inclusion within a secular national program in Iran and was designed to appeal to a Western audience already

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primed to discover secularized, West-washed spirituality via the East through the legacies of Theosophy, Perennialism, Zen Buddhism, and Yoga. Referring to the 1976 Festival of Islam in London, Grabar belittled such tactics as coming from a ‘curious mixture of Western orientalists and Islamic fundamentalists’ (Grabar, 1992, 51). Yet far from fundamentalists, the organizers of the festival knew how to use Sufism denatured from Islam to produce a secular framework in which spirituality could function ecumenically. Bridging the ‘neoplatonic’ and spiritualist approaches to meaning, recognition of the mathematics of Islamic geometries during the 1980s and 1990s enabled a more thorough understanding of the intellectual sophistication of patterns, as well as modes of their intellectual transmission, previously understood as manifestations of non-intellectual artisanry (Chorbachi, 1989; Bier, 2012; Lu & Steinhardt, 2007; Özdural, 1995, 1996). Neither formalist nor spiritualist, it suggests mathematics as producing meaning through technical aptitude rather than through articulating experience beyond the quiddity of form itself. Scholarship engaging with tessellated calligraphy enables this association without addressing the semiotic agency of geometry (Ahuja & Loeb, 1995). Recent scholarship has again challenged exclusively secularist approaches to Islamic arts. Art historian Samer Akkach engages the thought of the influential visionary Muhyi ad-Din ibn Arabi to explain how multiple manifestations of mathematics express a ‘sense of integrated spatiality that brings cosmology, geography, the human body, and architecture together, allowing them to be seen in terms of one another without need for theoretical mediation’ (Akkach, 2005, 36). Carol Bier suggests an ‘algorithmic aesthetic’ that depends on the segregation of pattern from material form, allowing geometry to function as a form of parable (mithal) for the supra-visual realm. ‘If each geometric pattern itself serves as a mithal, an exemplar, each offers a likeness to the other, but also a resemblance to something else’ (Graves, 2018, 508). Susan Yalman’s intricate analysis of the theology and politics underlying the use of solar imagery under the Seljuk Dynasty in thirteenth-century Anatolia underscores the inter- twined nature of these supposedly contrasting categories (Yalman, 2012). Similarly, Margaret Graves undermines the binarization of concept of form, arguing that separating surface treatment from associated forms misconstrues the structure of geometric practices. She suggests that the interaction between three-dimensional, everyday objects and the mathematical structures of surface treatment that invite the subject to move between the realms of materiality and immateriality, rendering the objects allusive in relation to their everyday presence (Graves, 2018). The meaning of geometry mattered little in a field emphasizing the categorization of aesthetic objects over their emic meanings. Yet the increased instrumentalization of art history as cultural ambassador after World War II placed the question of geometric interpretation within the tension between secularism and religion in the interpretation of Islamic culture. Supporting visions of national progress rooted in secularizing Westernization, many historians developed interpretations of the Islamic world segregating culture from religion, while others sought a role for Islam within dominant secular, Western-oriented models of culture. The recent

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emic turn challenges universalist translations of geometric meaning, considering instead how the idea of meaning itself is culturally determined.

3 Between Rationalists and Spiritualists in Modern Abstraction While the spiritual affect of geometries on surfaces of Islamic art was often repressed under art historical interpretation, the spirituality that emerges from geometry was often celebrated as an invention of high modernism. In the process, Islam was doubly marginalized, both as a foundation for European modernism and as agent of its own spirituality. Contrasting rationalism with spiritualism, art historian Rosalind Krauss articulates an argument for spirituality against the presumptive lack of meaning in modern geometries. The grid announces. . . modern art’s will to silence, its hostility to literature, to narrative, to discourse. . . walling the visual arts into a realm of exclusive visuality. The arts, of course, have paid dearly for this success, because the fortress they constructed on the foundations of the grid has increasingly become a ghetto. . . development is precisely what the grid resists. . . It is what art looks like when it turns its back on nature. (Krauss, 1979, 50)

She articulates a premise that without pictorialism, paintings lack language, lose audience, and exit history in a manner parallel to the judgements of an ahistorical, inarticulate realm of Islamic ‘ornament.’ However, in contrast to treatments of Islamic geometry that reject meaning without a code, her analysis recognizes an affect not unlike that recognized by the Brethren of Purity. Her narrative depends on the discourses of genius and progress at the heart of art history, simultaneously devoid of precedent yet also responding to the lineage of the Renaissance. On the one hand, the grid is ‘the form that is ubiquitous in the art of our century while appearing nowhere, nowhere at all. . . in a place that was out of reach of everything that went before’ (Krauss, 1979, 52). On the other, she traces modernist grids to the legacy of Renaissance perspective, ‘the science of the real. . . the demonstration of the way reality and its representation could be mapped onto one another, the way the painted image and its real-world referent did in fact relate to one another’ (Krauss, 1979, 52). She thus invests the grid with two originary moments of genius: that of the Renaissance, enabling the veristic mapping of three-dimensions upon two; and that of modernity, obviating the need for pictorialism through representation of its underlying structure. In both cases, the attribution of ex nihilo origins marginalizes the engagements with the Islamic world that enabled both the development of perspective and the development of modernism. The innovations of the Renaissance, including the development of perspectivalism, were largely enabled by access to Arabic analyses and translations of texts from antiquity (Belting, 2012; Shaw, 2019, 302–308). Similarly emphasizing the nineteenth century progressive historiography of

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modernism, Krauss ignores the intervention of Islamic art on the work of several modernists claiming spiritual meanings for abstraction. Wassily Kandinsky travelled to Tunisia in 1905 and visited the 1910 exhibition of Masterpieces of Muhammeddan Art at the Munich World Exposition in 1910, a year before writing his Concerning the Spritual in Art. He inspired Paul Klee, August Macke, and Louis Moilliet to also visit Tunisia in 1914 (Troelenberg, 2011; Schafroth, 2015). Rather than recognizing the colonial, extractive relationship with Islamic pattern at the genesis of European abstraction, Krauss cleaves to a myth of a linear history of art emerging through the progressive call-and-response of European male artists. The innovation Krauss attributes to these geniuses is the capacity to break away from the absolute truth of pictorialism by introducing a purely mathematical form and, through it, inviting spirituality—as expressed in numerous modernist manifestos. ‘The grid is a staircase to the Universal,’ she explains, straddling the ‘secular form of belief’ allotted to art in the nineteenth century. ‘The peculiar power of the grid, its extraordinarily long life in the specialized space of modern art, arises from its potential to preside over this shame: to mask and to reveal it at one and the same time. . . the grid’s mythic power is that it makes us able to think we are dealing with materialism (or sometimes science, or logic) while at the same time it provides us with a release into belief (or illusion, or fiction)’ (Krauss, 1979, 54–55). Analogously with Levi-Strauss’ structuralist interpretation of myth, Krauss posits that the grid enables modern society to maintain and repress a contradiction between the values of science and those of spiritualism. Krauss’ observations about the function of windows in spiritualist paintings resembles the role of geometry articulated (above) by the Brethren of Purity: ‘the bars of the window – the grid – are what help us to see, to focus on, this matrix. . . they function as the multilevel representation through which the work of art can allude, and even reconstitute, the forms of Being.’ (Krauss, 1979, 59) As pattern does on objects and architecture from so much of the Islamic world, Krauss notes that the grid extends in all directions, rendering all boundaries arbitrary, enabling them to point to infinity, while at the same time introjecting ‘the boundaries of the world into the interior of the work; it is a mapping of the space inside the frame onto itself.’ (Krauss, 1979, 61–62) For her these two functions oppose each other, with the former pointing to the science of optics, and the latter pointing to the dematerialization of the surface that enable symbolic, cosmological, spiritual, and vitalist interpretations that oppose science and materialism – a conflict that she pathologizes as schizophrenic, much as Ettinghausen pathologized Islamic pattern the same year. Nonetheless, Kraus interpreted the antihistorical, anti-developmental, and antihistorical paradigm she attributed to the grid as enabling an unprecedented intermediality between music, dance and visuality. Much as Islamic discourses, like Jami’s poem cited above, often rely on kaleidoscopic intermediality, several scholars who claim that abstraction has no meaning nonetheless employ intermedial metaphors to evoke their encounters with Islamic pattern. Describing a ceiling in the Alhambra Palace, Jones likens the seven patterns to the seven notes in the musical scale.86 Similarly, Kühnel draws on the synesthetic terms of music to suggest that the rhythmical alternation of movement enabled geometry to render a harmonious

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effect.87 Ettinghausen used the analogy of polyphonic European music to understand the complexity of Islamic pattern, opining that excess made it collapse in the same manner as choral music gave way to opera in Europe (Ettinghausen, 1979, 18). Likewise, Grabar suggests that the ambiguity and ambivalence of arabesque give the viewer subjective freedom. ‘Like the beads of the holy man, the meditation it suggests is not in itself but in the mind of the beholder’ (Grabar, 1973, 202). Just as the Brethren would have predicted, without any theoretical intermediary, it would seem that geometry itself does a tidy job of communication.

4 Between Gallery and God in Exhibitions of the 1970s The tension between the secular realm of art and the realm of worship was as central to modernist practices of exhibition as to modernist art. In the very same March 1976 issue of Artforum, Brian O’Doherty critiques the effects of the white cube on the isolation of art from life, while Oleg Grabar and Ann Goldin, reviewing the new galleries of Islamic art at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, wonder how works generally relegated to the realm of craft might fit, after all, in the museum. O’Doherty says, The ideal gallery subtracts from the artwork all cues that interfere with the fact that it is ‘art.’ The work is isolated from everything that would detract from its own evaluation of itself. This gives the space a presence possessed by other spaces where conventions are preserved through the repetition of a closed system of values. Some of the sanctity of the church, the formality of the courtroom, the mystique of the experimental laboratory joins with chic design to produce a unique chamber of esthetics. So powerful are the perceptual fields of force within this chamber that, once outside it, art can lapse into secular status.(O’Doherty, 1976, 24)

In this analysis, the gallery produces the work of art by forcing an object, abstracted from its context, to demonstrate its agency without any associated systems of value, a capacity that proves its merit as ‘art.’ This elevation produces a sacral effect potentially absent in the mundane world. In other words, the gallery produces sacrality in the secular. Recognizing the same agency of isolating the object, Grabar sees the gallery as a space of scientific de-sacralization. Acknowledging the work of ‘Iranian architect Nader Ardalan and. . . the Swiss convert to Islam Titus Burkhardt’ as deriving from ‘Islamic culture rather than analysis of its monuments,’ (as though these were separate), Grabar proposes that the exhibition of Islamic works in the museum setting is difficult because, as everyday objects, they function better in contexts that provide settings than individually, as masterpieces of the type museums are designed to frame. (Grabar, 1976, 37) Limiting the recognition of meaning in an artwork to symbolic, liturgical significance, he explains, ‘just as the sculpture of cathedrals is connected to the cult and symbolism of the faith, so there must be a way of connecting the functions of the objects with the forms on them. The decoration of an incense burner or of a pitcher is somehow to be related to the purpose of the

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object. Yet, with a few exceptions such as miniatures which can be presumed to be illustrations of texts or the mihrabs which are known to have had a symbolic, almost liturgical significance, the casual observer or even the specialist is rarely led from the decoration of an object to its uses.’ (Grabar, 1976, 38) Ironically, in favoring academic over religious interpretation, Grabar eliminates the type of spirituality Krauss discovers in the grid and O’Doherty recognizes in the gallery. In contrast to O’Doherty’s valorization of the white cube as a space that can transform anything into art through a spatial, ecumenical spiritualization, Grabar limits his understanding of ‘art’ to traditional hierarchies of media, questioning the place of Islamic art in the museum while also insisting on its meaning as limited to its secular parameters. Grabar notes that the scientific, ‘Mendelevian task of isolating primary elements and of explaining the ways in which they form compounds’ that he implies as the normative task of museums might not be appropriate for Islamic art, where ‘all motifs appear on the same level of perceptibility,’ confounding symbolic interpretation. (Grabar, 1976, 40) In contrast to O’Doherty’s indictment of the white cube gallery, Grabar’s analysis of Islamic art in the gallery celebrates the scientific gaze constructed by the museum institution. Art historical meaning, he ultimately surmises, comes not from the Islamic, princely, or urban frameworks proposed by art historians – that is, neither from the religious nor from the secular sphere -- but from ‘private’ aesthetic enjoyment voided of all sorts of associations. Islamic works become art, in his analysis, when their meaning cannot be articulated. Similarly preferring entertainment over content, Amy Goldin describes the exhibit as providing a ‘come-as-you-are party that requires no special effort, . . .an atmosphere of gracious living. . . the general impression of a consumer paradise.’ (Goldin, 1976, 50) Much as she cites the possible meanings of Islamic art, from the politics of its architecture to religious nature of its forms, she experiences the museum as offering a purely formal experience, unmediated by information (which, ironically, she provides with surprising clarity). ‘No theory was ever offered for Islamic art. It just grew, without the benefit of ideology or rationales. If we want to claim that the unity of Islamic art depends on a shared esthetic, it becomes necessary to take the radical expedient of extrapolating one!’ Whereas O’Doherty credits the gallery with sacralization, for Grabar and Goldin alike perceive the job of the gallery in relation to Islamic works is to render them available to the museum visitor through desacralization that allows them to become ‘art’ at the cost of losing ‘Islam’. Nonetheless, Goldin’s facility with the fashionably formalist methods of the contemporary art critic enables her recognition of meaning that Grabar, regional specialist, refuses. Describing Islamic art as based on ‘highly conventionalized’ forms, she points out that they gain meaning by paying attention to each instance as rearticulating the expected form. This, she surmises, will render the galleries useful for artists, but not for ‘amateurs and people in general,’ who presumably require the much-bemoaned theorized information to make meaning from the framing of the gallery. Yet her formal analysis reveals her recognition of pattern as its own linguistic agent.

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W. M. K. Shaw Islamic artists. . . . see [surface] as a physical rather than a purely visual entity. Western attention to pattern emphasizes its mathematical principles and sees its salient characteristics in abstract process: pattern is a self-generating, infinitely extendable form. But equally vital to artists is the Islamic conception of the surface as dimensionally ambiguous, that is, as simultaneously pointing to the extension and the particular density of the material being worked. Surfaces are permeable, vulnerable matter. Grillwork and openwork are visually analogous to the modulation of the surface by light and dark, a principle vividly demonstrated in a 13th-century Kashan jug. The painted harpies, dogs and deer are perfectly absorbed into the flickering forest of openwork vegetal ornament. Here it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to derive a mathematical formula to account for the pattern. Its regularity is unmistakable, but flowing and organic. The jug’s formal unity depends primarily on the regularized visual density of its very sophisticated surface, so neatly adjusted to the simple-architecture of its folksy plastic form. Islamic art seems to me to be deeply concerned with visual density, an esthetic element that has only very recently been identified and stressed in the West. We arrived at it by way of tactility or texture, which became a radical ‘issue’ with the work of Morris Louis and its interpretation by Clement Greenberg in the ‘60s. Greenberg saw Louis’s saturated surfaces as a mark of historically progressive form, a logical development of Cubism’s explosion of plastic form into shallow, surface-hugging fragments. The canonically modern ‘preservation of the picture plane’ that every art student learned in the ‘40s required close attention to the interactions of figure and ground, lest the activity of the former destroy the continuity or ‘integrity’ of the latter. By the ‘60s, this concern became even more stringent. The surface was drawn into ever greater tautness, until the abstract picture plane dropped out of artists’ conversations, to be replaced by the color-saturated physical surface itself (Goldin, 1976, 48)

Her knowledge of the formal discourses of modernist abstraction provides her with immense insight into the visual agency of pattern, without the spiritual component articulated woven through references to pattern in the Islamic literary corpus. While the Brethren’s assertion that knowledge of geometry enables openness to theology may not hold, the patterns of Islamic art have enabled Goldin to recognize through them the instability of form emphasized in many Islamic teachings about the relationship between the temporary, mundane world and the Reality of the supranatural, Divine realm. Her comparison with cubism is particularly apt. In his analysis of the representation of three dimensions on a two-dimensional plane as a problem in the study of optics, ibn al-Haytham (965–1040) emphasizes the importance of moving around the object. A partial un-concealment of an opaque object in vision is always associated with the concealment of some of its surfaces . . . when an opaque box that has the form of a cube is within my field of vision, I can only see three of its sides simultaneously, which appear as skewed planes rather than squares. Nonetheless, when I look at these intersecting planes, I see a cube with sides as squares. Unlike its appearing aspects, the orthogonal structure of the cube, which is delimited by square sides, is preserved in its geometric form as a solid within the distorting visual effects of perspective . . . Either perception is frontal, and the cube faces the eye in such a way that one of its sides is perpendicular to the axis of the virtual cone of vision, and hence appears as a square; or the third dimension of the cube is shown via an inclination in depth when viewed laterally (El-Bizri, 2005, 196).

Thus the foundational text enabling the development of European perspectivalism, ibn al-Haytham’s Optics, written in Arabic in the early eleventh century and translated into Latin at the turn of the thirteenth – already included observations

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similar to those made in Europe only eight centuries later, exemplified by Jean Metzinger’s 1913 discussion in Cubism and Tradition: Already they have uprooted the prejudice that commanded the painter to remain motionless in front of the object, at a fixed distance from it, and to catch on the canvas no more than a retinal photograph more or less modified by ‘personal feeling.’ They have allowed themselves to move around the object in order to give under the control of intelligence a concrete representation of it, made up of several successive aspects. Formerly a picture took possession of space, now it reigns also in time (Mitchell, 1977, 177).

When we walk around to the other side of the cube of art history, the entire history of perspectivalism, defined by the artificial constraint on movement, becomes an aberration in the geometric understanding of sight, to which the early Twentiethcentury ‘discovery’ of cubism in Europe constitutes a return. Through this theorization, Goldin demonstrates a greater ability to analyze the meaning of pattern as expressed through its own, direct, agency than Islamic art historians unwilling to interpret Islamic art through emic sources and uninterested in the formal languages of modernism. In solving the racialized understandings of Islam as an agent in aesthetic meaning in early considerations of Islamic pattern, the secularist imperative emphasized by many Islamic art historians ironically allowed for more recognition of spiritualism in modernist European works seeing spiritual inspiration in ‘the East’ than in the geometries of the Islamic world that inspired them.

5 Between Shrines and Grids in the Art of Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian (1922–2019) Describing her travels in Iran with modernist artists visiting from New York on the occasion of the International Shiraz festival of 1973, Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian quips, ‘Sol Le Witt had his squares, but I had my hexagons!’ (Kiarostami, 2015, minute 24). Her work functions in the idiom of high modernism because it adopts the structure of the grid that informs dominant forms of its abstraction. It also functions in the idiom of Islam, adopting its forms from shrines in Iran that deploy isometric polyhedral geometries executed as tiled, mirrored surfaces. Indeed, her sculptures are largely manufactured by the same artisans who adorn permanent and makeshift shrines in Iran. Her description of their facility with a string, rather than the arduous measuring of modern architects, underscores their perpetuation of an ‘intellect of the hand’ often undervalued in the Euronormative prioritization of theory (Kiarostami, 2015; Graves, 2018, 215). This ambivalence mirrors the tension between the valorization of modernist grids and the secularization of Islamic pattern surrounding the art historical discourses of geometric agency. Islam hovers in the background of Farmanfarmaian’s childhood reminiscences. Her grandfather had preached at the grand mosque of Qazvin, where she grew up, but she never entered inside. Her uncle was a dervish who had given up youthful wanderlust and absorption in Western culture for the meditative life of mysticism. In

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keeping with Persian custom, he would tell fortunes from a thick book of the poetry of Hafez (1315–1390). Daughter of a politician in a rapidly modernizing state, however, Monir became interested in art, traveling to the New York to study in the 1940s, and meeting many of the male artists of her generation who would become the famous purveyors of the grid discussed by Krauss. Her interest in Iranian arts came after her marriage to a descendant of the Qajar dynasty, enabling her to undertake extensive travels in the country and build a large collection of ethnographic objects and under-glass painting that informed much of her work in the early 1970s, when she returned to art making during a later stay in New York. Grandchild of grammars of pattern, her work translates the visual attraction of the shrine into the secular commodity of the gallery. In 1974 or 1973 I went to Shiraz with Robert Morris, a conceptual artist. We went to the Shah Chiragh Mosque and I made a deal that I would only go inside if they agreed to sit for half an hour and observe the shrine. Watching that space was like seeing live theatre, quite inspiring for me. People would come and go, praying and supplicating at the shrine and all this activity was reflected in the surrounding mirrors. I was very impressed by the mirror work there. I wished I could take a piece of it off the walls of the mosque and install it in my living room so that I could appreciate it everyday. . . (Kiarostami, 2015, minute 2:48)

Recognizing the spiritual effect of the shrine, she erases the spiritual performativity of the medium that she extracts from it. She reaffirms the same gesture late in her career, after her return to Iran, transforming a temporary mirrored funerary shrine ritually paraded around the streets of Tehran into a sculpture, commemorative of two famous modernist poets, her husband, and her brother-in-law, in front of the gallery of the Iran-America Association in Tehran in 2004. Her relationship with the object underscores the class difference of her gaze. I’ve always liked seeing Hejlahs in the streets because with all those mirrors and lights they look so colorful and appealing. One day I asked my driver what they were, he said whenever a young or respected man dies, they place one on his street. I always loved them because they are decorative, delightful items for the public. It belongs to the public not to an artist or a gallery. (Kiarostami, 2015)

Accompanying footage shows the large, heavy shrine carried on a man’s head as he spins in the center of a crowd of men who engage in a commemorative call-andresponse ritual that includes slapping of the breast, chanting, and culminates at the mosque. Alongside her emphasis on appreciating the shrine because if its public nature, she underscores her distinction from that public by needing to ask her driver what it is. Indeed, when placed in front of the gallery, the public keeps stopping by to ask who has died, and it needs to be removed. Similarly, in an immediately previous scene, she asks the filmmaker to show a turning sculpture to the accompaniment of ‘Philip Glass or Vivaldi,’ selecting two very distinct composers to render an effect that superimposes a distinctly Western soundtrack over objects coded as reformulating Iranian Islamic traditions (Kiarostami, minute 35:38). Just as her work recasts the social and spiritual sensory experience of worship in the context of the shrine for the secularized worship of the gallery, his writings theorize practices of architecture and design into broad paradigms of Islam divorced from ritual, theology, and even largely from text. Neither the ‘Sufi’ spaces outlined

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by Ardalan nor the mirrored sculptures created by Farmanfarmaian harbor a relationship with ritual devotions that took place in the mosques and shrines inspiring both architect and artist. Instead, form and poetry become neutral, secularized articulations of culture that can transcend religious distinction. Farmanfarmaian’s capacity to reuse forms deemed as ‘traditional crafts’ in the realm of high art depends on distancing from both from ritual and from tradition. Frank Stella points out that her time in New York allowed her to discover Tehran. ‘She was able to take what in our world would be decorative and apply it and just use it as if the tiles had come down off the sides of the mosque’ (Kiarostami, minute 29). Like European collectors of the nineteenth century placing purloined mosque tiles in their homes and galleries, her translation of tradition into art depended on its isolation from religion. Yet it is important to remember that this isolation took place in a broader context: mirrorwork was used extensively in the Qajar palaces of an earlier era. Thus when she reconstitutes the mirrors on the interior of her home in Tehran in the 1960s, she reconstitutes not simply the shrines, but the translation of their transcendent effect into a mirror for secular power already inscribed within Iranian modernization by her husband’s ancestors. Despite the close association between her work and that of traditional interior design, her designation as ‘master artist’ depends on casting her as an individual creative genius. Thus the initial scenes of the film underscore her loose, freehand sketching on a grid. Kiarostami underscores this notion of autonomy by emphasizing that she doesn’t know what she is doing. She found that you can actually explain the meanings of geometry. And so she naturally picked up this order. And when you see her work, she is deeply concentrating on the perfection of the work, but without a sense of the intellectual base of it and this is a part of the artistic tradition here. Classically the artisan or craftsman has been part of a guild, the guild has had a master and then there are disciples. In the master there is the understanding of the symbolic meanings of the art, and the disciple essentially repeats this form in his work and inculcates the symbol but not necessarily consciously. Now Monir is not necessarily intellectually conscious of all this, and she frankly admits it. That’s her beauty. When a curator references Sufism as a source for her work, she denies the association saying, ‘Mine is hexagon only. No philosophy, nothing behind it.’ (Kiarostami, min 7:41)

His phrasing resonates with the questions posed by Grabar – can there be meaning in art if it is never verbally articulated? Yet in indicating that a symbolism exists that is passed from master to disciple, and that is sensed and articulated without knowledge by Monir, he reaffirms the proposition articulated by the Brethren of Purity that geometry communicates on its own, without need for intermediary. While Monir may be cast as unknowing in relation to the workings of geometry, the film casts her in the role of ‘artist’ by endowing her with other forms of knowledge. Repeatedly showing her sketching loosely over geometric grids, recognizing urban cityscapes where a viewer sees only lines, she comes to embody the notion of unique inspiration that distinguishes artist from artisan in the European tradition. From her initial cooperation with Hajji Ostad (granted an honorific rather than a name) in her autobiography, capable of designing a pattern with no more than a string held taut to function as a ruler, spun around an anchored thumb as a compass,

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and strummed like a guitar string to leave a mark, to her extensive commissioning of artisans documented throughout Monir, the narrative that distinguishes between her art and that of ‘tradition’ depends on a valorization of knowledge as proceeding not through the hand but through the mind. Margaret Graves argues that objects of Islamic art that that allude to other states of being may function not through the representational trope of language, or the categorial distinction between text and form naturalizing the modern distinction between mind and body, but as signifiers through an ‘intellect of the hand’ surpassing modern epistemic forms (Graves, 2018, 215). This tension between the artist as unknowingly recapitulating traditional form, the Sufi associations of geometric knowledge, and the hierarchical distinction between art and craft emerge as well in Farmanfarmaian’s memoirs. I read up on Sufi cosmology and the arcane symbolism of shapes, how the universe is expressed through points and lines and angles, how form is born of numbers and the elements lock in the hexagon. I traced the logic of the great Iranian astromers, even made a pilgrimage to the ancient observatory at Maragheh. Much of what I learned I have forgotten. Was Hajji Ostad aware of the volumes of knowledge that twisted through is patterns? When I tried to use too many words, we always came back to his string (Farmanfarmaian & Houshmand, 2008, 193)

Monir functions as artist rather than artisan because she acquires knowledge through study rather than apprenticeship; she arbitrates between the world of the mysteriously unknowing yet masterful artisan and the commercial world of galleries. Suspended between the spiritual realm of shrines and the secular realm of art galleries, Farmanfarmaian’s sculptures deracinate Islam from shrines, just as ‘Sufism’ separates Islam from spirituality, or as the grammars of pattern enabled a universalized, commodifiable signifier. Nonetheless, the persistent return to the spiritual origins of the art, and the need to continually reaffirm their distinction, underscores the language articulated by geometry despite all attempts at its disavowal.

6 Between Grids and Representation in the ‘Kitsch’ of M. C. Escher (1898–1972) In contrast to the complex connections with and disavowals of Islamic traditions in relation to the work of Farmanfarmaian, the Dutch master draughtsman and printmaker M. C. Escher encountered the patterns of the Alhambra entirely as a tourist. Functioning in accordance with the paradigm Goldin articulates, they spoke to him directly in a visual, artistic language. In a letter penned during his second visit to the Alhambra in 1936, he explains, what fascinates me at the Alhambra is a motif that repeats itself according to a system. In Haarlem, I already enjoyed giving meaning to the entire surface of a piece of paper. By this I mean to say that I don’t want to draw the head of a person against the backdrop of a room for example, no, besides the head the background should have as much meaning as the head

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itself, thus becoming another head! . . .The wall and floor mosaics at the Alhambra stemmed from the same thought, although the Moors only used geometric figures. What a pity the moors didn’t use forms derived from nature, such as building blocks, fish, birds, reptiles, or humans. Recognizability is so important to me that I’ve never been able to do without it.

His transition to correcting what he perceives as a representational lack occurs through the intervention of his brother, who recognizes in his sketches similarities with two-dimensional crystallography studied by Hungarian mathematician Goerge Polya and by the German crystallographer Friedrich Haag. Yet even with this evidence that pattern bore a visual resemblance to the structure of the natural world – that, in effect, it already represents it – Escher persisted in conceiving as pattern as abstract. To remedy this, he envisions an image that makes the implicit meanings of patterns explicit. I began to see the possibilities offered by the regular division of the plane. For the first time, I dared to create compositions based on the problem of expressing endlessness within a limited plane. . . . And endless series of three-dimensional men is rushing down the stairs. Gradually they lose their plasticity as they frieze, flatten, and turn into the pattern of a regularly organized tessellation. The motif simplifies upward towards its original form, the diamond. Three diamonds, in white, grey, and black together form a cube, and thus regain their plasticity. The cube turns into a block, a house, and from the house a human product. The people reappear, to endlessly repeat their cycle. The familiar tile floor motif on the terraces is the same original motif again, the diamond, the link between two and three dimensions, the idea upon which the entire composition is built. . . the landscape behind the houses is intended as a maximum of naturalness in contrast to the mathematical tessellation at the bottom of the print. (Lutz, 2019, Minutes 27-32)

If geometry invites us to engage it in its own intrinsic language – an anathema to the semiotic definition of language – then Escher’s painting would appear to function as its translation into the idiom of European painting. Replacing the shape-shifting forms of Islamic poetry with a literal shape-shifting across the two-dimensional page, Escher renders that which is implicit in the language of pattern explicit in the language of European verisimilitude. Yet in that latter tradition, good mimesis requires a semiotic structure between signifier and signified; the painted image represents an absent signified. This is patently not the case in Escher’s work, where form transforms into form with no referent to reality. In the end, Escher presents a representationally overdetermined version of the sense infinite connectedness offered in Islamic pattern. Transforming the forms of tessellations from diamonds to men and back again, or from fields to ducks or birds to fish or reptiles to drawings of reptiles (in other transformation prints) represents each element through the tradition of European verisimilitude but eliminates the grammar of its language in which the representational parts need to cohere into an entire message. Escher in effect only provides independent words enabled to fit together by a focus on morphology rather than meaning, ignoring the semiotic function that he valorizes in the Western tradition while articulating the non-semiotic language that disturbs him in ‘Moorish’ pattern. If there is a meaning – that of the underlying structure of being that can become articulate in any form – it is just as well articulated in the abstractions from which he was initially inspired.

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Unlike early adopters of Islamic-inflected abstraction, from Kandinsky to Klee, Escher is not perceived as re-presenting, that is, fully moving outside of the source that he mimics. Homi Bhabha suggests that mimicry is ‘a sign of the inappropriate’ (Bhabha Bhabha, 1994, 134). Under a regime in which knowledge of the Other is the right of victor over the vanquished, colonizer over colonized, Escher’s work inappropriately learns from Islamic cultures by correcting their perceived deficiency, the failure to semiotically represent. The implicit inversion of power, of a white man emulating an Islamic example – and doing it poorly, in his very effort to correct it – becomes comical. ‘What emerges between mimesis and mimicry is a writing, a mode of representation, that marginalizes the monumentality of history, quite simply mocks its power to be a model, that power which supposedly makes it imitable. Mimicry repeats rather than re-presents’ (Bhabha, 1994, 125). If geometry serves as the agent of its own meaning, confounding the semiotic definition of language, then Escher’s painting would appear to function as its translation into the idiom of European painting. Replacing the shape-shifting forms of Jami’s poetry with shape-shifting forms across a two-dimensional page, Escher renders that which is implicit in the language of pattern explicit in the language of European verisimilitude. Yet in that latter tradition, good mimesis requires a semiotic structure between signifier and signified; the painted image represents an absent signified. This is patently not the case in Escher’s work, where form transforms into form with no referent to reality. In the end, Escher presents a representationally overdetermined version of the sense infinite connectedness offered in Islamic pattern. Trans- forming the forms of tessellations from diamonds to men and back again, or from fields to ducks or birds to fish or reptiles to drawings of reptiles (in other transformation prints) represents each element through the tradition of European verisimilitude but eliminates the grammar of its language in which the representational parts need to cohere into an entire message. It is, perhaps, this overdetermination that renders Escher’s work popular in a manner not reflected in the relative paucity of art historical analysis, which might sanction its displaced representationalism as ‘kitch.’ Escher in effect only provides independent words enabled to fit together by a focus on morphology rather than meaning, ignoring the semiotic function that he valorizes in the Western tradition while articulating the non-semiotic language that disturbs him in ‘Moorish’ pattern. If there is a meaning—that of the underlying structure of being that can become articulate in any form—it is just as well articulated in the abstractions from which he was initially inspired. The difference between Escher’s appropriation of Islamic culture through the Alhambra and that of the early European modernists visiting Tunisia under French control is that they successfully mined the other culture through tropes already within the lexicon of their own visual language using terms like ‘light’ and ‘abstraction,’ thus passing from the inappropriate mimicry of the culture perceived as ‘lesser’ to colonial mastery through appropriation. Conversely, Farmanfarmaian mines tradition by using its forms to create a grammatical lexicon and, like the grammatical compendia of the nineteenth century, placing them on the neutral halls of the gallery where they become articulate through the visual rhetoric of art.

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7 Geometry: Language Without a Code? Theorization responds to the demand for an intermediary language. But what if the intermediary undermines the language? The art historical practice of theorization depends on the procedure of moving works in their original situation, including works engaged in worship, to an analytical stage, much as one might move a human body into an operating theater and analyze the parts of the corpse. In the museum, an altarpiece provides enough visual evidence to translate it into a historical object/ to historicize it. An object covered with geometry may not offer literal information, but it functions with a temporality like that of ritual. Ritual functions as an ahistorical act (even in cases when it has changed over time). It connects an individual practitioner across time and space to the great body of practitioners believing themselves as engaged in the same practices. It can’t be reduced to a statement of belief because it is an act that goes far beyond the intellectual articulation of faith or the performance of duty. Geometry enacts presence in the same manner as ritual. Its meanings emerge through engagement, not through theorization, in the infinity of its permutations set against each unique encounter, as well as in the infinite potential of pattern, set against each finite shape to which it is applied. The art historical procedure of theorization removes the absolute present tense of focusing on the sacred. It takes those elements designed to train focus on the sacred, welding setting and ritual. Theorization dissects setting and ritual into supposedly exchangeable parts that it places on the operating table of analysis. Yet those parts are as likely to explain the experience of a culture as the dissection explains the personality of a corpse. One can’t operate in two languages at the same time. Theorization requires the relinquishment of the intrinsic meanings of praxis, rendering it possible to speak of Islam without Muslims. This tendency is perhaps nowhere more pronounced than in the theorization of geometry as it has moved outside of art history. Ardalan’s initial forays into the theorization of geometry as a ‘sense of unity’ encountered through poetry and architecture gained a more broadly spiritualist vocabulary in the works of Kenneth Critchlow, who founded the Visual Islamic and Traditional Arts Department at the Royal College of Art in London in 1984, which moved to the Prince’s Institute of Architecture in 1992–3. More recent authors and teachers like Eric Brough and Richard Henry have increasingly developed ways of teaching geometry as technical drawing that depend on the mathematical articulation of form, focusing on the transformation of sub-grid into pattern while minimizing any direct relationship with Islam or even spirituality. This procedure, of seeking the underlying rules under the apparent form, recalls the protestant prioritization of scripture underlying modern Orientalist approaches to religion through a history of origins. Yet it also enables the secular practitioner to encounter the transformation from one mathematical structure to another: the movement of forms at the heart of geometric expression, as well as at the heart of the Islamic recognition of substance in a multitude of forms. Even without the intermediary of Islam, the destabilization of matter intrinsic to it remains articulate in geometric practice.

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Geometric pattern attracts viewers in its own language, leaving them to translate it into their own vernacular. While the modern era has repeatedly aimed to sequester the spiritual in the rationalized spaces of grammar and gallery alike, the repeated tension between the secular and the spiritual pervading discourses of Islamic pattern in the modern era might point to a certain truth to the language of geometry the Brethren described: however we theorize them, geometric patterns ignore the intermediary. They insistently speak on their own terms. That which is not alive cannot die. The problem with allowing for the possibility that geometry articulates a language without signification and without intermediary is that this necessitates acknowledging the existence of a transcendental signifier, a mode of signification so deeply entrenched in the human – nay, the cosmic – that it becomes the primary, immortal, eternal language. Of everything. And if this is the case, this is one thing, at least, which has no contingency. Call it what you will – math, God, Allah, ornament, or decoration. . . it has no history. It just is.

References Ahuja, M., & Loeb, A. L. (1995). Tessellations in Islamic calligraphy. Leonardo, 28(1), 41–45. Akkach, S. (2005). Cosmology and architecture in premodern Iran: An architectural reading of mystical ideas. State University of New York Press. Ardalan, N., & Bakhtiar, L. (1973). The sense of unity: The Sufi tradition in Persian architecture. University of Chicago Press. Barry, M. (2004). Figurative art in Medieval Islam and the riddle of Bihzad of Herat (1465–1535). Flammarion. Belting, H. (2012). Florenz und Bagdad. C. H. Beck. Bhabha, H. (1994). The location of culture. Routledge. Bier, C. (2012). The Decagonal Tomb Tower at Maragha and its architectural context: Lines of mathematical thought. Nexus Network Journal, 14, 251–273. Blair, S., Bloom, J., & Cernuschi, C. (Eds.). (2006). Cosmophilia: Islamic art from the David Collection. University of Chicago Press. Chorbachi, W. K. (1989). In the Tower of Babel: Beyond symmetry in Islamic design. Computers & Mathematics with Applications, 17(4–6), 751–789. El-Bizri, N. (2005). A philosophical perspective on Alhazen’s Optics. Arabic Sciences and Philosophy, 15(2), 189–218. El-Bizri, N. (2012). Epistles of the Brethren of Purity: On arithmetic and geometry. Oxford University Press. Elias, J. (2012). Aisha’s cushion: Religious art, perception, and practice in Islam. Harvard University Press. Ettinghausen, R. (1979). Taming the horror vacui in Islamic art. Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 123(1), 15–28. Farmanfarmaian, M., & Houshmand, Z. (2008). A Mirror Garden: A Memoir. Anchor Books. Flood, F. B. (2016a). The flaw in the concept: Disjunctive continuities and Riegl’s Arabesque. In G. Necipoğlu & A. Payne (Eds.), Histories of ornament: From global to local (pp. 82–93). Princeton University Press. Flood, F. B. (2016b). Picasso the Muslim: Or, how the ‘Bilderverbot’ became modern (Part 1). RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics, 67/68, 42–60. Gell, A. (1998). Art and agency: An anthropological theory. Clarendon Press. Goldin, A. (1976). Islamic art: The Met’s generous embrace. Artforum, 14(7), 44–50.

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Golombek, L. (1988). The draped universe of Islam. In P. P. Soucek (Ed.), Content and context of visual arts in the Islamic world (pp. 25–49). Pennsylvania State University Press. Golombek, L., & Schimmel, A. (1975). Review: The sense of unity: The Sufi tradition in Persian architecture by Nader Ardalan. Iranian Studies, 8(1), 87–104. Grabar, O. (1973). The formation of Islamic art. Yale University Press. Grabar, O. (1976). An art of the object. Art Forum, 14(7), 1. Grabar, O. (1992). The mediation of ornament. Princeton University Press. Graves, M. (2018). The arts of allusion: Object, ornament, and architecture in Islam. Oxford University Press. Graves, M. (2021). Spatchcocking the Arabesque: Big books, industrial design, and the captivation of Islamic art and architecture. In A. Leonard (Ed.), Arabesque without end: Across music and the arts. Routledge. Gruber, C. (2018). The praiseworthy one: The Prophet Muhammad in Islamic texts and images. Indiana University Press. Gruber, C., & Shalem, A. (Eds.). (2014). The image of the prophet between ideal and ideology: A scholarly investigation. De Gruyter. Hall, S. (1973). Encoding/decoding in the television discourse. Discussion paper. https://core.ac.uk/ download/pdf/81670115.pdf. Accessed 19 April 2023. Hart, J. (1982). Reinterpreting Wölfflin: Neo-Kantianism and Hermeneutics. Art Journal, 42(4), 292–300. Kiarostami, B. (2015). Monir. Documentary Educational Resources and Kanopy. Krauss, R. (1979). Grids. October, 9, 50–64. Labrusse, R. (2016). Grammars of ornament: Dematerialization and embodiment from Owen Jones to Paul Klee. In G. Necipoğlu & A. Payne (Eds.), Histories of ornament: From global to local (pp. 320–333). Princeton University Press. Lu, P. J., & Steinhardt, P. J. (2007). Decagonal and quasi-crystalline tilings in Medieval Islamic architecture. Science, 315(5815), 1106–1110. Lutz, R. (2019). M. C. Escher: Journey to infinity. Zeitgeist Films. Mitchell, T. (1977). Bergson, Le Bon, and hermetic cubism. Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, 36(2), 175–183. Moxey, K. (1986). Panofsky’s concept of ‘Iconology’ and the problem of interpretation in the history of art. New Literary History, 17(2), 265–274. Necipoğlu, G. (1995). The Topkapi Scroll: Geometry and ornament in Islamic architecture, Topkapi Palace Museum Library MS H. 1956. Getty Center for the History of Art and Humanities. O’Doherty, B. (1976). Inside the White Cube: Notes on the gallery space, part I. Artforum, 14(1), 24–30. Özdural, A. (1995). Omar Khayyam, mathematicians, and ‘Conversazioni’ with artisans. Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 54(1), 54–71. Özdural, A. (1996). On interlocking similar or corresponding figures and ornamental patterns of cubic equations. Muqarnas, 13, 191–211. Rogers, J. M. (1973). Review of The Formation of Islamic Art, by O. Grabar. Kunst des Orients, 9(1/2), 153–166. Schafroth, A. M. (2015). Klee, Macke, Moilliet: Nach 100 Jahren in Tunis. Till Schaap Edition. Shaw, W. (2019). What is ‘Islamic’ art: Between religion and perception. Cambridge University Press. Tabbaa, Y. (2001). The transformation of Islamic art during the Sunni revival. University of Washington Press. Thackston, W. M. (Trans.). (1994). Signs of the unseen: The discourses of Jalaluddin Rumi. Threshold Books.

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Troelenberg, E.-M. (2011). Eine Ausstellung wird besichtigt: Die Münchner ‘Ausstellung von Meister- werken muhammedanischer Kunst’ 1910 in kultur- und wissenschaftsgeschichtlicher Perspektive. Peter Lang, Europäischer Verlag der Wissenschaften. Yalman, S. (2012). Ala al-Din Kayqubad illuminated: A Rum Seljuq Sultan as cosmic ruler. Muqarnas, 29, 151–186.

At the Foot of Babel: Disclosure and Concealment Ted Peters

Does this uncanny capacity to speak lead the human race into Babel’s confusion? Or, does it lead us beyond Babel to clarification? When it comes to God-language, it appears that God’s unsearchable mystery renders all language about God only babble. God is nameless. We can address God or refer to God only via symbols, via multi-valent symbols that both connect us with God yet protect God from total disclosure. Just as a catalyst prompts a chemical reaction, the symbol of God prompts a transformation of the human soul. Divine symbols deepen and enrich the consciousness of the inner self. Coming to know God reorients the mind and inspires both selftransformation and world-transformation. At the foot of Babel, we will open our ears to symbolic speech. If we listen carefully, perhaps we will still hear the voice of God. What that divine voice says will both reveal and conceal, both disclose and confuse, both objectify and subjectify. Through the multi-valent symbol, the beyond will become intimate to our very soul.

1 Does Language Clarify or Confuse? The name plates on San Francisco police officer shirts are bilingual. If the officer speaks English plus Spanish or Chinese, the name plate announces this. This practice reduces confusion in conversation. It makes persons whose second language is English feel more at home with Officer Friendly.

T. Peters (✉) Graduate Theological Union, Berkeley, CA, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_4

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I wonder if San Francisco police are upsetting God? After all, God likes the idea of human confusion. At Babel, “the LORD confused the language of all the earth” (Gen 11:9). Why? Because confusing language prevents storming heaven by building towers from below. Evidently, God wants to protect heaven from earth. God wants to protect transcendent mystery from mundane comprehension. Confusing language protects the divine mystery from penetration. When later in the Hebrew Bible Moses asked God for a name, God refused. How did God answer? Very cleverly indeed! In Hebrew the response is: ‫אהיה ׂאשר אהיה‬, ehyeh asher ’ehyeh (Ex 3:14). We translate it: “I am who I am” or “I will be who I will be.” We are working here with the first person of the verb “to be.” When we stop quoting the voice and render what is said in the third person imperfect causative intensive, we get the Tetragrammaton, ‫יהוה‬, which is usually translated “he is”, “he will be,” or “he will cause to be.” On strict grammatical grounds, the third person form of the “I am” can be rendered in either gender or in the neuter, he, or she, or it is. In short, God successfully left Moses and the rest of us with linguistic confusion. The being of our mysterious God lies beyond language. It lies beyond description, beyond codification, beyond proposition, beyond dogmatic formulation. The beyondness of the divine reality is present to our awareness, to be sure. Yet, like a squirming eel, God is elusive when we try to grab the divine with diction and grammar. There are two points for the theologian to keep in mind. First, as Dialog editor Kristian Johnston Largen observes, “It is God first and foremost who makes knowledge of God possible” (Largen, 2013, 133). Second, as twentieth century Lundensian theologian Gustaf Aulen observes, “revelation does not remove the mysteriousness” (Aulen, 1960, 83). The revealed God remains the mysterious God.

2 The Axial Beyond Becomes Intimate This squirmy and elusive divine presence revealed itself paradoxically in multiple locations amidst the axial period during the first millennium before the common era. The monotheistic traditions [Hebraic religion, Christianity, and Islam] as well as the Dharma traditions [Brahmanism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism] plus Chinese traditions [Daoism and perhaps Confucianism] underwent a shock to human consciousness by the invading presence of a transcendent and ineffable ultimacy. Ultimate reality, divine or not, confronts human consciousness with a presence that defies linguistic naming or even description. The divine remains mysterious even in revelation. What our mysterious and transcendent God seems to allow are symbols. Symbols resonate at that intersection of the beyond and the intimate, the transcendent and the immanent, the ultimate and the mundane. When the symbol takes metaphorical form, the divine mystery is described as both like and unlike what is familiar.

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Even more importantly, the divine is present when the symbol is present. This is the case even if the divine is incomprehensible. “The symbol represents something which is not itself, for which it stands and in the power and meaning of which it participates” (Tillich, 1989b, 397). The symbol marks the door where the God of the beyond is knocking, where the divine is on the threshold of entering the mundane. Perhaps we can say still more. When God actively engages in self-revelation that both discloses and conceals, perhaps God is initiating a sharing of consciousness with us in the human race. This is suggested by Binoy Pichalakkat, mathematician and theologian in Pune, India. “In symbols reality becomes aware of itself and mirrors itself. . . .If we want to understand the wholeness of reality we have to search for a symbol that represents and participates in this wholeness. To understand reality we need the vision of the whole” (Pichalakkatt, 2006, 26). In response to divine selfdisclosure, the theologian tries to construct a vision of the whole of reality.

3 Awareness of the Beyond Our awareness of the divine beyond language is not natural. It’s not built into our nature. Rather, it’s historical. This awareness grew during a specific epoch, a period of history. We call that period the Axial Breakthrough (Jaspers, 1953). The axial period occurred about two and a half millennia ago in China, India, Mesopotamia, Greece, and Israel. The experience of Moses with the unnamed God fits within the axial epoch (Voegelin, 1956–1987). Where does this awareness of the beyond dawn? Within the human soul. The beyond becomes intimate. Awareness of the transcendent divine revolutionizes our anthropology, our self-understanding. Here is one implication: we who live within mundane history become equalized. Confrontation with the beyond equalizes all of us living in this ordinary world. No longer can we justify a human hierarchy according to which the king is more divine than the people over whom he rules. Every individual has equal access to transcendence through his or her or their own psyche, their own inner soul. What gets born during the axial age for the first time is a glimpse into a new social truth, namely, there is but one human race to which every soul is an equal member. What theologians today think of as transcendental awareness dawned on human consciousness during the city-state period of human history two and a half millennia ago. Awareness of an ultimate healing beyond the fractures of mundane living led to a sense of judgment, a condemnation of injustice, violence, and war. When measured over against the divine order, the human order we live in was judged to be futile. Daily injustice became measured against eternal justice. Human history gained a new interpretation in light of the axial insight. According to post-axial consciousness, human history became thought of as the quest for a final ordering of life that would establish eternal justice, peace, and unity. “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

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Central to the theme of this article is the following: it is the symbol that connects the beyond with the intimate. The symbol, writes theologian Paul Tillich, “opens up levels of reality which otherwise are closed to us...[and] also unlocks dimensions and elements of our soul which correspond to the dimensions and elements of reality” (Tillich, 1989a, 251). The symbol of the will of heaven for Confucius or the kingdom of God for Jesus provide the mundane mind with a heavenly map of the just social order.

4 Transcendent Justice and the Universal Humanum Justice gains transcendental grounding because of the axial breakthrough. Every soul is judged by the same divine criterion. The biblical Torah of ancient Israel reports God’s demand: Deuteronomy 16:19–20: “You must not distort justice; you must not show partiality; and you must not accept bribes, for a bribe blinds the eyes of the wise and subverts the cause of those who are in the right. Justice, and only justice, you shall pursue.” Or, in the words of Plato in Greece: “Communion and friendship and orderliness and temperance and justice bind together heaven and earth and gods and men, and that this universe is therefore called Cosmos or order” (Plato, 1891). Awareness of the beyond gains traction in the daily social order through the construction of a vision of an ideal social order. Because every individual soul has immediate access to the beyond, every individual soul is equal before the ultimate. This gives birth to a new ideal: a single universal human race. Human unity trumps clan or tribal identity. The modern notion of a universal humanum governed by a transcendent criterion of justice is not something articulated by our pre-axial Neolithic ancestors. The concept of a universal humanity made up of equal persons governed by justice took hold during a specific epoch within history, the axial epoch. To say it another way, this transcendental insight shed new light on the human condition in the recorded ruminations of Confucius, Laozi (Lao Tzu), the Upanishadic Brahmans, the Buddha, Zoroaster, the Hebrew prophets, and Plato. Whether theists or non-theists, these thinkers cultivated belief in a transcendent moral order and transcendent ground for human reasoning that is trans-tribal and universal in scope. In some instances, this breakthrough became the basis upon which the world’s great religious traditions were constructed. Each of these so-called higher religions make universal claims, placing local ethnic identities within a growing sense that there exists a single universal humanity. In sum, the divine transcendent exhibited two qualities important to the axial experience. First, the transcendent comes to us from the beyond. Ultimate reality is beyond form, beyond language, and beyond thought. Second, the transcendent represents a new order, an eternal order by which all temporal orders are judged to be deficient. This is how the beyond takes on moral or ethical valence in guiding the social order.

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5 Speaking About the Ineffable Beyond If we rocket up from the Tower of Babel to the stratosphere above all language, we become aware of the beyond without being able to capture it propositionally. This is due to the axial insight, remembered by philosopher of religion John Hick. “All the great world faiths affirm, in their different ways, the indescribable nature of the ultimate” (Hick 2010, 164). Indescribability is what Laozi (601–531 BCE) described when opening his treatise, the Daodejing, the principal work of Daoism. Laozi asserts that the Dao is beyond naming. To name anything is to distinguish it from everything else that has a different name. By denying a name to the Dao, Laozi asserts that the Dao is undifferentiated. As both undifferentiated and total in its reality, the Dao is inclusive of all that is real. “The Dao, considered unchanging, has no name” (Dao Te Ching 32:1), he writes. The Dao is “formless, standing alone, and undergoing no change, reaching everywhere and in no danger (of being exhausted).. .. I do not know its name, and I give it the designation of the Dao (the Way or Course).. .. I call it The Great’” (Dao Te Ching 25:1 and 2). But we must use some words, right? So, Laozi concedes that he must do something linguistically. He decides to describe the Dao metaphorically as the mother of all things. “It may be regarded as the Mother of all things” (Dao Te Ching 25:2). Literally, the Dao has no name. Metaphorically, the Dao is the mother of all things. Conceptually, “Tao is the way of ultimate reality,” comments the renowned scholar of world religions, Huston Smith (Smith 1991, 198). Over against the Dao, every one of us stands equally humbled.

6 The Primacy of Scriptural Metaphors and Symbols What does this imply for the theologian? My answer, I hope, will be illuminative for theologians in any of the post-axial traditions, even though my answer is derived from the Western history of biblical interpretation. Here is the first and most significant principle: theology as formulating rational propositions should be considered second-order discourse.1 The symbolic language of the sacred text constitutes first-order discourse. Theology, as second-order discourse, reflects rationally on the symbolic discourse found in scripture.2 “Systematic theological analogical language...is a second order reflective language re-expressing the meanings of the originating religious event and its original religious language to and for a reflective mind” (Tracy, 1981, 409). 2 “Theology has God and the ‘religious’ as its referent. It is ‘faith seeking understanding’, and therefore a second order discourse. . . Therefore, religious/theological discourse within a ‘third’ discourse’ needs to be aware of semantic dualism, and to use both ordinary language and philosophical or scientific language, with new or novel definitions [to] be meaningful” (Wong, 2019, 182). 1

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There is a corollary principle. The theologian should presuppose that what the sacred text says about the beyond is not literally true. Because the beyond is ineffable, what the sacred text says must be taken to be non-literal. What scripture says is only obliquely referential. That a sacred text in Daoism or another religious tradition might be riddled with metaphors is to be expected. Metaphors should be interpreted as metaphors, not literally. Most—not all—scriptural symbols come in the form of metaphors. Like a wind chime, symbols melodiously sound an alarm that an invisible wind is blowing our way. Metaphorical symbols resonate at the intersection of mundane thought and the incomprehensible presence of the beyond. Each metaphorical symbol vibrates with the numinous energy of transcendent reality.

7 Theology as Rational Reflection on Symbolic Discourse I follow hermeneutical philosopher Paul Ricœur and theologian David Tracy when declaring theology to be second order discourse. Here is Ricœur’s central axiom: “The symbol gives rise to thought” (Ricœur, 1969, 237). This means, on the one hand, that rational or univocal propositions are abstractions from more primary symbolic understanding. It also means, on the other hand, that symbolic speech forms and even transforms the human mind or soul. This transformation is the result of the symbol’s double valence. “Unlike a comparison that we look at from the outside, symbol is the very movement of the primary meaning that makes us share in the latent meaning and thereby assimilates us to the symbolized, without our being able intellectually to dominate the similarity. This is the sense in which the symbol ‘gives’; it gives because it is a primary intentionality that gives the second meaning” (Ricœur, 1974, 290). Only via the multi-valence of the symbol can we become aware of the beyond, aware of God. Without the symbol opening our horizon to what lies beyond the horizon, we would have no access whatsoever to the beyond. Here is how Ricœur puts it. “The symbol...opens up and discloses a dimension of experience, that, without it, would remain closed and hidden” (Ricœur, 1969, 165). Three traits of the symbol are relevant here. First, theological thought reflects on the meaning of the symbol which comes prior. Second, the symbol gives meaning. Thought does not need to hogtie and arrest meaning. The symbol already resonates and vibrates and emits meaning for the reflective theologian to interpret. The third trait is the analogical structure (Peters, 1978). Here is such a metaphor that illustrates the analogical structure: “the Dao is the mother of the universe.” Note the context. Before the universe was born there was something in the chaos of the heavens. It stands alone and empty, solitary and unchanging.

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It is ever present and secure. It may be regarded as the Mother of the universe. Because I do not know it's name, I call it the Tao. If forced to give it a name, I would call it 'Great'. (Laozi, 1996, Ch. 25) When Laozi says that the Dao is our mother, he’s saying that the Dao is like a mother in certain respects. The Dao is not literally a mother, to be sure. But the Dao is like a mother in some respects but not in all respects. The Dao is like a mother in respect to giving existence to its progeny. Yet, the Dao is unlike a mother in respect to its physical make-up and existence in time and space. The analogy hidden within the metaphor declares that the beyond is both like and unlike the analog. Every heart and mind, observes David Tracy, needs “some similarities-in-difference, some analogues, some principles of order, some ultimate harmony in the whole of reality” (Tracy, 1981, 409). The similarities and differences announced by the metaphor prompts the rational mind to reflect. “Christian theological discourse” should be “understood as a second-order, reflective discourse” (Tracy, 1983, 2). To the analog we add surplus meaning. Perhaps the connotation to the title, mother, is that we should adore the Dao as we adore our earthly mother. Only via surplus meaning can the metaphorical symbol resonate within our soul with the connotation that we are in the presence of ultimate reality. In sum, because the symbol in its metaphorical form cannot provide literal reference, it speaks indirectly by analogy. Each metaphor includes an analogy which says: the ineffable beyond is like something that lies this side of the beyond. More. The surplus meaning—like the voice speaking to Moses from the burning bush—enjoins us to remove our shoes because we’re the presence of the Holy.

8 Theology as Freedom In the case of Martin Luther, the transcendence of language due to God’s ineffability takes a sharp turn. The mystery of Deus absconditus does not merely extend what we know from earth to heaven by way of analogy. Rather, human discourse and human reasoning are confronted by limitation, dependence, challenge. When confronted by our gracious yet impenetrably mysterious God, we must surrender our confidence in what we say and what we think. We are familiar with Luther’s Theology of the Cross, according to which the divine is revealed under its opposites. “The manifest and visible things of God are placed in opposition to the invisible, namely, his human nature, weakness, foolishness....it does [a theologian] no good to recognize God in his glory and majesty, unless he recognizes him in the humility and shame of the cross....’Truly, thou art a God who hidest thyself’ (Isa 45:15)” (Luther, 1957, 52–53). It is the hiding of the divine self that is key to our understanding that we lack understanding even in our understanding.

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Neither human language nor humanly devised patterns of reasoning are in a position to evaluate let alone subordinate divine revelation. God defines Godself in the very act of revelation. This divine self-definition evaluates and subordinates what we mortals say and think. “Divine revelation critiques human logic, not the other way around” (Simmons, 2021, 325). The net impact is this: the theologian gains freedom. The theologian becomes free to reassess all human discourse and conceptuality. The theologian is at liberty to reassess the validity of the logical conditions of commonly accepted conceptualization. The champion of theological freedom is Andrea Vestrucci. On the one hand, the theologian learns from revelation what the limits of theological language and conceptualization are. “Theology cannot help but be constantly coram Deo abscondito, because it is human verbum constantly facing its limitation and dependence upon divine revelation. In a word, the concept of Deus absconditus is theology’s self-reminding of being theology” (Vestrucci, 2019, 110). Luther’s logic is curious. Because God in Godself is ineffable and even counterintuitive, then the theologian is incapable of providing univocal or literal appellations to the divine. Analogies break down before they can provide accurate reference. Whatever the theologian says, then, becomes a constructive creation. Theology becomes a human enterprise, not literal speech from the divine mouth. Martin Luther revolutionized theology, according to Andrea Vestrucci. “This revolution is the result of Luther’s effort of considering theology coherently, that is, as the product of human intelligence issues from the assumption of a message that is reducible to human logical structures” (Vestrucci, 2020, 376). The criterion by which we measure the relative adequacy of theological claims, then, is coherence, not reference. At least according to Vestrucci. But, there’s more. Because of the interaction of Deus absconditus with the history of the cross, we have learned that our mysterious God is gracious, loving, forgiving, and justifying. “The freedom of theology is the freedom of living and thinking about life as a celebration of divine grace” (Vestrucci, 2019, 296).

9 Conclusion What distinguishes the human race in the long history of biological evolution is the capacity for language (Deacon, 2012). In this chapter we have been asking: does this marvelous capacity to speak lead the human race into Babel’s confusion? Or, does it lead us beyond Babel to clarification, speculation, and even civilization? When it comes to addressing God or describing God, any theologian who limits God-language to rational propositions cannot help but speak babble. The critical theologian must be aware that propositional speech is second order discourse. When it comes to God, symbolic speech makes up first order discourse.

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Literally speaking, God is nameless. We can address God or refer to God only via symbols. Symbols evade literal appellation. They are multi-valent, not univocal. The result is that symbolic speech both connects us with God yet protects God from total disclosure. Furthermore, symbolic speech transforms the subjectivity of the speaker while referring to its object, God. Symbols of God evoke a transformation of the human soul. Divine symbols deepen and enrich the consciousness of the inner self. Coming to know God reorients the mind and inspires both self-transformation and world-transformation. If one would demand that all human speech consist of univocal or literal propositions, then God-language would seem like babble. Yet, for the human soul willing to undergo transformation, God-talk marks a glorious event of grace.

References Aulen, G. (1960). The faith of the Christian Church. Fortress Press. Deacon, T. (2012). Incomplete nature: How mind emerged from nature. W. W. Norton. Hick, J. (2010). The new frontier of religion and science. Macmillan, Palgrave. Jaspers, K. (1953). The origin and goal of history. Routledge. Laozi. (1996). Dao Te Ching. Tr. J. H. McDonald: file:///C:/Users/Andrea/Downloads/ TaoTeChing-obooko-ph0012.pdf Accessed 19 April 2023. Largen, K. J. (2013). Finding god among our neighbors: An interfaith systematic theology. Fortress Press. Luther, M. (1957). Luther's works, American edition, volume 31: Career of the reformer 1. Concordia and Fortress. Peters, T. (1978). Metaphor and the Horizon of the unsaid. Philosophy and Phemomenological Research, 38(3), 355–370. Pichalakkatt, B. (2006). Dialoguing with symbols exploring zero, Sunyata and trinity for a holistic reality. Omega: Indian Journal of Science and Religion, 5(2), 25–41. Plato. (1891). Gorgias. Transl. by B. Jowett. Standard Ebooks. https://standardebooks.org/ebooks/ plato/dialogues/benjamin-jowett/text/gorgias#gorgias-text. Accessed 19 April 2023. Ricœur, P. (1969). The Symnbolism of evil. Beacon. Ricœur, P. (1974). The conflict of interpretations: Essays in hermeneutics. Northwestern University Press. Simmons, E. (2021). Book review: Theology as freedom. Theology and Science, 19(3), 324–325. Smith, H. (1991). The world’s religions. Harper. Tillich, P. (1989a). Dynamics of faith. In P. Tillich (Ed.), Main Works / Hauptwerke 6 Volumes (Vol. 4, pp. 231–290). DeGruyter. Tillich, P. (1989b). Religious symbols and our knowledge of god. In P. Tillich (Ed.), Main Works / Hauptwerke 6 Volumes (Vol. 4, pp. 395–405). DeGruyter. Tracy, D. (1981). The analogical imagination. Crossroad. Tracy, D. (1983). The context: The public character of theological language. In J. E. David Tracy & J. B. Cobb (Eds.), Talking about god: Doing theology in the context of modern pluralism. Seabury. Vestrucci, A. (2019). Theology as freedom. Mohr Siebeck. Vestrucci, A. (2020). Recalibrating the logic of free will with Martin Luther. Theology and Science, 18(3), 358–382. Voegelin, E. (1956–1987). Order and history, 5 volumes. Louisiana State University Press. Wong, M. T. (2019). Ricoeur and the third discourse of the person. Lexington.

Ineffability: Its Origins and Problems Fr. Anselm Ramelow

The claim that God is ineffable or unspeakable is closely related to apophaticism – the claim that we can know of God not what he is, but only what he is not, and that we are without any positive knowledge of his nature. It is an expression of epistemological humility before a mystery that is greater than the human mind and before which this mind, therefore, must fall silent. This claim is often made in the name of faith against the philosophers who presume to explain this mystery to us. We might think here of Kierkegaard’s Abraham, who cannot communicate his relationship with God, which is a relationship of obedience, not of knowledge. Language fails Abraham (he cannot explain what he is doing to Isaac) because this relationship is particular to Abraham and therefore cannot be made intelligible through a universal concept, such as would typically be embodied in words. Faith as a response to the Judeo-Christian revelation is therefore considered incommensurable with the speculative attempts of philosophers to subsume the mystery under reason and its concepts. “Ontotheology”, or Hegelian conceptual mediation, or any other attempt to reach God by human reason and by proofs for his existence would be inadequate; they would need to be rejected either entirely or should at least be limited by the claims of faith and revelation.1 In what follows, I am arguing that, familiar as this picture is, it is not correct. In fact, very often the reverse is true. Rather than being induced by the claims of faith, the very reasons for apophaticism are primarily philosophical reasons. They are, 1 Similar statements could be found in Karl Barth and others; different reasons for ineffability are discussed in (Knepper & Kalmanson, 2017). It appears that contrary to the Judeo-Christian traditions with which we are concerned here, in the Asian traditions claims to ineffability are rooted in religious experience. Though this may be different for Shankara, for whom it is the text of the Upanishads that introduces ineffability (Knepper & Kalmanson, 2017, 157–167).

Fr. A. Ramelow (✉) Dominican School of Philosophy and Theology, Berkeley, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_5

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moreover, reasons that at the same time give us some – albeit limited – knowledge about the nature of God.

1 The Problems of Ineffability In a recent volume on ineffability in the context of comparative religion the editors arrive at a generally skeptical attitude towards ineffability.2 This may suggest that the real problem of ineffability is not the question of how it is possible to speak of God, but why we should think that God is ineffable in the first place. This claim of “ineffability,” in other words, should not be assumed too easily but justified. That this claim has its own burden of proof may be seen from some of its problematic consequences. For while it might seem intuitively honorable to preserve the mystery of God, there is a twist to the story, for the consequences of ineffability can undercut the very motivation which otherwise gives it a prima facie plausibility. For in the process of defending ineffability the very logic of the argument can end up throwing the God that one wants to honor into the abyss of irrelevance or even non-existence. This is, for example, the predicament into which Philo leads Demea in Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion – such that Demea, who argues against Cleanthes’ anthropomorphisms, is horrified to find himself suddenly in the camp of the skeptics: Hold! Hold! Cried Demea; Whither does your imagination hurry you? I joined in alliance with you, in order to prove the incomprehensible nature of the divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes, who would measure every thing by a human rule and standard. But I now find you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and infidels; and betraying that holy cause, which you seemingly espoused. Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than Cleanthes himself? (Hume, 1993, 114–15). The problem here is that ineffability may eliminate the very object it wants to honor. Or it may not guarantee enough of a target for its devotion. Perhaps God is ineffable; but so is Nothingness. What, then, makes the two different? For a Buddhist perhaps there is no difference; but for a theist, this will not do. A theist will want to distinguish between God and Nothingness. Apparently, there is something more we need to know. Not only skeptics and Buddhists threaten here, but also logical positivists, who will tell us that this ineffability just goes to show that religious language is meaningless and should be abandoned, and that God-talk as unverifiable is indeed talk about nothing. Heidegger’s response, which simply claims this very Nothingness as the topic of metaphysics, may produce its own challenge to positivism; but it would hardly be a defense of theism (Heidegger, 1931).

E.g. Knepper: “My conclusions are unique, or at least unexpected: not only absolute but also relative ineffability is incoherent, at least logically; and religion involves the overcoming of ineffability, not its attainment” (2017, 257). 2

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So, why should we assume God to be ineffable, and how do we know that he is ineffable? There is the well-known conundrum that claiming God to be ineffable is itself a form of speaking of God; in the very act of making the claim of ineffability one uses the kind of language one declares impossible. The claim speaks of the unspeakable; it says what Wittgenstein would consign to silence (1922, n. 7).3 In response to this objection one could argue that perhaps the problem is only linguistic: perhaps we can know ineffability; it is only that we cannot say it. But how exactly do we know this, and why exactly can we not say it? If we refer to God as ineffable – and indeed, if we refer to God at all – then God must at least have the attribute of “being able to be referred to.”4 We would know that, and no reason is given, why we could not say it. There is nothing self-understood about such claims of ineffability, and its own inherent quandaries only increase its need for support. What the ineffabilist claims to know is, in the end, a claim about God’s nature, namely that ineffability is one of his attributes. This claim may seek its support in scripture or faith; but it will be our contention that the implied account of ineffability is not theological, but philosophical in nature.

2 The Metaphysics of Ineffability What will be argued here is not that the claim to ineffability is wrong, but rather that the proper reason for it is to be found in a metaphysical argument – and that, if this is true, a philosophical, metaphysical account of God does not need to defend itself against the accusation that it jeopardizes the ineffability of God. If the ineffability of God is derived from metaphysics in the first place, then ineffability itself is intelligible only in and as metaphysics. As it will turn out, ineffability is an epiphenomenon of certain metaphysical properties of God, which themselves can and must be known to some extent for this claim to be supported. Both the naming and the un-naming of God depend on the same metaphysical insights.5 Contrary to what may be suspected, the metaphysical account I am referring to is not the traditional analysis of the analogical ways in which we predicate various attributes of God. On that topic, more recent Thomists have been debating, whether

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But the prize is that revelation is impossible (which is itself a rather massive and debatable claim about God’s nature!): “6.432 How things are in the world is a matter of complete indifference for what is higher. God does not reveal himself in the world.” The same goes for ethics (6.42) and many other things, including the Tractatus itself (6.54). 4 Cf. Augustine (1995), I, 6, 6: “si illud est ineffabile, quod dici non potest, non est ineffabile, quod vel ineffabile dici potest.” 5 Accordingly, when John Hick argues for the ineffability of God (and against the use of human language for God as a “category mistake”), he does not quote Scripture, but the neo-platonic philosopher Pseudo-Dionysius (Hick, 2009, 5).

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the “analogy of attribution”6 or the “analogy of proportionality”7 is the primary way of knowing God, while both defend such analogies against Karl Barth, who thinks that all such analogies of being are inventions of the Antichrist. By contrast, I would like to make the strong claim that both parties of Thomists as well as Karl Barth are wrong if they think that the analogy of being is a way of knowing God. These analogous accounts of speaking about God are indeed important ways of sorting out the various predicates that we use. But they are not themselves ways of knowing God; they are only ways of naming God. Knowing comes first, and only from this knowledge do we derive distinct ways of naming God. Hence these names depend on an antecedent metaphysical account of this knowledge. As Aquinas points out: we name as we know (ST I, q. 13, a. 8).8 For, as Aristotle says in Perihermeneias: “words are signs of ideas, and ideas the similitude of things”9 – the meaning of words depends on our intellectual conception of the things we name, and hence naming depends on knowing. Now Aquinas hastens to add, that, of course, we do not know the nature of God that we so name. Yet this lack of knowledge regarding a thing’s nature is not unique to the case of God. Indeed, any scientific investigation of a subject matter begins with a mere nominal definition that takes the name of its subject from the various observable operations or effects that the thing under investigation produces (ST I, q. 13, a. 8c). That is in fact how the famous “Five Ways” of Aquinas proceed to prove the existence of God; they begin from God’s operation in the world, such as discovering him in the obvious motions of things as their “first mover.” Calling God the “first mover” is not yet to name his nature. It is merely a nominal definition taken from his operations. We name as we know, and this knowledge is often, and in the case of God always, limited. But limitation is not yet ineffability; it does not even distinguish the limitation of our knowledge of God’s nature from that of other things. In both cases, we begin with nominal definitions; but we do not necessarily end there. It is in the process of further investigation into such nominal definitions that we will begin to gain some understanding of the nature of God. And as it turns out in the case of God, what we discover in that process might then indeed also give us grounds to think that God’s nature is ineffable. For having come to know him as the first cause of all motion, other things will follow, such as the insight that the first cause of the universe cannot itself be moved by other things or depend in its being on further entities. It must be a necessary being. A necessary being is an ens a se, i.e., a being in which the most fundamental distinction of being does not hold, namely that between act and potency, between essence and existence. It is God’s very nature to exist, he

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E.g., John F. Wippel, George P. Klubertanz, Bernard Montagnes and Ralph McInerny. E.g., Steven Long, Charles Hart, Edward Feser, Norris Clarke. 8 In the Summa theologiae, the question on the Divine Names follows at the very end of the discussion of what we know about God’s nature (though it precedes the discussion of his operations). 9 Aristotle, De Interpretatione 1 (16 a 2–6). 7

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exists essentially. That is why he exists necessarily, and everything else depends on his being. Now this absence of the most fundamental distinction in being (that of essence and existence) will imply that none of the less fundamental distinctions holds either, for they are only subordinate distinctions of act and potency, consequent upon the first. As a result, God is utterly simple, without distinctions. It is from this metaphysical insight into divine simplicity that we can conclude that God is “ineffable.” For it means that in God certain properties must be exchangeable with the very subject of which they are predicated. For example, God does not have wisdom as an additional property (which would be distinct from his nature), but rather he is wisdom itself. God also does not have the property of being good; rather he is Goodness Itself. Or, more fundamentally, God does not have the property of existence, but he is “Subsistent Being Itself” (ipsum esse subsistens). In God there is no composition of act and potency, essence and existence, subject and properties. Ineffability results from the fact that all of this is hard to express in our composite language, for every proposition is a composite of subject and predicate – including the proposition “God is simple.” Hegel will discuss this under the title of “Spekulativer Satz.” (Hegel, 1970, 54–62).10 But long before Hegel, Thomas Aquinas pointed out that there is nothing unusual about such propositions. Any identity predication does the same: in identity predication we conceptually posit the same thing twice, precisely so as to say that both are identical in reality. There is a diversity of idea or concept to which corresponds the plurality of predicate and subject, while the intellect signifies the real identity of the thing with itself by the form of the composition itself. And this, then, is true of God more generally: God, however, as considered in Himself, is altogether one and simple, yet our intellect knows Him by different conceptions because it cannot see Him as He is in Himself. Nevertheless, although it understands Him under different conceptions, it knows that one and the same simple object corresponds to its conceptions. Therefore the plurality of predicate and subject represents the plurality of idea; and the intellect represents the unity by composition (ST I, q. 13, a. 12c). Hence even the propositional form of our language does not necessarily make it prejudiced against the simplicity of God; this by itself does not need to make God ineffable. It merely requires us to understand what and how we name in such propositions. Still, we name as we know. But do we, in this case, know what we name? Even before it is a linguistic problem of naming or of composite expressions in

10 Since Hegel (and much of German Idealism) tends to confuse the relationship between subject and predicate with that between subject and object, he will read propositions in a dialectical fashion (in the “speculative sentence,” the substance becomes its own object in reflection and thus becomes subject). Aquinas, on the other hand, relates subject and predicate as matter and form, i.e. on the model of potency and act, and hence in an analogical rather than dialectical way. In Hegel, the result is a dialectical unity (i.e., including mediated negations as its “inner life”), while in Aquinas it is a “substantial” unity – which in God is that of a pure act, without distinction of act and potency, subject and predicate (except as expressing their identity).

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propositions, Divine simplicity is something that is hard to know and get our mind around. We do know that our predications of simplicity and identity must be true, but we do not quite understand what that means. For example, we do not quite comprehend what it means for something to be its own existence, and hence it is no wonder that analytical philosophers are puzzled by it (Anscombe & Geach, 1961, 88–90; Kenny, 1969, 82–95). But this puzzlement does not result from a case of stating nonsense (as the latter might assume); rather, it is a well-founded puzzlement. It is a reasonable incomprehension. This incomprehension has metaphysical reasons; and so does the ineffability that flows from it.

3 Revealed Language If what we have just shown is true, then the reasons for ineffability are not rooted in revelation, theology, or faith, but in reason and philosophy. Yet this does not mean that faith and reason are in conflict with each other. In fact, it turns out that the findings of philosophy are confirmed by revealed language, i.e., God suggests as much in his own words. We name as we know – and the one who knows best, is God himself. Thus it is God who can name himself best. And at least in the Judeo-Christian tradition he happens to do so in accord with what we have just discovered philosophically. For he says of himself: I am who am; he calls himself HE WHO IS (qui est). This is a revealed proper name and at the same time it perfectly accords with the notion of a pagan philosopher, namely Aristotle’s pure act. It is, as Thomas Aquinas says, the most proper name for God. But it is also the most universal, and the least relative to creatures – unlike “Lord” or “Creator”, which, being dependent on God’s operations, apply only in time and not from eternity (ST I, q. 13, a. 7). This name signifies a timeless presence and indeed the divine nature itself (ST I, q. 13, a. 11).11 The same revelation will also inform us that there is, in addition, a prohibition against using this name “in vain” (Ex 20:7), thus at the same time imposing a certain kind of “ineffability.” But this is not an ineffability that indicates a cognitive problem. What it says is that we must not use the name (in vain), not that we cannot. After all, there would be no need for a prohibition, if we were unable to use it anyway. In the Judeo-Christian tradition revealed language contains further enunciations regarding the naming of God. In the New Testament in particular, God identifies himself with the Logos, the Word: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God and God was the Word” (Jn 1:1). Does this identification give us 11

Ironically, Aquinas takes the Tetragrammaton to mean something different, and associates it with the “incommunicability” of the divine substance as such. But this “incommunicability” is not to be confused with linguistic incommunicability. What it means is metaphysical singularity, namely that there cannot be multiple instantiations of that which this term denotes; it cannot be communicated to various instantiations (ST I, q. 13, a. 11).

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additional reasons to think that God is ineffable? Does God here reveal to us that he is ineffable? It is hard to see how this would follow. It would in fact even seem that, if God is a Word, then he cannot be ineffable. An “ineffable Word” is a paradox. Still, there is indeed a further reason, why this Word might be ineffable.12 And this reason is yet again the same metaphysical reason we have identified earlier, namely divine simplicity. For it belongs to divine simplicity to express and comprehend itself in one Word, Logos or conceptus. And this is certainly not our way of understanding reality. It is difficult for us to comprehend what it means for someone to comprehend himself in one, single and simple Word, where we would have to use many (all the while having to do so in composite propositions). If, therefore, the ineffability of the Divine Word consists in its simplicity and singularity, then metaphysical reasoning supports this revelation of one ineffable Divine Word, while revelation in turn confirms divine simplicity already argued for on metaphysical grounds. While there is therefore harmony between faith and reason in this regard, we should also note that the primary support for the claim of ineffability comes from philosophy more than from revelation. Christian revelation after all speaks of the divine Word becoming flesh, which means that this Word wants to communicate and that its incarnation is a divine self-communication in a human nature. In the New Covenant, then, the prohibition against naming God is superseded by God naming himself (“and you shall call him Jesus,” Mt 1:21 and Lk 1:31). Indeed, even the prohibition against making an image of God is superseded by God himself making an image of himself in our human nature. He did this by becoming incarnate in that nature which he had already made in his own image and likeness. And in this human nature, the Word Incarnate proceeds to speak many words about himself; nowhere does he seem to claim ineffability. Christians also claim to have a whole book – inspired by the third person of the Trinity – that speaks endlessly, almost relentlessly and in many words about God. Nor do these words seem to suggest that God is a “hidden God,” a deus absconditus; for the same Paul who speaks of his experience of God as ineffable (2 Cor. 12:4) says in the letter to the Romans: “The invisible things of God are clearly seen and understood by the things that are made” (Romans 1:20). As a result, Christians have many words at their disposal that they can and do use in order to speak about God and to address him in personal and liturgical prayer. Thus, ineffability seems to be less important in Christianity than commonly assumed, and the same may be true for Judaism (Katz, 2017). Ineffable mystical experiences of the saints are comparatively rare and exceptional, though they do exist. While the Church gives some of these saints her approval by making them Doctors of the Church, these experiences are not part of public revelation (with the exception of Paul, 2 Cor. 12:4) and therefore not proposed to Christians as a matter

12 It is called verbum ineffabile in the collect of December 20th in the Roman Missal: Deus, cuius ineffabile Verbum, Angelo nuntiante, Virgo immaculata suscepit, et, domus divinitatis effecta, Sancti Spiritus luce repletur, quaesumus, ut nos, eius exemplo, voluntati tuae humiliter adhaerere valeamus. Per Dominum. . . (Ramelow, 2011).

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of faith. It is also not clear how they could be so proposed, because it is not by accident that they are not referenced in public revelation, for it belongs to their very nature to be private. There is, therefore, less support for ineffability in the JudeoChristian faith tradition and its revelation than one would assume. Mystical experiences are, at any rate, experiences. It would not seem to follow from the ineffability of an experience of God that our knowledge of God also needs to ineffable. To be sure, experience does induce a form of knowledge, usually one with a certain claim to immediacy. Such experience is comparable to the knowledge of “what is like” to experience, e.g., the sound of a clarinet, or “what it is like to be a bat” (Thomas Nagel). It may then be incommunicable merely in the sense that we cannot explain color to a person born blind. Admittedly, mystical experiences are different in that they connect their incommunicability with the emphatic or exalted nature of that of which they are an experience.13 But this exalted nature also puts a critical distance between the alleged immediacy of the experience and that of which it claims to be an experience. That is why, traditionally, such experiences were subjected to critical and conceptual examination by spiritual directors, confessors and religious authorities that did not necessarily themselves have such experiences.14 None of this is to suggest that there is something bad about religious experience; they can be a gift from God. It merely means that they do not provide a good basis for claims to ineffability. This basis of this claim would, moreover, be private, i.e., inaccessible, hard to substantiate and unverifiable. Such claims would therefore certainly incur the scorn of logical positivists and lead us back to the problems considered earlier. Finally, these experiences or their articulations are often themselves already influenced and shaped by philosophies, especially of a neoplatonic type (and often controversially so15). Thus even this claim to ineffability may often be philosophically rather than theologically inspired. What we see, therefore, is that wherever we encounter claims to ineffability in the Judeo-Christian tradition, we find that they are usually not part of revelation, but rather lead us back to philosophy and metaphysics. If I am correct, then divine ineffability is not a theological challenge to philosophical accounts of God, but rather the reverse: it is the result of a philosophical reflection. It is the metaphysical account of God that will lead us to apply ideas of an apophatic nature or negative theology to our reading of scripture and other revealed language, as well as religious experience. Contrary to our usual assumptions, we are dealing with a cataphatic theology and an apophatic philosophy. While we have seen that they can confirm

13

Hegel (1962, 221) holds these claims to an emphatic truth suspect and does indeed reduce them to mere sensuality, to blindness, even insanity, and the “Untrue” (das Unwahre). 14 This may be different for Asian religions, in which the achievement of such experiences is the whole point of the religion, and the masters must therefore have achieved it themselves to be proper judges, especially and precisely if this experience is not otherwise communicable. 15 For example, the Rhineland Mystics; it may be noteworthy, that in Augustine, Proclus, and others, silence and speaking permeate each other; ineffability is somehow dialectic. Similar ideas can be found in Kierkegaard and Heidegger and perhaps also in Asian thought (Wohlfart & Kreuzer, 1992).

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each other, they often are also in tension with each other. This tension between cataphatic theology and apophatic philosophy is a necessary and important one; it corresponds to the necessary and irreducible dialectic of faith and reason, theology and philosophy.16 In this dialectic, ineffability is suggested more by philosophy than theology. Indeed, theology will rather need to defend the ability of God to reveal himself, as we will now see.

4 The Theology of “Effability:” A God That Speaks Theologians, more than philosophers, must claim that God is able to express himself in human language. Otherwise scriptural and oral revelation become impossible for God and theology loses its specific subject matter. Hence it would be self-defeating for theology to make divine ineffability unrestricted. If we ask whether God can communicate himself in human language, then “[t]he answer to these questions is a matter of life and death for the church’s proclamation and confession of its faith; on the answer also depends the very possibility of theology as linguistically communicated rational discourse on the Christian faith” (Kasper, 2012, 87).17 This in turn means that human language must be intrinsically open to God. Philosophers might doubt this, but theologians must affirm it. Accordingly, Catherine Pickstock argues that human language is open to God’s revelation, because it was always already oriented towards it. For Pickstock, the very telos of language is liturgical, a form of latria; language itself would collapse and lose its point, if we

16 Revelation limits reason by showing the contingencies of creation and of salvation history to be an expression of God’s free will. Yet rather than limiting our ways of speaking about God, it is precisely this limitation that might give us additional insights into God’s nature (as reflected in his operations). God’s contingent and unique acts may indeed produce a certain ineffability, insofar as God reveals himself in unique individual (Jesus); and if, contrary to Scotus, there is no science of particulars, then it may elude our conceptual grasp and knowledge. It may withdraw into the je ne sais quoi of a its individuality, according to the saying that individuum est ineffabile. In response we may note this notion of ineffability would indeed apply to any individual. It would not indicate any form of ontological excellence and hence should not be interesting to the typical ineffabilist. If matter is the principle of individuation (as in Aquinas) then this ineffable individuality may even indicate that it is not applicable to God. Perhaps for that reason, the saying individuum est ineffabile is not attested before Goethe (and frequently confused with the “incommunicability” mentioned above, footnote 11). It may have more to do with a modern quest for personal uniqueness than with theology. 17 See also Ratzinger (2000), n. 6: “Therefore, the words, deeds, and entire historical event of Jesus, though limited as human realities, have nevertheless the divine Person of the Incarnate Word, “true God and true man” as their subject. For this reason, they possess in themselves the definitiveness and completeness of the revelation of God’s salvific ways, even if the depth of the divine mystery in itself remains transcendent and inexhaustible. The truth about God is not abolished or reduced because it is spoken in human language; rather, it is unique, full, and complete, because he who speaks and acts is the Incarnate Son of God.”

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could not name God in the act of praising him.18 Worship and the naming of God is not an esoteric and problematic feature of language but rather its telos and central to the very structure and nature of language.19 Not only is human language open to God-talk; rather, human language would become impossible, if it were not rooted in God-talk from the outset. A similar point can be found in Karl Rahner. This might be surprising, given that Pickstock and Rahner do not share much else in common. Yet they are both theologians and thus must defend the possibility of language about God. Hence even Rahner, who is prone to relativizing “categorical” expressions about God by an appeal to his “transcendental” nature, will defend the intrinsic relationship between human language and God. He suggests that the meaning of the word “God” is a central hinge in the functioning of any human language. It is the word that brings us before reality as a whole, the placeholder that holds open the house of Being which is language. It is the word that names that which is most important, and which has not yet been expressed, when everything finite has been named. It is the last word before we fall silent; it is evocative of the grounding whole. It is the word without which we become like Nietzsche’s last man: forgetful of our highest aspirations, a clever animal, busy with the mere technological manipulation of things at the service of our mind-numbing conveniences (Rahner, 1976, 54–61).20 Walter Kasper in turn reminds his readers that language is social in origin, and as such embodies not only the present community of speakers but also our ancestors from which we inherit it. Language thus transcends us and makes present a whole history and culture. Now such cultures are particulars, and it may therefore appear that its enunciations and truth claims are relative to such cultures, perhaps even akin to collective delusions or relativistically shifting paradigms and language games. To preserve language’s objective validity Kasper appeals therefore to Jürgen Habermas’ ideal community of communication and its implied intersubjective consensus. But according to Kasper, it turns out that this ideal community can only be guaranteed by a religious point of view: since nobody must be excluded from the ideal consensus, it must include those long-dead ancestors that are by their nature a constitutive part of the language we use.21 This can only be done by anticipating an eschatological point of view, namely that of the general resurrection (i.e., including that of our ancestors). This is God’s point of view, as the one who can and will raise the dead. Thus God is

18 This was in fact the one way in which even Jews were allowed to use the name of God: in the worship of the temple; it is only after the destruction of the temple that the prohibition has become absolute, and even the proper pronunciation unknown. 19 . . . .with God himself as the grammar into which we are transformed, and Transubstantiation as the condition of the possibility of all meaning – for the performative speech act of the sacrament makes present God and transforms us sacramentally (Pickstock, 1997, 253–266). 20 Similarly, Martin Buber defends naming God against those who want to be silent about God, because his name has been abused and caused suffering in the world. It is still the name that keeps open ultimate hope (Buber, 1962, 508–510). 21 Kasper appeals to H. Peukert’s use of Walter Benjamin and his notion of a solidarity with the dead.

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essential as a proleptic condition of the possibility even for our normal human speech-situation. The kingdom of God is the ideal community of communication which is anticipated in every speech act. Human language lives from an anticipation of the total meaning of reality. Again: not the word “God” is in danger of being meaningless or ineffable; rather, human language becomes meaningless if it does not contain this word or makes God entirely ineffable (Kasper, 2012, 87–94).22 Philosophers in turn have noted similar correlations: Robert Spaemann, for example, can even attempt a proof for the existence of God from a feature inherent in the grammar of human language, namely the futurum exactum, which by its nature anticipates a divine point of view, which is an unending, eternal point of view without which the past would disappear should there be no future present anymore (Spaemann, 2007). In a similar vein, Wolfhart Pannenberg reports a change of mind about religious language. Having assumed earlier that religious language results from stretching our ordinary human language (and perhaps beyond its abilities), he came to see that the reverse is true, and that even our ordinary human language has religious roots in the first place: I too readily assumed that all religious language was transferred from secular use. Today I think that the religious dimension of human life is one of the irreducible roots of language, and I suspect that quite a few of our words developed from religious origins (Pannenberg, 1981, 262–63). Thus when John Paul II. says that “faith clearly presupposes that human language is capable of expressing divine and transcendent reality in a universal way” (Fides et Ratio n. 84), then this presupposing may go both ways: human language already hinges on these divine and transcendent realities from the outset.

5 Philosophy in Aid of Theology Philosophy provides reasons for divine ineffability, whereas theology must insist on the divine ability to communicate. But philosophy can also come to the aid of this latter claim, i.e., for “effability” as well as ineffability: The philosophical reason for divine ineffability as outlined above appealed to the perfection of God’s being. But divine perfection has more implications than ineffability. For would we not also contradict God’s perfection, if we denied him the perfection of being able to communicate himself? Would this not contradict the very perfection based on which we call him ineffable? Paradoxical though it may seem, the simplicity implied in God’s perfection makes him both ineffable and supremely intelligible and communicable, for God cannot be totally helpless, linguistically speaking, if he is to be perfect.

22

God also is, semantically, the reality about which the consensus is to be achieved (qua correspondence theory of truth); this semantics can be spelled out in terms of the analogy of being (Kasper, 2012, 94–98).

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By contrast, among human beings, trouble communicating is a common experience. But we know how to help ourselves. If we do not know the right word to communicate our thoughts – especially in a foreign language – then we do have a way of “getting around” this word by “circumlocution.” We literally “talk around” what we mean, until the thought to be communicated finally clicks in the mind of the other person (and perhaps he or she can then give us the right word in his or her own language). Such may have been the situation of many missionaries when trying to explain the meaning of “Logos” or “God” (e.g., in the Chinese Rites controversy). Now God may also use circumlocution. Theologically, God speaks creation into being, when he says “let there be;” he creates everything through the one, simple Divine Word which He Is. But, as Thomas Aquinas says, he can adequately express this one Word only by making many things.23 The infinite can be expressed in the finite only as a manifold. In creation and special revelation God communicates his simple self, using many words. Perhaps one can cast it in Frege’s terminology: these words all have the same referent (God), but a different sense – a sense that often cannot be exchanged salva veritate (ST I, q. 13, a. 4). It gets slightly more complex with Sacred Scripture, because here God is using our words to communicate himself. These are the words which, according to the narrative, Adam gave to the many created things in the beginning. There, Adam named as he knew; and in knowing and naming creation we, like Adam, can come to know and name the Creator, whose expressions and circumlocutions they are. And because things and their names express God to varying ways and degrees, the necessary metaphysical discernment of these ways will lead us to the classical theories of analogy concerning the Divine Names, clarifying which names apply, and why, and in which way. This discernment will lead us to distinguish between the signification of a term that we apply to God and the mode of signification. This mode of signification may need to be purified of its origin, because our words typically originate in the naming of creation rather than of the creator. Such a purification can characteristically be found in the second, apophatic step of negative theology (ST I, q. 13, a. 3c). It is within this step that Aquinas will typically say that we know of God not what he is, but only what he is not. But it is important to notice that Aquinas will not make this apophatic step the ultimate step, by contrast with Moses Maimonides.24 For mere negativity would ignore its own warrant, which is the more foundational positive insight into God’s metaphysical perfection and simplicity. Every negation is based on an affirmation. And that is why Divine Ineffability is different from the Ineffability of mere Nothingness, of Nirvana, or of such unverifiable claims as will be criticized by the logical positivists. Ineffability results from abundance rather than emptiness; it is not mere ignorance, but a docta 23

For Aquinas, God can mean something not just by words, but also by the things and events of history (hence the possibility of anagogical meanings and typologies in salvation history) (ST I, q. 1, a. 10c and ad 1). 24 Mere negation only denotes difference, which is uninformative. God is different from a stone, but so is Peter (ST I, q. 13, a. 2c). Moreover, mere negation only denotes a lack, but God does not lack anything, he rather exceeds everything (quia superexcedit) (ST I, q. 12, a. 12c).

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ignorantia (Cusanus) which negates only the finite modes of a perfection, not the perfection itself. And so we arrive at a middle path that combines revelation and metaphysics. It is a path which does not drag God down to the level of creatures, even while using some creaturely names to speak of him. It preserves the necessary ineffability while not making him indistinguishable from nothingness and turning theism and atheism into equivalents.

6 Interreligious Dialogue Some may think of ineffability as helpful to interreligious dialogue. Our inability to articulate very robust claims about the Godhead may appear to make religions more compatible with each other. For where there can be no clear claims, there can be no clear disagreements either. This, however, may also end interreligious dialogue before it has even begun. A dialogue, after all, is a linguistic exercise; it is a conversation about something. It aims at identifying agreements and disagreements about its subject matter. In this sense, ineffability would become an obstacle to interreligious dialogue, simply because there is nothing to talk about. If God is too ineffable, we may end up sitting around a table in silence, because the Absolute has become, as Hegel would say, like “the night in which all cows are black.” It is a God who is a noumenal being, ineffable behind all phenomena and linguistic expressions, unspeakable in dialogue. The opposite extreme, however, will also undermine dialogue. George Lindbeck’s “postliberal theology,” for example, claims that the meaning of the word “God” is constituted by our linguistic devises, by the different words and “language games” that we use in different religious traditions. Our experience and the content of our language is always already shaped by our particular language and entirely specific to it (see also Katz, 2017, 208). Consequently, we have the reverse of what we have come to see with Aquinas. For Lindbeck, we know as we name, whereas for Aquinas we name as we know.25 Now Lindbeck may be right to emphasize the diversity and specificity of particular religions against the opposite extreme, namely the claim that they are all about the same ineffable reality anyway. This latter claim, which he calls “modernism,” would indeed reduce the linguistic, cultural, and doctrinal differences of the various religions to a secondary “human response” (Hick, 1989), exchangeable, historically contingent folklore – and today a 25

Lindbeck likes to appeal to hylomorphism such that the words are the form, and religious “experience” the matter (Lindbeck, 1984, 34–35). But this is the opposite of what Aquinas says: “vox est quoddam naturale, nomen autem et verbum significant ex institutione humana, quae advenit rei naturali sicut materiae, ut forma lecti ligno” (Aquinas, 1962, lib. 1 l. 2 n. 4). For Aquinas, it is our knowledge that constitutes the meaning of our words (we name as we know); the linguistic signs are the matter with which language works, while the form is the human intentionality that institutes them as signs of language; for Lindbeck it is the reverse.

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mere matter of private taste available to our selection in a postmodern global supermarket of religions. But Lindbeck in turn may risk making the word “God” completely equivocal by making it dependent on the cultural-linguistic paradigm of a particular and incommensurable tradition.26 Though everything may then be completely expressible rather than ineffable (because the referent is constituted by our linguistics to begin with), across traditions we would then have no common referent at all. Each tradition would remain locked into its own language game. Thus the opposite extremes of radical linguistic diversity on the one hand, and pure ineffability on the other, end up with the very same result: interreligious dialogue becomes impossible. We are either reduced to silence or limited to talking past or at each other. Another solution is proposed by Thomas Aquinas. Thomas Aquinas observes that, if God were completely unnamable – even in terms of analogy – then religions could not even disagree about God. For there would be nothing to disagree about. We need to be able to name a common subject before we can argue about the predicates that we want to affirm or deny of this subject term. And contrary to John Hick, Aquinas insists that contradictory statements about God cannot both be true in interreligious dialogue, while, as a mere noumenon, God may not intelligibly be related to either of the two. Aquinas is adamant: “a Catholic who says: ‘An idol is not God,’ does contradict a pagan who says: ‘An idol is God’” (ST I, q. 13, a. 10, obj. 1).27 While this is a philosophical insight for Aquinas, he notes also that the same is confirmed by Scripture where it says: “All the gods of the Gentiles are demons” (Psalm 95:5) (ST I, q. 13, a. 10, obj. 1). What, then, is the condition of the possibility for being able to make such contradictory claims and of thereby having a meaningful disagreement? How indeed can we have an argument between Muslims and Christians, or how can we compare the Brahman of the Vedanta school and a monotheistic creator God? On the one hand, any disagreement as such seems to indicate that these religions do not talk about the same thing. After all, they have different predicates for what they claim to be the same subject, and these differences in predicates might indicate that they are in fact talking about different realities altogether, engaging in equivocations. Yet, on the other hand, since there is in fact reasonable interreligious dialogue in which people have meaningful disagreements, they must be arguing about the same subject 26

Elsewhere, I have analyzed these various positions along Aristotle’s semantic triangle (Ramelow, 2005, 2008). It should also be noted that an appeal to ritual, music and poetry (as forms of human language more broadly) might suffer from similar problems: mimetic (and therefore natural) as they are, they will by their nature not express universal meanings, but only particular images and attitudes – again too incommensurable for dialogue. Nor do they have the requisite semantics for a dialogue which, after all, must be about something. 27 This may be impossible to claim for both Hick and Lindbeck. Hick claims that God or the Absolute “cannot be said to be one or many, person or thing, substance or process, good or evil, purposive or nonpurposive. None of the concrete descriptions that apply within the realm of human experience can apply literally to the unexperienceable ground of that realm. For whereas the phenomenal world is structured by our own conceptual frameworks, its noumenal ground is not” (Hick, 1989, 246–47).

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anyway, even if they predicate different things of it. In other words, argument and disagreement require both identity and difference. This indicates that it may be important to steer a middle course: the subject under discussion must be the same (otherwise there is no discussion), yet it might need to be taken with sufficient vagueness to allow for disagreements.28 This requisite vagueness allows then also a positive role for ineffability to emerge.29 Accordingly, Aquinas suggests that “neither a Catholic nor a pagan knows the very nature of God as it is in itself; but each one knows it according to some idea of causality, or excellence, or remotion” (ST I, q. 13, a. 10, sc. 2). In other words, metaphysical reasoning and the analogies resting on it allow us to have the same target or subject term on the one hand, while maintaining a certain ineffability, on the other hand, makes room for disagreement about proper predicates. Even where some contested predicates indicate that the subject term is used contrary to one’s own assumptions, Aquinas would allow that the subject term still applies “in opinion,” i.e., it would nonetheless participate in the likeness of the one true God. This basic agreement about the subject term is, then, what we need to assume as a matter of a hermeneutics of charity. Such a “principle of charity” consists in assuming that the other side still tries to mean the right thing.30

28

For Aquinas, this vagueness concerns only the mode of signification (ST I, q. 13, a. 12 ad 1). Aquinas is quite capable of expressions of ineffability: “. . .but the name “He who is” signifies absolute being, being undetermined by something added to it. This is why Damascene says that it does not signify what God is; rather, it signifies a certain infinite (and, as it were, undetermined) sea of substance. Whence when we approach God through the path of removal, we first deny bodily things of him, and second even intellectual things insofar as they are found in created things, such as goodness and wisdom. And then there remains in our understanding only that he exists, and nothing more. Thereby he exists as in a certain confusion. Moreover, at the end, we remove even existence itself, insofar as it is found in created things; and then one remains in a certain darkness of ignorance. According to this ignorance, as far as pertains to the state of the earthly path, we are joined to God best (as Dionysius says), and this is a certain fog wherein God is said to dwell.” (Aquinas, 2020, I. d. 8, q.1, a. 1, resp. 4). 30 Perhaps the implication is that we should trust the Aristotelian first operation of the mind (concepts), whereas truth and falsehood only emerge in the second operation (judgment). And perhaps this trust could be the basis for a principle of charity. Donald Davidson, on the other hand, suggests (following Frege’ context principle) that we trust primarily in the second operation, i.e., for beliefs qua propositional attitudes (thus making meaning dependent on truth, rather than vice versa). Bruce Marshall follows Davidson and Lindbeck rather than Aquinas (Marshall, 2000, 82–83 and 98–107). But he also ends up making interreligious dialogue equivocal: every disagreement about God means we are talking about a different entity (Marshall, 1989). For a discussion (Ramelow, 2005, 41–44). Bruce Marshall points out that one can refer to an utterly simple entity only entirely and completely, or not at all; any disagreement would change the referent. If this is true, and if ineffability is based on divine simplicity, then ineffability will not be helpful for interreligious dialogue. On the other hand, the vagueness of reference which we suggested with Aquinas does not seem to jeopardize this simplicity, but rather is a result thereof; it therefore preserves both the possibility of interreligious dialogue and divine simplicity at once. Aquinas might suggest that Bruce Marshall confuses divine simplicity with our grasp thereof: in ST I, q. 13, a. 12 ad 3, he argues that the statement “The intellect understanding anything otherwise than it is, is false,” is true, when “otherwise” is taken to mean the thing understood, but false when taken to mean the one who understands. 29

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Metaphysics, as we have seen, provides arguments for ineffability. But the same arguments also provide a reasonable target for all claims to divinity (e.g., requiring divinity to be simple and perfect). They constitute a framework in which the various claims of interreligious dialogue can be evaluated and brought into contact. There is thus a strong claim for metaphysics to provide the necessary conditions for interreligious dialogue. What will help interreligious dialogue, therefore, is not so much found in linguistics. It is not a question of whether God is either beyond language or else constituted by language. Rather, language itself is secondary. For we name as we know. And what we know about God independently from particular claims of revelation, we know from metaphysics and philosophy. Since metaphysics and philosophy give us grounds for, as well as qualifications of ineffability, they can also provide a basis for interreligious dialogue.

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Ramelow, T. A. (2008). Language without reduction: Aquinas and the linguistic turn. Angelicum, 85, 497–517. Ramelow, T. A. (2011). The ineffable word. Sacred Music: Journal of the Church Music Association of America, 138(1), 65–68. Ratzinger, J. (2000). Declaration “Dominus Iesus”. https://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/ congregations/cfaith/documents/rc_con_cfaith_doc_20000806_dominus-iesus_en.html. Accessed 19 April 2023. Spaemann, R. (2007). Das unsterbliche Gerücht. In R. Spaemann (Ed.), Das unsterbliche Gerücht. Die Frage nach Gott und die Täuschung der Moderne (pp. 11–36). Klett-Cotta. Wittgenstein, L. (1922). Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus. Trans. by C. K. Ogden. Kegan Paul. Wohlfart, G., & Kreuzer, J. (1992). Schweigen, Stille. In J. Ritter & K. Gründer (Eds.), Historisches Wörterbuch der Philosophie (Vol. 8, pp. 1483–1495). Schwabe.

Would We Speak If We Did Not Have to Die? Hans-Christoph Askani

1 Introduction The question of the title seems purely hypothetical. Indeed, we will die. And we know we will die. Therefore, any question about what would happen if we did not die seems meaningless. One would feel entitled to dismiss it with a gesture of superiority and turn to other, more serious topics. Nevertheless, it could be that the question bears a meaning – an indirect meaning. If so, what does it point to? It points to a connection between human speaking and human dying. By ‘dying’ I mean here not only the moment of death, but the fact that death characterizes one’s whole life, that one has death before oneself, and that one relates to death and cannot but relate to it. Thus, death protrudes into life. This does not mean that death makes a life a sad one, but it makes it finite. This finitude characterizes someone in everything one does and in everything that happens to him or her. Life is given to me, but at the same time it is withdrawn from me. “I am. But I do not have myself[.],” writes Ernst Bloch (1961, 7). I can experience this in many situations, and I cannot not experience it. My hair color changes in time. I am less strong than my friend, less smart than my girlfriend, less fast than I used to be... I get tired; the other day I was sick... Admittedly, this experience is not the whole life, but it is present everywhere in a life. My existence involves a withdrawal in a fundamental way. I am deprived of myself. Several experiences show this to me, and in every experience my impending death is secretly present. It is my death – no one else will die at my place. And yet, my death is also not mine, because I do not know it, I do not dispose of it, nor I know my life and myself.

H.-C. Askani (✉) University of Geneva, Geneva, Switzerland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_6

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In what follows, I will ask whether this fundamental withdrawal that death introduces between me and my life has any repercussion on human speaking at all.

2 Speaking and Unavailability When we speak, the tacit assumption is that we speak in order to tell someone what we want to say or have to say. This presupposes that we know what we want to say. The intention of saying something grounds our speaking, and the act of speaking accomplishes this intention. However, the conception of language and speaking I just sketched is based on a widespread prejudice, namely, that we are the masters of our speech, that we are in control of what we say when we speak. However, in light of the question of the title we have become sensitive to a withdrawal characterizing human existence in all areas. Perhaps, this withdrawal might also affect human speech – and precisely in a fundamental way. Following this train of thoughts, I ask: is it really the case that the mastery of our speaking is the basic disposition implied in our speaking? I mean, the fact that we can indeed say (and do say, with few exceptions) what we have to say? Could it not be that, when we speak, we say something on which we do not have full control? Perhaps, we do not use the words of our language like an instrument that performs exactly as we want, but rather these words have a life of their own. We do not invent the meaning that the words convey, but rather this meaning already speaks, and we follow it. If this is the case, then our speech always says more than we can control and contain. When we speak to another person, our words do no longer belong to us. For instance, the other person may understand them differently from how we meant them. Will the other ever understand them exactly as we meant them? But our speech does not completely belong to us not only because of the presence of another person as the addressee of our words; our speech does not completely belong to us in an even more fundamental sense. In fact, we never speak completely alone. Something is always speaking along with us. And this “something” is language. Instead of using the words as if their meaning were exact and measurable, words grant themselves to us.1 Instead of conveying their meaning flatly, we “hit” the meaning with the word, thanks to the word, like the sound of a bell, which however carries more than we are able to foresee. Then, language, or using language, has a specific fuzziness. This fuzziness, if properly conceived, is language’s peculiar strength, because it allows us to speak. This fuzziness transfers our speaking into the larger, richer space of language. In this space, or rather as this space, language says always more than we think and intend. This is our language situation, our linguistic condition. The problem is not that language has a defect, as one carelessly often complains (as if there could be a

1

As a sort of loan. We always know that this loan it belongs to somebody else. But to whom, in this case? Perhaps it belongs to the words themselves.

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language which is better than language); rather, the problem is that language contains and brings with itself a surplus. In language we always say too much when we say something,2 and therefore we always say too little. We have to clarify the “too much” and we have to compensate for the “too little”. It is as if we do not begin to speak at all, but as if we enter into speaking, or as if we speak after a speaking event that is always already ahead of us. We speak after a speaking that has already begun, but this means that we speak ahead of ourselves. So, instead of speaking because we have something to say, perhaps we speak in order to have something to say. If so, then we would speak in order to fill the inexhaustible space which opens up with our speaking and which we are never able to fill.3 But then, this “never” would not be the obstacle of our speaking (“it is of no use to speak anyway, if we do not know what we want to say!”), but the reason of our speaking, its abysmal foundation. The certainty of death and the knowledge of this certainty might represent that insurmountable lack affecting language – a lack that challenges us. Do we face that openness in which we did not produce ourselves, and which nevertheless belongs to us – at the same time inevitably and uncannily? If so, then not to know what we want to say, not to know what we might want to say, would not only constitute the ground of our speaking, but would protrude into our speaking. Admittedly, our everyday communication situations are not affected by this non-knowledge which constantly accompanies our speaking. The everyday communication rehearsed hundreds of thousands of times suggests us that we succeed in saying what we want to say. And indeed, the more our speaking is well-rehearsed, the more we succeed. However, this comes at a price: generally, we only say what has been rehearsed. But is this the whole space that opens up to us with language, is this the whole richness we could exploit? Below the level of what is well-rehearsed, there is a less safe, broader realm that opens up – a realm that is at the same time deeper and more promising. The realm of a speaking that transcends us and at the same time challenges us to transcend ourselves within our own speaking. Our speaking would then unfold into two basic forms that strongly differ from one another: on the one hand, the form that lies over the abyss above which we speak, and that assumes that the whole of speaking is a well-rehearsed, successful ‘business’ exchange in which we foresee what we have to say and we control what 2

Metaphor and metonymy are different expressions of this. I am aware that our whole language is interwoven metaphorically and metonymically. Therefore, the “too much” belongs irrevocably to its speaking; it opens the space of language. 3 Time and again the conditional “would” affects my formulations. It makes everything sound vague, floating, undecided. Could it be that this suspension comes from the initial question? In fact, also the conditional in the question sounded decisive, and from there echoed in our thoughts. Somehow, the question of our death puts us into a provisional situation, which is also expressed in our speaking. It is never a matter of “simply” saying what we want to say and can say, but rather it is a matter to express in our speaking what we would say. Something like the appearance of death, but also something like a beam of life, which – as life! – goes towards death. Death would put our whole life – and first of all our speaking – in a potential status: our task is not to get out of this potentiality, but to fill it (and, as we will see, not to fill it).

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and how we say it; on the other hand, the form of speaking in which we do not have our speaking at our disposal, and for this reason we cannot but speak. Speaking in order to seek our speaking, in order to approach – in the act of speaking - what we could say, what we would want to say. These two forms of speaking cannot be entirely disjoined. We always speak by making use of what is rehearsed, but a more open, still unfounded, probably forever unfounded dimension always “lurks” in what is rehearsed. As an example of this, I analyze one of the main forms of religious speech: prayer.

3 Prayer as a Borderline Case of Language We usually take prayer as a special case of speech act. From a critical distance, it seems not only a special case, but also a borderline case. Does not sound strange, talking to someone who, apparently, is not there? We could think of it as a kind of superstition or even of pathology. On the other hand, praying is a phenomenon of great importance in the most diverse cultures and religions; in all these religions the one who prays would feel misunderstood if he, or she, were called superstitious or disturbed just because he or she prays. After all, could it not be that prayer, while indeed a borderline case of speaking, is not just on the obscure fringe of language, but also intimately connected to what speaking fundamentally is? In everyday speech, we address ourselves to a human counterpart. We see and hear the other’s reactions, thus we experience whether and how our speech is received. In prayer, however, we take upon ourselves that we speak to a counterpart whose reactions – if any – we do not hear and see. That is why I speak of the transcendence of our speech. The place of its possible arrival is shifted. But concerning the one who prays this corresponds to the speaking situation we just outlined, and which is also somehow shifted. We never begin to speak alone; our speaking has already begun before us. Of course, also in everyday speech we do not have control of what our human counterpart ‘makes’ of our words. But if there are misunderstandings,4 we can try to clarify them. Prayer removes the possibility of this post-correction. (We do not see in God’s face how God thinks about the prayer...) Does it mean that we should speak to God as much carefully as possible? “Dear God, do what is good for us! You know best!” But would that still be talking to God at all? This way of talking would be almost undistinguishable from non-talking. And God would also be undistinguishable from the idol we make of Him. This is a sort of pseudo-piety that wants to minimize human contribution. But God is God only if the human being is really God’s opposite. And so also human speech is only speech if it does not already capitulate in its beginning.

4

Misunderstandings belong no less to the reality of language than understanding(s). However, not more either! (Such a statement would not compromise the floating character of language).

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The opposite of this scenario is prayer. Prayer places itself in the fundamental situation of language in which the human speech comes from beyond the initiative of the speaking subject, and goes beyond the conscious intention of the speaker. Therefore God (“Oh God!”), and only God, is the addressee of the address.

4 The Linguistic Form of Prayer What is the meaning of prayer? We have seen that speaking is related to a lack. We become aware of this lack in an unsurpassable and inescapable way because we will die. More precisely because we know that we will die. Throughout our lives we cannot help but relate to our death. Animals do not and cannot have to relate to death. Is it a coincidence that animals do not die5 and do not speak, while humans do die and speak? Not that people primarily talk about death. They mostly do not, and when they do, they do it awkwardly. It is not about death itself, it is about a withdrawal – and death symbolizes this withdrawal and seals it. We are deprived of ourselves. This deprivation protrudes into our language. Paradoxically, it gives us words. An abundance of words, which in their abundance are never able to completely fill the lack, the void. Let us consider three essential ways of praying: supplication, praise, and lamentation. 1. Supplication Asking as such comes out of itself, or rather, the person who asks comes out of himself or herself. This already happens when a person asks another person for something. Strange act, to ask. “Can you please help me?” It would have been much simpler, much less outreaching, to do something without asking for help to anybody else. (“In this way we would have no need to say ‘thank you’ to anyone!”) Or it would be much easier to say: “Last time I helped you out, this time it’s your turn!” That is, instead of asking, reminding, demanding compensation. Yet, in pure asking there is no compensation to be reminded. So, the person who asks exposes himself, or herself, in his/her own asking. What happens when we ask God? The “stepping out”, the exposure is even greater. How unlikely it is that the request will be granted! What should God have to do with it? How should He be interested in such a request? Why do or should I want to ask God at all? And yet, asking is the most primordial, the most spontaneous and perhaps even the most spiritual way of praying.

5 To die means here: to relate to one’s death. According to Heidegger (2000, 180), animals do not do that: “Only the human being dies. The animal perishes. It has the death as death neither before itself nor behind itself” (my translation; original: “Nur der Mensch stirbt. Das Tier verendet. Es hat den Tod als Tod weder vor sich noch hinter sich”).

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We should ask God for everything that is in our hearts, says F. Rosenzweig.6 And of course we should ask it in such a way that we hope for an answer.7 (Otherwise, we would only play with God - and with our own prayer.) So, we want the fulfillment, but not only. Somehow, we also want the non-fulfillment – as strange as it may sound. Why? Because we also want the act itself of asking. We want to have what we asked for, but at the same time we want to continue asking. We want the fulfillment, and we want the openness. In other words: we want to arrive with our request, but at the same time we do not want to arrive. The act of asking goes into openness since its beginning, thus it does not want to renounce to this openness. On the contrary. Our asking wants to keep the openness open. That is why the request, the asking, does not want to end. How does this connection between fulfillment and openness intertwine in prayer? Prayer asks to be fulfilled, but it also asks for the coming of fulfillment. Prayer does not only want to reach the goal: it also wants the goal to be reached from the other side, from God. It wants the fulfillment to come, but it also wants the fulfiller to come with the fulfillment. In other words, prayer wants the asking and the coming of the fulfillment, so that the coming continues. Thus, the surprising sense of the request is to “draw near” the coming of the fulfillment so that it comes soon, and to delay it so that it keeps coming. But this is exactly what we had recognized as the fundamental structure of speaking: speaking wants to fill the emptiness (the lack) and to keep it open. There is a “doubling” in every act of speech.8 And that is exactly what the supplication shows. The request that knows that the very fulfillment granted to it is still coming, keeps the openness open. “Thy kingdom come!” Can the praying person want the kingdom ‘simply’ to be there? In this case, the prayer would be over. And also, the “kingdom” would be over. 6 Ernst Simon, when he tells of his first encounter with Franz Rosenzweig, reports: “FR was desperately looking for a place to live at the time. One of my shocks was when he told me that one could and must also pray for an apartment.” (Rosenzweig, 1979, 677, letter of 27th of August 1922 to M. Buber, my translation). 7 “There are, after all, inhibited people who would prefer prayer to be entirely free of this will. Such ‘pure’ prayer has always seemed to me to be the equally bad counterpart of pure magic, a bland, tired bowing [. . .].” (Rosenzweig, 1979, 817, my translation; original: “Es gibt doch verbogene Menschen, die das Gebet am liebsten ganz frei von diesem Willen hätten. Eine solches ‚reines‘Gebet ist mir immer als das gleich schlechte Gegenstück zur reinen Magie erschienen, ein fades, müdes Sichfügen [. . .]”). 8 Michel De Certeau comes to what interests us here: “Is the phenomenon [sc. glossolalia] so exceptional? A glossolalia is already instituted, in dotted lines so to speak, in ordinary conversation: bodily noises, quotes of delinquent sounds, fragment of foreign voices punctuate the order of sentences with unguarded outburst and surprises. Said by whom to whom? A secondary, disseminated vocalization crosses the stated discourse, the major voice that becomes the messenger of meaning appears caught up in a twinning that compromises it. cutting through or paralleling it. stated discourse. It frees itself from this unsettling doppelgänger only in the functions in which it is farthest from interlocution. The political, professorial, or predicatory discourse, for example, becomes increasingly less permeable to the vocal irruption and interruption that the presence of the other induces in a series of propositions” (2015, 213).

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As we said, in prayer, the speaker goes farthest out of himself, because the reaching point of the prayer is always beyond. However, this is not a failure, but the meaning of the prayer. I have spoken of a lack. The act of praying is aware of this lack (isn’t this awareness already praying?), and it places itself within this lack. This is why we have spoken about the “doubling”. To speak means to approach speaking – and this is exemplified in the prayer of supplication. To speak means never to rule over speaking, never to master it. To speak is the recognition of the chasm between speaking and speaking. When we speak, we take upon us this chasm. To pray is to remember that. It is testing our speaking by letting oneself be involved in its extreme case, which is at the same time the basic case of speaking. This is why I said that prayer speaks within the lack that constitutes language. Prayer speaks in order to fill, and simultaneously not to fill, the fundamental lack of our existence. “Thy will be done!” Strange prayer! Does the person who prays have to ask God for what God already wants? That seems bizarre. Or is it a kind of conversion on the part of the one who prays, a sort of withdrawing one’s own will in favor of God’s will? But would that be a real asking, that is, a real supplication? Is it not rather a matter of something else? Not placing oneself in God’s will, but placing oneself in the act of asking. Getting access to the sphere of asking – and getting that access precisely by asking. “Not our will, but your will be done!” Formulating a request in order to come into the request: this opens up a space in which the addressee (God) is unreachable and so comes to us. 2. Praise Another way of praying is praise. Do we encounter an analogous form of doubling in praise as in supplication? At first glance, supplication is a spontaneous form of speech. But looking closer the matter proved to be more complicated. Praise also seems spontaneous. “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.” (Mt 12:34) This, of course, does not tell us how the mouth can speak in such a way that it expresses praise. “Praise the LORD, my soul!” (Ps 103:1) “I will always praise the LORD!” (Ps 34: 1) “Praise the Lord, the mighty King!” It seems that in each case the praise takes a little detour, a run-up. As if the person uttering the praise or even the praise itself had to be awakened. And as if, on the other hand, this calling up (or waking up) is itself already a praise. In short, the praise, in order to be praised once, has to be praised twice. In order to begin, it must have already begun. In the above-mentioned formulations of praise something sounds like a beginning, a preliminary run, and this preliminary run consists in calling the praise. (“Praise the LORD, my soul!”) Praise before praise. “Praise of praise,” as Günter Bader says (2009, 430). “Praise of praise”. Maybe this genitive cannot be broken down into genitivus subjectivus and genitivus objectivus. What is certain is that the praise doubles, and it doubles to be just one, precisely a praise. The genitivus objectivus means that the praise would praise itself. That is absurd. And yet, that hints at something true: the joy of praise. The joy of praising and the joy in praising. The genitivus subjectivus

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means that the praise descends from praising, it goes back to something. What is this something? Again, praise – already praise. Thus, praise does not simply begin in the heart, nor does it simply begin in the act of praising, but it begins as the praise splits into a twofold praise. We push, so to speak, the beginning of the praise away from ourselves into a past that does not come from us. And praising means to fill this distance by something – the praise – that never comes to an end. Again, it is the fullness of words, and not the lack of words, which do not fill this distance. All speeches come from a lack, a lack which language is. But this lack is not lack of words. There are indeed enough words. It is not our language that is insufficient. It is fully sufficient, but this sufficiency is what makes language insufficient. We speak because we do not possess what we have to say. From this “not” comes the fullness of words, and from this “not” it is given to us the possibility to fill this “not” – and at the same time never to fill it. This is how praise works. 3. Lamentation I tried to clarify two distinct ways of praying: supplication and praise. They both have a peculiar structure: the saying undergoes a splitting. Instead of a one-track saying, there is a two-track saying; instead of a straightforward and circumstantial saying, there is a self-complicating, doubling saying. There is a third way of praying: lamenting. Also in lamentation, we turn to God, and also this lamentation is our prayer – as much as the praise and the supplication. Is it also a complicating, doubling form of speech? In order to answer this question, I need to contrast praise and lamentation. Praise and lamentation are not on the same level. Praise comes always first. Not only because God has always earned praise before lamentation, but also (actually it is the same thing) because praise as speech act comes first in relation to lamentation. Thus, we are not faced with the choice of praising God or complaining to Him. One does not start from neutral ground: complaining to God means turning a praise into a lament. Lamentation is therefore a secondary form of speech compared to the praise. The praise is unsurpassable and undeniably precise, there is here no difference between the words and what words ‘should’ say; the same cannot be said about lament. The happiness of praise, which is also happiness of language, is unknown to lamentation. Or, more precisely: lament knows such happiness only as this happiness’s absence. If praise is speech par excellence (even if its words are clumsy, the fact that they are words of praise makes them right, it carries them up so that they can arrive to the addressee), then the exact opposite is true about lament. Lament can never have the certainty of having said what it had to be said; lament never experiences the happiness of being certain that its words have reached their addressee. Thus, one can say about lamentation – and lamentation itself knows it best (indeed, lament itself is the only one that knows it): uttering a lament means at the same time missing what it wants to say. Unsurprisingly, a lament speaks “inaccurately”. “In the lamentation nothing expresses itself and everything suggests itself[,]” writes Scholem (2000, 128) and continues: “It is the only possible (and in a

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special way realized) unstable language” (my translation).9 Lamentation never finds its words. Why not? Because it is not praise, it can no longer be praise, it must no longer be praise. Lament must always ask itself: isn’t the pain much greater than its linguistic expression? Is the pain not unspeakable? Not only unbearable, but – or rather therefore! – also unspeakable, and again unspeakable and therefore unbearable? There is pain, mourning, and there is the utterance of this pain, the lamenting. The two belong together, but they do not come together. They belong together because a being without words (without language) could not feel such pain, such sorrow. But they do not come together, because the very being that has words, and also words for lament, has no words for lament. Hence the crying, the screaming, the whimpering, the futile wringing of the raised hands... as ersatz of the insufficiency of words. Thus, a secondary pain is added to the primary pain10: the pain for the fact that no word succeeds, that words fail, that their saying fails. Irredeemably insufficient. What this means cannot be understood from an abstract, neutral ground of language. It can only be understood as the transition from linguistic abundance and excellence to linguistic distress and madness. The lament knows: If it were an accomplished lament, this would no longer be a lament – or perhaps not yet. That is why pain increases in lament. Conveyed by words, the pain realizes to be even greater, because it is unspeakable. The word of lamentation does not arrive; according to its “essence” it cannot arrive. In all bitterness it wants to keep open the space that still more can be said and still more must be said. Therefore, the speech of lamentation is lamentation and dissatisfaction within the speech of lamentation, that is, lamentation once again. To lament means to have to keep lamenting. Thus, God is for the lamentation the One who does not understand it. Even in case of a lamentation to God, this lamentation does not arrive to God - and isn’t that the reason why lamentation goes to God? Thus, lamentation goes to God again and again, because God is God and lamentation is lamentation. To sum up: Supplication goes back behind itself (to the possibility of supplication); Praise goes down below itself11 (to the origin in praise); Lamentation goes beyond itself (to the constant lament). I have spoken of three basic forms of religious speech; they correspond to three basic existential situations: the experience of good (→ praise), evil (→ lamentation),

Original: “In der Klage spricht sich nichts aus und deutet sich alles an. Sie ist die einzig mögliche (und auf eine besondere Weise wirklich gemachte) labile Sprache.” The beginning of the text reads: “All language is infinite. But there is a language whose infinity is deeper and different from that of all others (apart from God’s) [...]. This language is lamentation” (128, my translation; original: “Alle Sprache ist unendlich. Es gibt aber eine Sprache, deren Unendlichkeit tiefer und anders ist als die aller andern (von der Gottes abgesehen) [. . .]. Diese Sprache ist die Klage”). Bader addresses this text in 2006, 245–251, and 2009, 364–366. 10 Even in their simple utterance, these words already punish themselves. One cannot separate between primary and secondary pain; one cannot even establish a once and for all valid order between them. For only in the - failing - word pain comes to itself. 11 One could also say: up above itself. 9

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and lack (→ supplication). When supplication, praise and lament are addressed to God, the everyday forms of speech acts of request, praise and lament are overstressed. They force the framework of everyday speech, where what we say reaches both the addressee of our speech and also what our speech ‘wants’ to say. In relation to God, however, we cannot expect that. As we said, in relation to God our speech goes further on. Thus, we cannot delude ourselves about the limitedness and, by implication, the certainty of our speech; our saying must always go on, for it is always stretched out to and held in a “would” that invites me and challenges me to keep speaking. (“What I would say.”) In each one of the three examples of prayer our saying undermines or overturns itself. Thus, supplication must also ask for itself; praise must rise from praise; and lamentation must cry on and on. This can be called the “doubling”. As seen, this doubling is a basic structure of human speech in general. However, the fact that it becomes particularly vivid in supplication, praise, and lamentation is due to the fact that God is the addressee: in this case, the common speech gets out of its track into an openness which always constitutes human speech. God is the instance that makes such openness namable, the instance that makes this openness of speech able to find a name: “God!”. “God, hear my supplication!”; “To God be praise and glory!”; “Why, why, God?”.

References Bader, G. (2006). Die Emergenz des Namens. Amnesie - Aphasie - Theologie. Mohr Siebeck (HUTh 51). Bader, G. (2009). Psalterspiel. Skizze einer Theologie des Psalters. Mohr Siebeck (HUTh 54). Bloch, E. (1961). Spuren. Suhrkamp. De Certeau, M. (2015). In L. Girard (Ed.), Trans. by M. B. Smith. The Mystic Fable, volume 2: The sixteenth and seventeenth century. University of Chicago Press. Heidegger, M. (2000). In F.-W. V. Herrmann (Ed.), Gesamtausgabe Vorträge und Aufsätze (1936–1953) (Vol. 7). Klostermann. Rosenzweig, F. (1979). Der Mensch und sein Werk. Gesammelte Werke I, Briefe und Tagebücher (1918–1929). Martinus Nijhoff. Scholem, G. (2000). Über Klage und Klagelied (1917/18). In K. Gründer et al. (Eds.), Tagebücher nebst Aufsätzen und Entwürfen bis 1923 (Vol. 2: 1917–1923, pp. 128–129). Jüdischer Verlag.

Part II

Interreligious and Interlinguistic Encounters

Interreligious Empathy and Linguistic Plurality Catherine Cornille

1 Introduction In the process of dialogue and understanding between religions, empathy plays an important, though elusive role. The term empathy is generally used to refer to the ability to resonate with the experiences of another. While understanding the religious other requires a good amount of factual knowledge, it also presupposes some ability to enter into the affective dimension of the religious life of the other and recognize the existential or experiential import or meaning of particular beliefs and practices. As Lesslie Newbegin put it: One has not really heard the message of one of the real religions that have moved millions of people over centuries if one has not been really moved by it, if one has not felt in one’s soul the power of it (Newbigin, 1994, 18).

Interreligious dialogue is understood by Reinhold Bernhart as a back and forth between witnessing and empathy, or between “standing-in-one’s-own-perspective and attempting to inhabit the perspective of the other” (Barnhart, 2005, 93). In spite of its important role in the process of understanding and dialogue between religions, interreligious empathy has been rarely theorized or analyzed. It is often associated with romantic hermeneutics and with subjective, unverifiable and uncontrollable capabilities. Gavin Flood, for example, judged it to be “deeply problematic” since it “does not take account of communication and active understanding. . . does not take into account the historicity of the understanding encounter, and . . . cannot deal with conflict, or the other’s being closed to empathic penetration” (Flood, 1999, 162). Though empathy may remain something of a “mysterious capacity” (Spranger, 1928, 377) or an “art” (Van der Leeuw, 1933, 398), it fulfills important C. Cornille (✉) Boston College, Chestnut Hill, MA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_7

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epistemological, ethical and didactic functions in the dialogue between religions, and it has been the subject of renewed interest in philosophy and ethics. On an epistemological level, empathy offers a more holistic understanding of the other. The early phenomenologist of religion, Gerardus van der Leeuw, for example, argued that in order to understand the other, we must “experience the appearance, and this, indeed, not involuntarily and semi-consciously, but intentionally and methodically.” (Van der Leeuw, 1933, 674). For the famous historian of religions, Ninian Smart, the study of another religion involves, “entering into the religious experiences and intentions of participants” in order “to bring out what religious acts mean to the actors” (Smart, 1996, 2). On an ethical level, empathy plays a role in avoiding conflict or violence, as well as in the process of reconciliation. Studies on the relationship between morality and empathy emphasize that empathy tends to curb aggression and stimulate mutual help and support (Meibom, 2014). The history of religions is filled with wounds that have left an emotional burden on the relationship between members of different religious traditions. The relationship between Christians and Jews in Europe, between Muslims and Hindus in India, between Buddhists and Hindus in Sri Lanka is tarnished by a history of humiliation, persecution and violence colored by religious prejudice and hatred. Even though contemporary believers may not themselves be guilty of the sins of past co-religionists, the very sense of empathy for the pain inflicted by one’s own tradition on the other may help in repairing relationships and restoring trust that this will not happen again. To be sure, empathy can also serve to punish the religious other or to manipulate their emotions to one’s own ends. As Frans De Waal points out, to “urinate on the Bible or the Koran rests on our ability to assume their viewpoint and realize what will hurt or harm them the most” (De Waal, 2009, 211). Nevertheless, empathy generally serves to dissolve hostile feelings and to redress injustice. Thirdly, empathy also plays an important constructive role in learning not only about, but also from the other. If interreligious dialogue is about more than mutual understanding, and also opens up the possibility of change and growth, resonance with the teachings and practices of the other tradition plays a constitutive role. One will only be inclined to learn from those teachings or practices which touch or move one spiritually, or which awaken new and meaningful religious emotions or experiences. Religious teachings or practices which leave one cold, or which evoke negative affective resonance will unlikely generate any further religious or theological interest. Since empathy plays such an important role in the dialogue between religions, it is important to reflect on the impact of linguistic diversity on interreligious empathy. As empathy is often thought to operate on an affective, rather than a conceptual level, it may be thought to rely more on emotional intelligence, rather than linguistic expertise. Psychological and philosophical studies of empathy have tended to focus on motor mimicry as the basis for empathic understanding of the other. Early theories of empathy approached it as a form of “inner imitation” (Lipps, 1903, 120).1 More recent simulation theories of empathy rely primarily on the notion of

1

He used the example of watching a person on a tight-rope, and going through the motions oneself.

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“mirror neurons” to explain our capacity to recognize and resonate with other’s feelings. It seems that “our recognition of basic emotions such as fear, disgust, and anger based on facial expression activates similar areas of the brain as experiencing these emotions ourselves” (Stuber, 2006, 117).2 As such, basic empathy seems to be less dependent on linguistic or other forms of mediation. Though certain facial expressions may mean different things across various cultures, there is a greater degree of uniformity and intelligibility of body language across cultural and religious traditions. In the case of interreligious empathy, certain experiences are indeed recognizable: the peaceful expression on the face of the Buddha, the ecstasy on the face of a whirling dervish, the agony on the face of Jesus on the cross. One may also, through a process of inner imitation, come close to imagining the religious feelings associated with ritual actions of prostration, or ablution. While such bodily expressions may also be considered as a language, the experience of empathy across religious traditions involves more than a recognition of and resonance with certain basic or generic human feelings. It requires a deeper understanding of the place, the tone and the meaning of those feelings within the larger whole of that tradition. In The Im-Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue, I argued that sympathy, experience and imagination constitute three important conditions for interreligious empathy (Cornille, 2008, 137–176). I will here reflect on the impact of linguistic diversity on each of these conditions.

2 Interreligious Empathy Although the term empathy has become part of common language, it is of relatively recent usage, and it may be used in various ways when referring to the attempt to understand the experiential or affective dimension of the teachings and practices of another religion. The term empathy was originally coined in the late nineteenth century to describe the process of aesthetic enjoyment, and later popularized by Theodore Lipps to apply to the understanding of mental states and experiences of others (Lipps, 1903). Of course, the reality of empathy is part of human nature, and a topic of reflection prior to the use of the term. For example, David Hume already mused that: Nature has preserved a great resemblance among all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a parallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the mind, as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape or size, their structure and composition are in general the same . . . and this resemblance must very much contribute to make us enter into the sentiments of others (Hume, 1739, 138).

2

This research was originally conducted by Italian neuroscientists Rizzolatti, Lallese Fogassi, Craighero, and Fadiga. See Rizzolatti et al. (2002).

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Goethe cherishes the possibilities of empathy when he hopes: “To find myself into the condition of others, to sense the specific mode of any human existence and to partake of it with pleasure” (Goethe, 1959, 168). The experience of empathy seems not to be limited to human animals, as suggested by Frans De Waal’s study of chimpanzee communities (De Waal, 2009). But the interest in empathy as an epistemological tool is relatively new. While the notion of empathy is often used as a synonym for sympathy, Max Scheler already drew a clear distinction between sympathy as “fellow-feeling” and empathy as “all such attitudes as merely contribute to our comprehending, understanding, and in general, reproducing (emotionally) the experiences of others, including their states of feeling” (Scheler, 1954, 8). Empathy is a cognitive faculty. It involves gaining information about the experiential or emotional states of others. As the study of empathy has evolved, scholars have come to make various qualifications or distinctions in the experience of empathy: between cognitive and affective empathy (Kauppinen, 2014, 99),3 basic and reenactive empathy (Stuber, 2006, 21),4 passive and active empathy (Garrett & Graham, 2014, 123).5 In the context of the encounter between individuals from different religions, empathy refers in general to the attempt to grasp the experiential dimension of the teachings and practice of the other religion. On the affective level, it involves entering into the religious life of the other and allowing oneself to be moved by it. On a more cognitive level, it includes a deep understanding of the motives and desires underlying particular beliefs and practices and of their effect on the daily life and attitudes of the believer. The focus or object of interreligious empathy may vary from identification with the experiences of particular individuals to more general resonance with the teachings and practices of a tradition. While the first type of empathy may be classified as “other-centered” the second type might “self-centered” (Hoffman, 2014, 74). Within any particular religion, the affective religious life of believers will differ significantly depending on past experiences and insights, and on current needs, desires and dispositions. While ascribing to the same beliefs and practices, individuals may be differently moved or affected by various teachings and practices, and may also relate to their respective traditions with varying levels of intensity. The experience of a monk may thus be very different from the experience of a lay person, and any experience will be colored by gender, race, economic status, cultural background, age, etc. Interreligious empathy which focuses on a particular individual will thus seek to enter into the world of the other and take hold of the concrete motivations that He states that cognitive empathy involves “the capacity or process of knowing what the other wants, believes, or feels as a result of placing oneself in her situation” and affective empathy “feeling the way the other feels, or having a congruent emotion, because the other feels that way.” 4 Basic empathy “allows us to recognize, for example, that another person is angry, or that he intends to grasp a cup” whereas reenactive empathy involves “using our cognitive and deliberative capacities in order to reenact or imitate in our own mind the thought processes of the other person.” 5 In passive empathy taking the perspective of the other may be spontaneous and automatic, whereas in active empathy it may be more “deliberate, reflective, and effortful.” 3

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inform particular religious behaviors. It is clear that religions answer to certain universal desires for wholeness, peace and harmony, and freedom from suffering and death. They also address particular needs for health, success, justice, wisdom, etc. For example, different individual may have varying motivations for worshipping the bodhisattva Kannon, from a desire for a husband, healing, or safe childbirth, to protection from consequences of aborted pregnancies, or the hope to embody Kannon’s own spirit of compassion. Empathy with a particular individual thus requires not only a general understanding of the history and meaning of Kannon in Japanese Buddhism, but also understanding the particular circumstances and motivations informing the devotion of the individual at that time. This other-centered approach to empathy may also be found in Husserl’s philosophical approach: I put myself in the place of another subject, and by empathy I grasp what motivates him and how strongly it does so, with what power. And I learn to understand inwardly how he behaves, and how he would behave, under the influence of such and such motives, determining him with such and such force (Husserl, 1996, 287).

Besides focusing on the actual experiences and emotions of individuals in other traditions, interreligious empathy may also focus on the desired effect of certain teachings and practices. Following Nicholas Lash’s definition of religion as “schools whose pedagogy has, albeit differently in each case, the common twofold purpose of weaning us from our idolatry and purifying our desire” (Lash, 1996, x) religions not only respond to certain motivations and desires, but also seek to shape, temper and redirect them according to particular ideals. Here, interreligious empathy might focus more on the ideal affective impact of certain teachings and practices. While empathy across religious traditions by definition implies a certain degree of discord or reservation about the teachings and ideals of the other, it does not necessarily presuppose agreement: The work of empathy is precisely trying to imagine a view of the world that one does not share, and in fact may find it quite difficult to share. Notably, while empathy involves perceiving the other’s complex point of view, it does not require accepting the other’s views (Halpern, 2004, 581).

A third understanding of interreligious empathy might focus less on the actual or ideal experiences of the other than on one’s own affective response to the teachings or practices of another religion. In attempting to penetrate into the religious world of the other, one may be voluntarily or involuntarily moved by particular teachings or practices. This self-focused approach to empathy may or may not correspond with the actual experience of believers. And such experiences may be positive, negative, or any shade in between. But it may open one’s life to new layers of religious experience, and, if positive, to an expansion of one’s religious universe.

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3 Sympathy The categories of empathy and sympathy are closely related and often confused. Whereas empathy operates on a cognitive level, involving knowledge of the affective states of the other, sympathy operates on a moral or attitudinal level. In current literature, sympathy is generally regarded as empathy with the added desire to contribute to the welfare of others (Meibom, 2014, 3). Early phenomenologists of religion such as Gerardus Vander Leeuw believed that true understanding of the other requires “the persistent and strenuous application of intense sympathy” and that empathy “can only follow after a spontaneously warm, self-denying devotion (Hingabe)” (Van der Leeuw, 1933, 475). And Joachim Wach similarly commented (with Nietzsche) that “grey cold eyes do not know the value of things” and that a proper understanding of the religious other requires “engagement of feeling, interest, metexis, and participation” (Wach, 1958, 12). Psychologists suggest that empathy is typically directed toward one’s kin (Hollan, 2014, 241), and that “empathy’s chief portal is identification” (De Waal, 2009, 213). Empathy thus requires sympathy, or a positive disposition toward the other. Sympathy here involves openness to recognizing the internal coherence and meaningfulness of the teachings and practices of another religion. This presents a challenge for many believers. As religious traditions often represent competing worldviews and mutually exclusive paths to salvation or liberation, other religions tend to be a priori rejected, and religious others regarded as a threat to one’s own religious convictions. Sympathy toward religious others thus requires some change of heart or shift in attitude. This is where language plays an important role. Antipathy toward religious others is often based on ignorance and lack of exposure. As religions are often likened to language-games with their own internal grammar, the inability to understand the religious language of the other fosters a sense of alienation and antagonism. Knowledge of the other, communication and exchange thus represent the means to break through the walls of separation and suspicion and to gradually cultivate greater sympathy. Learning the religious language of the other here involves gaining familiarity with the terms, the ideas and the internal grammar of the other religion. Greater understanding of the other religion tends to reveal similarities or points of connection and inspiration, which in turn may generate greater affection for the religious other. Since the sacred texts and teachings of religious traditions have been translated in many languages, one may also gain advanced knowledge of another tradition without expertise in the original languages of the other tradition. But such expertise certainly allows one to penetrate even more deeply into the selfunderstanding of the other. David Tracy powerfully points out that: all understanding is linguistic through and through. . . What we sense is that any neat separations of form and content no longer work for understanding, that is, interpreting, any written text or any oral discourse. There are no pure ideas free from the web of language. There are no pure messages. Whatever message comes, whatever subject matter is understood, comes by means of its form, whether the text is a short as a proverb or as long as an epic (Tracy, 1987, 43).

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Any sympathy for the religious other will thus be mediated by language, by communication, and by a growing sense of familiarity with the beliefs and practices that animate the religious world of the other. This understanding of the religious other may in turn lead to more fundamental changes in theological or religious predisposition toward other religions in general. The default religious attitude toward religious diversity tends to move between exclusivism and inclusivism, not only in Christianity but in most religious tradition. Greater familiarity with other religions however is likely to break down traditional defenses and to generate greater theological or religious openness and sympathy toward different systems of belief and practice. Familiarity with the teachings and practices of other religions may also at times to partial and even complete identification with other religions. The phenomenon of religious hybridity or multiple religious belonging, which has become more common in the recent past, points to the possibility of profound sympathy with other religious traditions.6 To be sure, knowledge of another religion and linguistic competency does not necessarily generate respect and sympathy. After studying a particular religion, one may still consider some of its teachings or practices deficient or misguided. This negative assessment of the other religion moreover does not always imply a lack of empathy. One may deeply resonate with certain religious or other dispositions and experiences without considering them spiritually enriching. One may also empathize with certain religious states or experiences in another religion without regarding them as the highest religious state, or even as conducive to genuine spiritual or religious growth. While empathy requires some degree of sympathy, fueled by linguistic competence and understanding, such sympathy need not require fully endorsing the beliefs or practices of the other.

4 Experience Like all forms of empathy, interreligious empathy draws to a large extent from the reservoir of personal experiences. In empathizing with the experience of religious fasting, of devotional prayer, pilgrimage, silent meditation, chanting, or religious love and longing, one generally taps into past experiences in one’s own tradition. Using Husserl’s terminology, empathy involves a process of “analogical apperception” in which one’s own experiences become the touchstone and the “originary norm” for understanding the experiences of others (Husserl, 1960, 151). Wilhelm Dilthey also believed that empathy was only possible “if the context which exists in 6

I will not here raise the question of the possibility of multiple religious belonging or religious hybridity which I have discussed at length in other publications. While I question the logical or theological possibility and the religious or spiritual desirability of such phenomenon, the very fact that individuals experience and claim such hybridity illustrates its reality and the possibility of profound interreligious empathy.

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one’s own experience and has been encountered in innumerable cases is always – and with all the potentialities contained in it – present and ready” (Dilthey, 1976, 226). This means that the richer and the more diverse one’s own religious life, the greater the chance of resonating with various types of experiences in the other. The possibility of interreligious empathy is predicated on the idea of a common storehouse of religious experiences, or on the existence of certain types of religious experience that manifest in various forms in different religious traditions. This commonality of religious experiences may be understood in terms of the fact that religions generally respond to certain basic human questions and desires for peace, harmony, love, hope, consolation, freedom, salvation, etc. In addition, religious teachings and practices in various religions may be seen to evoke recurring types of experiences of faith, surrender, ecstasy, detachment, possession, mystical absorption, etc. Insofar as certain types of religious experience are closely connected to bodily experiences and movements such as fasting, pilgrimage, prostration, begging, etc., empathic resonance with religious others may draw from these common physical experiences. There has been a long discussion in the philosophy of religion on the status of religious feelings and emotions and on whether they constitute a distinct or unique type of experience, or rather a particularly intense form of common experiences. Schleiermacher identified the quintessential religious feeling as that of absolute dependency (Schleiermacher, 1928, par. 4), while Rudolph Otto described it as the mysterious presence of the wholly other that inspires “awe and devotion” (Otto, 1958, 6). William James, on the other hand, believed that religious feelings were merely general human emotions directed to the divine (James, 1902. 64). This would determine whether religious empathy is only possible between believers of different religious traditions, or whether non-believers might also be able to resonate with religious experiences, even if they are not immediately part of one’s lived experience. Though one’s past experiences form an important touchstone for empathy across religions, most theories of empathy do not exclude the possibility of empathy with new or hitherto unfamiliar experiences. In her philosophical study of empathy, Edith Stein points to this expansion of one’s experiential horizon when she states: By empathy with other persons, hitherto undisclosed values within myself can come to life, and values that lie outside the range of my levels can further my understanding of values (Stein, 1964, 116).

For her, it is not so much past personal experience, but one’s “structure” or mental dispositions and inclinations that form the grounds for the possibility of empathy (Stein, 1964, 114). Max Scheler also believes in the possibility of empathy with new experiences when he states that “we can have a lively and immediate participation in joy or sorrow, can share with others their appreciation of value, and can even enter into another commiseration for a third party, without ever having sampled that particular quality or experience before. A person who has never felt mortal danger can still understand and envisage it, just as he can also share in it” (Scheler, 1954, 42). He refers in particular to the experience of despair of Jesus in Gethsemane,

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noting that it “can be understood and shared regardless of our historical, racial, and even human limitations. And for every candid heart which steeps itself in that desolation it operates, not as a reminder or revival of personal sufferings, great or small, but as the revelation of a new and greater suffering hitherto undreamed of.” Scheler argues that humans have an “innate capacity” for comprehending the feelings and experiences of others, and that the more internal or “vital” the experience, the greater the capacity for empathy. Heidi Maibom also agrees that “there is a fair amount of evidence that we can, in fact, empathize with and understand others going through experiences that we have not gone through, and who are significantly different from ours” (Meibom, 2014, 12). In the process of identifying with new experiences, or new shades of experience, language plays an important role. There has been an ongoing debate on the role of language and concepts in shaping religious experiences, and in particular mystical experiences. Whereas essentialists would argue that there are religious experiences that are pure, or unmediated by language and that are recurrent in various religious traditions, constructivists would argue that all experience, including mystical experiences, are mediated by language, and that the religious experiences in different religions are fundamentally different. The implications for our discussion on interreligious empathy and linguistic diversity are evident. If there are indeed certain experiences that are unmediated by language, then interreligious empathy may be possible purely on the basis of one’s own past experience and without detour through the texts, teachings and practices of the other religion. In the other case, however, where all mystical and other experiences are thought to be radically unique or particular to certain religious and linguistic contexts, experiences generated in one tradition would not serve as a sufficient ground to empathize with experiences in another religious tradition. While it is impossible to definitively settle this question, it is remarkable that monks and mystics of different religious traditions do often seem to recognize one another’s experiences or states of realization, and that they are able to immerse themselves in the religious life and practice of the other without much theoretical or theological mediation. At the very least, this type of wordless or heart-to-heart dialogue might offer grounds for hope that other types of interreligious empathy are not entirely delusional. Benedictine monk Pierre de Béthune, who has been deeply engaged in intermonastic dialogue for over three decades, argues that “this type of dialogue must remain at the horizon of all other forms of dialogue, so as to give to all encounter between believers of different religions a depth of meaning which ensures its properly religious quality” (de Béthune, 2007, 185). While the experience of empathy across mystical traditions may offer some reassurance about the possibility of some degree of interreligious empathy, most religious experiences are undeniably mediated by forms and language, and the ability to resonate with the experiences of others thus requires immersion in the particular texts, teachings and practices of the other religion. The experience of love of Jesus Christ and love of Krishna may in both cases involve an experience of deep devotion to a personal divine figure, and thus allow for some degree of empathy. But in each case, the experience itself is deeply colored by the concrete object of devotion, and by the texts and teachings that have shaped the experience of devotion.

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As such, a Christian seeking to understand and resonate with the experience of devotion to Krishna will have to become familiar with the mythology, and with the way in which Krishna may be interpreted and love of Krishna generated in a particular school or sect of the Vaishnava tradition. Just as devotion to Christ is differently experienced and expressed in the Christian tradition, there is a radical diversity of ways of relating to Krishna in the Vaishnava tradition, from highly emotional and ecstatic to more cerebral. This internal diversity of course applies to every religion, and empathy with the other can only be mediated by language and communication. Gadamer also focused on the importance of language in all empathic understanding when he states that “it belongs to every true conversation that each person opens himself to the other, truly accepts his point of view as valid and transposes himself into the other to such extent that he understands not the particular individual but what he says” (Gadamer, 1995, 385). A model that may be used to support the possibility of interreligious empathy is Perry Schmidt-Leukel’s fractal theory of religious diversity which proposes that “the differences that can be observed at the interreligious level are, to some extent, reflected at the intrareligious level in the internal differences discerned within the major religious traditions, and that they can be broken down at the intrasubjective level into different religious patterns and structures of the individual mind” (Schmidt-Leukel, 2017, 233). This might both provide a foundation for the possibility of interreligious empathy while also explaining why it is at times easier to empathize with religious experiences in other traditions than with other types of experiences within one’s own religion.

5 Imagination Insofar as empathy involves placing oneself in a different or new context and life, it also requires an active imagination. While one’s own religious experiences may form a touchstone for empathizing across religious traditions, they may also lead to projection or to unduly presuming similarities. The imagination thus serves to rise one beyond one’s own past experiences and conceive of a religious world hitherto unfamiliar. For Ninian Smart, all interreligious understanding involves “imaginary participation” in the religious life of the other (Smart, 1986, 198). Empathy requires recognition of the distinctiveness and the irreducibility of the experience of the religious other. With his category of “analogical imagination,” David Tracy suggests that all imagination is a matter of recognizing similarity in difference or difference in similarity: To recognize possibility is to sense some similarity to what we have already experienced or understood. But similarity here must be described as similarity-in-difference, that is, analogy. And imagination trained to that kind of encounter is an analogical imagination (Tracy, 1990, 20).

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The imagination remains one of the most elusive and unthematized faculties in the realm of interreligious dialogue and hermeneutics. Imagination of course plays a role in all religious life. It is the imagination which lifts one beyond the given material world into the realm of divine realities and spiritual possibility, and which allows one to envision an ideal world and state of being. The religious imagination focuses on things impossible, unbelievable, but considered more real than anything given in the material and finite world (Godelier, 2015). Richard Kearney also points to the constitutive role of the imagination in all speculative thought, as “human existence is always hovering about those frontiers that mark the passage between same and other, real and imaginary, known and unknown. Indelibly marked by finitude, the human self has never ceased to ponder its boundaries or to imagine what lies beyond” (Kearney, 2002, 230). Inter-religious imagination may build in various ways on the religious imagination cultivated within one’s own tradition. Since different religions often propose variations on similar themes, it may be possible to enter into the worldview of the other by way of contrast with one’s own beliefs. Religious beliefs and images often conjure up their opposite, belief in one God the possibility of polytheism, belief in a male divinity the possibility of feminine images of the divine, and the idea of benevolent spirits and gods the possibility of malevolent spirits or demons. In the Hebrew Bible, there are warnings about evil imagination, or imagination run wild through worshiping idols (Deut 31:21, 1 Chr 28:9, 29:18). Thus, the religious imagination is by nature more expansive than the set and normative religious images of any one religious tradition. Since the imagination is in principle unbounded or undetermined, interreligious imagination requires guidance or support. It first of all requires considerable knowledge of the other, of the meaning and place of certain religious beliefs and practices within the whole of the tradition, and – when empathy focuses on individual experiences – of the historical and cultural realities, and the circumstances that shape the religious desires and responses of a person. This knowledge may guide the imagination into the realm of the other, and open up the possibility of some resonance with the meaning and impact of teachings and practices one does not share. Thus, a person who does not believe that the Ganges is sacred might still be able to imagine to some extent what the experience would be of immersing oneself in the river believing in its spiritually purifying power. The more thorough and detailed one’s knowledge of the other, the lesser the risk of projection. Understanding of the meaning and function of the heavenly Buddha Amida, for example, requires some familiarity with Pure Land Buddhist texts, history and the various conceptions of the role of this heavenly Buddha in the process of liberation. Though himself weary of the use of the term empathy, Clifford Geertz describes the process by which one may get some hold of the state of mind of individuals whose way of being is shaped by entirely different values and ideals. Focusing on the Balinese notion of alus which has no direct equivalent in the English language but which can mean “pure refined, polished, exquisite ethereal subtle, civilized, smooth” and which involves a flattening out “of the hills and valleys of one’s emotions into an even, level plain,” he describes how, through a combination

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of linguistic competency and lived example, one may come “in the face of our own notions of the intrinsic honesty, of deep feeling and the moral importance of personal sincerity, to take the possibility of such a conception of the selfhood seriously and appreciate, however inaccessible it is to you, its own sort of force” (Geertz, 1999, 55). Insofar as the imagination is often triggered and steered by the senses, participation in the religious life of the other plays an important role in awakening the imagination. Empathy “needs a face,” as Frans De Waal puts it, and the greater the proximity to the object of empathy, the greater the chance of proper resonance (De Waal, 2009, 83, 221). Smells, sounds, and visual images also serve to draw one into the particular religious world of the other. While one may know a good amount about Tibetan Buddhist teachings and practices, actual hearing chants and the sounds of long horns opens up a new world of religious experience. David Tracy also remarks that since the Buddhist idea of no-self is so “deeply disorienting” for a Christian, it is only through actual practice such as Zazen that one may gain an occasional glimpse of its meaning (Tracy, 1987, 75). The total sense experience that is part of ritual life may thus correct and complicate the facile sense of resonance one may have from armchair study of the other. While language plays an important role in grasping the place and meaning of rituals within the larger religious whole, there are also rituals that require a type of empathy and understanding less mediated by language. John Maraldo thus calls for an alternative type of understanding that may be at work “in practices done for their own sake or for the sake of a goal inseparable from their very performance” (Maraldo, 2010, 113). The only way to expand one’s religious imagination and experiential understanding is thus through practice itself: In the alternative notion of understanding, this experiencing occurs in the process of practicing. In the context of interreligious hermeneutics, it can occur in the course of practicing what members of the other religion practice, as distinct from coming to believe what others believe. As is the case with the learning of a language, the alternative sense of understanding aims at competence, not at adherence to a set of beliefs (Maraldo, 2010, 114–115). Empathy and understanding here arise from the internalization and command of certain ritual actions or bodily practices (which he likens to the command of a new language). Though a deep understanding of such practices and experiences may require bodily participation rather than theological elaboration, some degree of explanation may still be necessary in order to understand the dynamics of this type of nonlinguistic practice. But it cannot be denied that individuals may gain deep resonance with certain religious images or practices through direct participation.

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6 Conclusion Of all the levels and degrees of understanding the religious other, empathy may be thought to require the least linguistic mediation. It may not seem difficult to resonate with the expression of serenity on the image of the Buddha, or with the agony on the face of a pilgrim to Lourdes hoping for miraculous healing. There are indeed certain common or universal religious desires or needs that express themselves in similar physiological ways, regardless of religious contents. One may thus recognize and resonate with experiences of hope, peace, ecstasy, possession, surrender, love, fear, zeal, or compassion as they manifest themselves in different religious traditions. Empathy across religions thus involves tapping into the deeper human and religious desires that motivate religious actions and attitudes. Certain ritual gestures or actions moreover have similar meaning in various religions. The ritual posture of prostration, for example, has a similar meaning of complete self-surrender, whether it involves a Catholic priest at the moment of ordination, a Muslim expressing surrender to God in prayer, or a Hindu pilgrim prostrating at various points when circumambulating a shrine or sacred mountain. And touching a person’s feet is readily recognized as an expression of respect, and holding hands in prayer or dance a sign of community or solidarity. To be sure, the meaning of an act is informed by the concrete context. But these external signs or gestures, the significance of which is informed and constrained by bodily possibilities and limitations, allow for basic interreligious empathy. Though some degree of basic empathy may be possible through body-language, without verbal mediation or knowledge of the specific contents of the experience of the other, the more refined and advanced forms of interreligious empathy require greater familiarity with the beliefs and practices that shape the experience of the other. Not only are experiences themselves always colored by their contents, but similar physical expressions may mean very different things depending on the context. As such, crying may be an expression of sorry, remorse, relief, joy, or mystical overflow. To properly empathize with the tears of another thus requires considerable historical and biographical knowledge. The experience of devotional love may inform the experience of a Christian and of a Hindu, but love of Christ will be different from love of Krishna, as the object of loving devotion shapes the experience. In addition to responding to universal religious desires and needs, religions also seek to shape and transform desires, each according to their own highest aims. It is thus only through familiarity with a tradition that one is able to empathize with its particular goals and with the relative importance of certain experiences within the whole. Each of the conditions for empathy involves some degree of religious literacy and ability to communicate with the other. Sympathy and knowledge of the religious other tend to go hand in hand. While sympathy for the other tends to feed genuine understanding, knowledge on the other hand often reinforces sympathy for the religious other. While personal experiences may go a long way to resonating with

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analogical experiences in another religion, language and communication serve to avoid blanket projection of one’s own experience onto the other, and allow for attunement to the particularities of the experience of the other. And language is above all necessary to steer the imagination into a symbolic and conceptual world where experiences may be different from anything available within one’s own religious universe. All this is not to say that linguistic diversity forms an insurmountable obstacle to interreligious empathy. Just as the study of another language often offers access to a new pallet of feelings and experiences, the study of another religion with all of its own linguistic particularity may open the door to new and enriching religious experiences. This optimism about the possibility of interreligious empathy is based on the belief that all religions ultimately answer some fundamental existential questions, tap into certain common religious fears and desires, and evoke experiences that are not necessarily unique to one religion or the other. And even those experiences that are unique may not be impenetrable to outsiders, provided they cultivate the proper cognitive and attitudinal dispositions. Though the differences of religious language and expression may present a challenge for interreligious empathy, they also offer the opportunity to expand the horizons of religious experience and enrich one’s personal religious life.

Bibliography Barnhart, R. (2005). Ende des Dialogs? Die Begegnung der Religionen und ihre theologische Reflexion. TVZ. Cornille, C. (2008). The Im-possibility of interreligious dialogue. Crossroads. de Béthune, P. (2007). L’Hospitalité sacrée entre les religions. Albin Michel. De Waal, F. (2009). The age of empathy. Nature’s lessons for a kinder society. Random House. Dilthey, W. (1976). In H. Rickman (Ed.), Selective writings. Cambridge University Press. Flood, G. (1999). Beyond phenomenology. Rethinking the study of religion. Cassell. Gadamer, H.-G. (1995). Truth and method. Continuum. Garrett, K. R., & Graham, G. (2014). At the empathic center of our moral lives. In H. Meibom (Ed.), Empathy and morality (pp. 122–137). Oxford University Press. Geertz, C. (1999). From the native’s point of view: On the nature of anthropological understanding. In R. McCutcheon (Ed.), The insider-outsider problem in the study of religion. Continuum. Godelier, M. (2015). L’imaginé, l’imaginaire et le symbolique. CNRS editions. Halpern, J. (2004). Rehumanizing the other: Empathy and reconciliation. Human Rights Quarterly, 26(3), 561–583. Hoffman, M. (2014). Empathy, justice and social change. In H. Meibom (Ed.), Empathy and morality (pp. 71–96). Oxford University Press. Hollan, D. (2014). Empathy and morality in ethnographic perspectives. In H. Meibom (Ed.), Empathy and morality (pp. 230–250). Oxford University Press. Hume, D. (1739). A treatise on human nature. John Noon. Husserl, E. (1960). Cartesian meditations: An introduction to phenomenology. Marinus Nijhoff. Husserl, E. (1996). Issues in Husserl’s ideas II (T. Nenon, & L. Embree, Eds.). Kluwer Academic. James, W. (1902). The varieties of religious experience. Longmans, Green & Co. Kauppinen, A. (2014). Empathy, emotion regulation, and moral judgment. In H. Meibom (Ed.), Empathy and morality (pp. 97–121). Oxford University Press.

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Kearney, R. (2002). Strangers, gods and monsters: Interpreting otherness. Routledge. Lash, N. (1996). The beginning and end of religion. Cambridge University Press. Lipps, T. (1903). Einfühlung, inner Nachahmung und Organemppindaungen. Archiv fur die Gesamte Psychologie, 2, 185–204. Maraldo, J. (2010). A call for an alternative notion of understanding. In C. Cornille & C. Conway (Eds.), Interreligious hermeneutics (p. 2010). Wipf and Stock. Meibom, H. (Ed.). (2014). Empathy and morality. Oxford University Press. Newbigin, L. (1994). A word in season: Perspectives on Christin world mission. Wm. Eerdmans. Otto, R. (1958). The idea of the holy. Oxford University Press. Rizzolatti, G., Fadiga, L., Fogassi, L., & Gallese, V. (2002). From mirror neurons to imitation: Facts and speculation. In A. Melzoff & W. Prinz (Eds.), The imitative mind (pp. 247–266). Cambridge University Press. Scheler, M. (1954). The nature of sympathy. Routledge & Kegan Paul. Schleiermacher, F. (1928). The Christian faith. T&T Clark. Schmidt-Leukel, P. (2017). Religious pluralism and interreligious theology. Orbis Books. Smart, N. (1986). Concept and empathy. Essays in the study of religion. Macmillan. Smart, N. (1996). Dimensions of the sacred. Harper Collins. Spranger, E. (1928). Types of men: The psychology and ethics of personality. Max Niemeyer Verlag. Stein, E. (1964). On the problem of empathy. Martinus Nijhoff. Stuber, K. (2006). Rediscovering empathy. Agency, folk psychology and the human sciences. Harvard University Press. Tracy, D. (1987). Plurality and ambiguity. Hermeneutics, religion, hope. Harper & Row. Tracy, D. (1990). Dialogue with the other. The inter-religious dialogue. Peeters. Van der Leeuw, G. (1933). Religion in essence and manifestation. Princeton University Press. von Goethe, J. W. (1959). Werke, Briefe und Gesprache. Dichtung und Wahrheit. Artemis. Wach, J. (1958). The comparative study of religions. Columbia University Press.

A Śākta Theory on Religions in a Linguistic Pluralism Pravina Rodrigues

At the outset, I would like to mention that even though I specialize in Hindu– Christian comparative theology, I propose a Śākta theory of religions in a linguistic pluralism for several reasons. First, Śākta ontology offers a framework for diversity that combines similarity and difference. Second, Śākta thealogies include an intricately layered perception of the self as an irreducible entity. Third, although there is much work on theologies of religions (TOR), interreligious dialogue (IRD), and comparative theology (CT) from a Christian viewpoint, to the best of my knowledge, there has been no previous work in the area of TOR from a Śākta perspective. In that sense, this paper is the first of its kind, proposing a theory of religions in a linguistic pluralism based on an ancient Goddess worshiping Śakta Bhakti tradition from a scholar-practitioner perspective. Most importantly, I am a baptized Roman Catholic woman from Mumbai, India, who has been initiated into a Śākta Bhakti tradition that has right-hand Dakṣiṇācāra Tantra at its roots. Thus, I understand and weave emic perspectives from Hindu-Christian traditions. According to a recent report published by the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, United Kingdom, scientists are now able to account for 369,000 species (416 families) of flowering plants (angiosperms) on the Earth (Govaerts et al., 2017, 7). This count does not include vascular plants such as Ferns and Horsetails, or Gymnosperms, plants with seeds unprotected by an ovary or fruit (Ibid). It also does not include Lycopods, plants with a type of lignified tissue to conduct water and other minerals, or Bryophytes, non-vascular plants known to have no roots and absorb water and nutrients from the air. Neither does it include Algae. For Gymnosperms like Conifers, cycads and allies, the count is currently at 1110 species (12 families) (Ibid). For Lycopods, like Club Mosses, Quillworts, it is 1300 species (3 families).

P. Rodrigues (✉) Starr King School for the Ministry, Oakland, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_8

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For Ferns and Horsetails, it is 10,500 species (21 families) (Ibid). Such varieties of species are found not just among plants. Our planet contains about 30 million insects; 15,210 mammals, reptiles and amphibians; 9225 birds; 21,000 fishes; about 4,80,000 plants; and 3 million other invertebrates and microorganisms. Many among them have not been identified. For example, out of 30 million insects only 7,51,000 have been identified. Figures for other organisms identified are (total number of species in brackets): mammals, reptiles, and amphibians 14,484 (15,210); birds 9040 (9225); fish 19,056 (21,000); plants 3,22,311 (4,80,000); and other invertebrates and microorganisms 2,76,594 (3,000,000), making a total of 1,392,485 (33,525,435) (Pullaiah et al., 2015, 179).

Camilo Mora et al., in their paper How Many Species Are There on Earth and in the Ocean? estimates about “8.7 million (±1.3 million SE) eukaryotic species globally, of which 2.2 million (±0.18 million SE) are marine” (Mora et al., 2011). One would think that 250 years of taxonomic classification would yield a 100% cataloging of all species. However, results suggest that “86% of existing species on Earth and 91% of species in the ocean still await description” (Ibid). These staggering numbers attest to the planet’s cosmological, topographical, environmental, and bio-diversity. From a Śākta ontological perspective, the universe is fundamentally plural; its structure entails heterogeneity, multiformity, and variegation. To understand this, I now turn to the Devī Mahātmyam, a central text used by all Śākta followers.

1 The Devī Mahātmyam The Devī Mahātmyam (henceforth DM) is a narrative text that tells the story of a king, a merchant, and a seer through the lens of the sage Mārkaṇḍeya as he relates it to his disciple Krauṣṭuki Bhāguri (Kālī, 2003, 14).1 The narrative text is interwoven in melopoeia and metonymy, linking poetic words to ritual action and profound philosophy. The texts’ musical-metrical mantric composition offers adepts the joy of chanting the seven hundred verses in liturgical settings and at festivals while also contemplating the secrets of the universe. In this mantric text, three secrets are revealed in response to existential questions that the king and the merchant ask after facing certain life-altering situations. The narrative begins as the sage Mārkaṇḍeya shares the account of the meeting between a king, a merchant, and a seer. The king is no ordinary king; valorous, is known as the “best of kings,” as depicted by his name, Suratha, which is Sanskrit for good, fine, or a noble chariot (DM 1.37). King Suratha ruled over the kingdom of his ancestors with righteousness. He labored hard to build the wealth of his kingdom and 1

The Devī Mahātmyam is also called the Durgā Saptashatī, Caṇḍī, and Caṇḍī Pāṭha. It is part of the larger corpus of the Mārkaṇḍeya Purāṇa, consisting of 13 chapters, three episodes, and mantras for liturgical purposes. The text is “part myth and part philosophy, part narrative and part hymn, is a spiritual classic that addresses the perennial questions of our existence” (Kali, 2003, xvii). In this text, the Mahādevī is not presented as dependent on male deities but is their inherent power.

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“looked after his subjects justly as if they were his own children” (1.5, 1.16). However, this mighty king is overpowered by inferior princes. He finds himself “robbed of his dominion” and “bereft of strength” as he loses the battle to external forces and his very own wicked ministers (DM 1.5, 1.9, 1.8). Dejected Suratha rides off into the forest on the “pretext of hunting” and finds a hermitage that belongs to the sage Medhās (1.9, 1.10). Medhās welcomes the king to his hermit enclosure (1.11). However, even the most tranquil forest hermitage with the chief sage in sight and his satsangh (fellowship of truth seekers) the presence of wild beasts living in peaceful harmony cannot grant the king any comfort (1.9).“Wandering here and there about the enclosure” the king grieves as he remembers his ancestral kingdom now at the hands of “perverse officials” (1.11, 1.13). He recalls his labor spent to build the wealth of his kingdom and the painful fact that the kingdom was now at the mercy of corrupt officials. Bound with worry, he thinks of the “habitual squandering” of his immoral officials and how it would “soon deplete” the powers of the kingdom (1.16). Suratha also laments his “prized elephant, valiant and of unceasing prowess,” not knowing “what comfort he’ll enjoy” (1.14). In this state of mental anguish, pacing up and down in the enclosure, he meets a merchant, Samādhi. Like the king, the merchant, Samādhi is “sorrowful” and “dejected” (1.18). He is from a wealthy family whose wife and children got “wicked through avarice and cast” him out (1.21). Upon meeting the king, the merchant shares his anguish. He shares how, despite the betrayal, his heart is “not inclined to rancor,” neither is it hardened towards those who “drove him away” because of “lust for wealth” (1.30, 1.31, 1.34). He is filled with “affection,” and his thoughts are “drawn in love” towards his betrayers (1.31, 1.32). Although the merchant is overwhelmed with despair, he cannot stop cherishing his wife and children (1. 28, 1.33). He is concerned that “whether good fortune or ill” has befallen his wife, children, and family” (1.23). He is anxious to know if his family is currently in a state of “wellbeing or misfortune” (1.23, 1.24). He constantly worries if his children’s behavior is “virtuous or vile?” (1.24,1.25). Both the king and the merchant share similar inner struggles, albeit due to different life circumstances and attachments. Together, they approach the chief sage, Medhā, for answers. After paying due respects to the reverent sage, the king admits that he and the merchant are suffering greatly and are “distressed” because of their attachment to things and persons (1.44). Even though they see imperfections in the things to which they cling, they remain possessive. The king shares how he is still attached to his “lost kingdom and all parts of the realm as if unaware that they no longer” belong to him (1.42, 1.44). He feels powerless over his thoughts and can see how this has caused him anguish and grief (1.41). He then shares the merchant’s plight and how his suffering is similar. Even though the merchant is “humiliated by his children and wife, deserted by his servants, and forsaken by his people. Still he feels exceeding affection for them” (1.43). Distressed, the king asks the sage, “How can this be?” How is it that those who “should know better” are so deluded (1.39–1.45). They receive a stunning answer: due to the power of the goddess, Mahāmāyā (1.53–1.55). Intrigued, the king asks about this goddess, Mahāmāyā. He wants to know everything about Her, “How did she originate, and in what ways does she act?” He asks

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about Her “glory,” Her “form,” and Her “origin” (1.60–1.61). In response to these questions, the sage articulates The Glory of the Great Goddess, the Devī Mahātmyam, that culminates in three secrets.

2 Rahasyam Trayam: The Three Secrets The three secrets (rahasyas) revealed in the DM are the mystery of “primordial matters” (prādhānikam), its “subsequent modifications” (vaikṛtikam), and the mystery of form (mūrti) (Coburn, 1991, 109). These secrets correspond to the questions the king and the merchant ask: What of Her actions? “What is Her intrinsic nature, what of Her birth?” (Saraswati, 2010, 134). The first mystery is the revelation that the Goddess is the primordial matter, the substratum from which the universe of form and phenomena originates. The second mystery reveals the Goddess’ modifications (vikṛti) from “formlessness to perceptible form” (Kālī, 2003). Finally, the third secret concerns the Goddess’ future earthly incarnations (avatāras). The first secret is titled the Prādhānikam Rahasyam (henceforth PR). “The word pradhana indicates the ‘principle,’ as opposed to the ‘subordinate’” (Pintchman, 1994, 63). This means that the Goddess is the origin, the foundational cause, the Supreme Being from whom the universe arises. However, the term indicates much more than the preeminent cause that structures the world. The term pradhāna is often used synonymously with the term prakṛitī (Pintchman, 1994, 63). Herein lies the key to understanding the first secret. The term prakṛitī has to do with materiality, substance, nature, and character (Pintchman, 1994, 3). The Great Goddess is described in Her avyākṛta, unmanifest state, as Mulaprakṛitī, the Primal Substance or primordial matter. She is the substance or the material of which the entire cosmos is made. Unlike Christian theology, in which creation comes out of nothing (creatian ex nihilo), in the DM, the material for creation is the Goddess’ very Being (creation ex materia). The first mystery talks about the Great Goddess as the Primal Substance while describing Her “inner life” and the actions that take place within Her Being in the unmanifest state (Coburn, 1991, 111). In this state, She is both form and formlessness, uncreated and creative (Rodrigues 2023, forthcoming). PR 4 says, “First and foremost is Mahālakṣmī, who holds the three forces of creation. She is the supreme sovereign. She is both defined by form and indefinably formless; having manifested in every way, she abides in everything” (Kali, 2003). As the formless uncreated, “She is ineffable transcendence, not an object that can be cognized. She is beyond materiality and substance, beyond mind and matter. She is inconceivable and unfathomable. She does not live nor is She life” (Rodrigues, 2023; DM 4.6). However, the process of creative emergence, as described in the PR, has both

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form and formlessness. Her form aspect consists of all the three guṇas, sāttva, rajas, and tāmasa within Her.2 This combined uncreated-creative state is described in accounts that might seem “puzzling to Western sensibilities;” however, they are not arbitrary (Coburn, 1991, 111). For example, verses 5–6 from the PR describe the Goddess Mahālakṣmī’s form in vivid imagery. She holds a citron [pomegranate], mace, shield, and drinking vessel. On her head, O king, she bears a serpent, linga, and yoni. Her complexion is the color of molten gold, and like molten gold, her ornaments shine. She filled the entire void with her radiant light (PR 4–6)

The semiotics of these icons is critical to understanding the process of creative emergence. She holds a pomegranate, which represents the unity of creation; the serpent represents “Time,” the phallic symbol (liṅgam) represents the masculine principle, and the vulva (yonī) symbolizes how the “supreme beyond Time and beyond sex limits itself by Time and took upon it the male and female principles for the purpose of creation” (Shankaranaraynan, 1968, 285). Even the accounts of childbearing and marriages between gods and goddesses in the PR should not be understood literally but as metaphors that describe in esoteric fashion the inner distinctions that take place within the Great Goddess Mahālakṣmī during the creative process. For example, Mahālakṣmī bore (babhāra) the four-armed Mahākālī through the tāmasic and the fourarmed Mahāsarasvatī (dadhāra) through the rajasic guṇa (DM 8–15). Each of these forms was instructed to produce twins, as did Mahālakṣmī. Mahākālī gave birth to the male Rudra and the female Sarasvatī, Mahāsarasvatī bore Viṣṇu and Gaurī, and Mahālakṣmī Herself produced Brahmā and Lakṣmī. Mahālakṣmī then married Sarasvatī with Brahmā, Rudra with Gaurī, and Viṣṇu with Lakṣmī (Rodrigues, 2023, forthcoming, Lexington Press).

The creative process described in these verses queer Sāṃkhyan cosmogony to express Śākta ontology. The nirguṇa (formless) apophatic state of the Goddess is combined with a saguṇa (form) cataphatic state in these verses. However, unlike Sāṃkhyan philosophy, in which Mūlaprakṛti, primal matter is unconscious and inert ( jada), in the DM, Mūlaprakṛti is conscious and dynamic. Sāṃkhyan philosophy is dualistic, consisting of two principles Puruṣa, pure consciousness, and Mūlaprakṛti, the unconscious and unintelligent principle consisting of the three guṇas, sāttva, rajas, and tāmasa. The DM, on the other hand, is nondualistic. It turns Sāṃkhya dualism on its head by presenting a “notion of a dynamic, three-stranded evolution of the universe” in which the three strands of reality sāttva, rajas, and tāmasa are anthropomorphized as the Goddesses Mahālakṣmī, Mahākālī, and Mahāsarasvatī. This combined uncreated-created, form-formless state is expressed through the symbol of a pomegranate. PR verse 5 says, “She holds a citron [pomegranate],

2

Reality is trigunic, which means it has three primary constituents, sāttva (goodness, brightness), rajas (passion or movement), and tāmasa (darkness or as described by Śākta theologian, Rita D. Sherma, “entropy”). “These three guṇas have a wide variety of interpretations. They are used to categorize all kinds of activities, phenomenon, persons, and even gods and goddesses (Rodrigues, 2023).

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mace, shield, and drinking vessel.” The pomegranate symbolizes the “unity of all creation” (Saraswati, 2010, 331). This unitive, aggregate, consubstantive state is described by the Sanskrit term samaṣṭi. This aggregate state is used as a backdrop to talk about the vyaṣṭi, individuated state, revealed in the remaining two secrets of the DM, to which I now turn. The second secret, the Vaikṛtikam Rahasyam (henceforth VR), consists of the subsequent modifications (vikṛiti), the transformation of the Goddess from Her unmanifest to Her manifest state. This secret “Describes how the Godhead [Goddess-head] beyond change subjected itself to change, how the mula prakrti (productive) became vikriti (produced); hence the name Vaikritika Rahasyam” (Shankaranaraynan, 1968, 286). Embedded in an elaborate liturgical iconography designed to guide adepts in worship, the VR describes the Goddess’ vikritis and links these individuated forms to the Goddess’ mentioned in the first 13 chapters of the DM (Coburn 114). The individuated forms of the Goddesses in the VR have the same appellations as described in the PR. They are Mahālakṣmī, Mahākālī, and Mahāsarasvatī. Thus, the VR makes three important connections. First, it makes the samaṣṭi-vyaṣṭi connection. That is, it connects the Goddess in Her aggregate samaṣṭi collective state in the PR to Her individuated vyaṣṭi form in the VR. As such, it describes and connects elaborately how adepts may worship the Goddess in either a samaṣṭi collective pūjā (worship) ritual or a vyaṣṭi form of pūjā. Second, in designating the unmanifest and manifest forms of the Goddesses as Mahālakṣmī, Mahākālī, and Mahāsarasvatī, the secrets reveal Her whole presence in both states as non-different in power and potentiality. Although, paradoxically, Her primordial aggregate state is non-different from Her individuated form, a specific characteristic, nature, and node is crystallized in Her individuated forms. Third, the VR shows how the Goddesses’ samaṣṭi and vyaṣṭi forms have been revealed throughout the various chapters of the DM and how these individual forms offer liberation to adepts. This leads us to the final secret. The final mystery is related to the Goddess’ seven incarnational forms in the Mūrtī Rahasyam (henceforth MR). Like all purāṇic literature in which gods and goddesses return as incarnations (avatāras) to destroy the wicked and reestablish dharma, the MR prophesies several future returns of the Goddess. She is promised to reincarnate as the dweller in the Vindhyas, Vindhyavāsinī (DM 11.42), Raktadantikā (DM 11.45), Śatāksī (DM 11.47), Śākambharī (DM 11.49); Durgā (DM 11.50), Bhīmādevī (DM 11.52), and Bhrāmarī (DM 11.54, Shankaranaraynan, 1968, 287; Coburn, 1991, 139). Thus, the mysteries reveal the Goddess’ origin, form, and glory (1.60–1.61). What does this have to do with the millions of insects, mammals, reptiles, and the various other species mentioned in the introduction? It has to do with the form of the Goddess, Her samaṣṭi-vyaṣṭi form.

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3 Samaṣṭi-Vyaṣṭi: Concurring Unity-Diversity The pomegranate in the hand of the Great Goddess Mahālakṣmī represents the samaṣṭi-vyaṣṭi mystery of the universe. The symbol of the pomegranate is a heuristic device to understand the ontology of the cosmos in the DM. While the whole pomegranate represents the samaṣṭi uncreated-creative, unitive, unmanifest state of the Goddess, its seeds represent the vyaṣṭi, created manifested differentiated form of the Goddess. In the mahāvākya, the greatest saying of the DM, the Devī tells Śumbha, “I alone exist here in the world; what second, other than I, is there? O wicked one, behold these my hierophanies [śāktis] entering (back) into me” (DM 10. 5; Coburn, 1996, 39). While this is a reference to the Goddess’ samaṣṭi form, which is Her supreme aggregate unitive state, both the PR and the VR reveal that the manifest universe of form and phenomena is the Goddess’ differentiated, mutated, vyaṣṭi form. Thus, She is both One and Many at the same time. Her collective form is One (ekam), non-different, the preexistence that gives birth to all existence. It “indicates the single, solitary, numerical oneness of the Divine Being” (Rodrigues 2023, forthcoming). As One, She exists before nothingness, before the earth and the heavens, before death and immortality (Ibid). She is selfsustaining and has no second. Indeed, She cannot be fathomed. The Devīarthavaśīrṣa (DA) expresses Her fathomless and inexhaustible nature. 23. Whose intrinsic nature Brahmā and other divinities cannot know, and therefore She is called Unknowable; whose end cannot be found, and therefore She is called Infinite; whose definition cannot be defined, and therefore She is called Undefinable; whose birth cannot be understood and therefore She is called Unborn whose presence is everywhere and therefore She is called ONE; who alone is the active principle in the form of the universe, and therefore She is called the Many. Therefore she is called Unknowable, Infinite, Undefinable, Unborn, One, and Many (Saraswati, 2010, 104).

In Her differentiated form, She is Many (Rodrigues 2023, forthcoming). As Many, the Goddess is not just the creatrix, an abstract cosmic principle that gives birth to the universe of materiality, She is matter itself. Here “creation” should not be understood in the Christian dualistic sense. The material world is not devoid of the Divine, but is, in fact, non-different from the Goddess. Her manifest state, as per the secrets, “is the universe of form and multiplicity (nāmarūpa), part of empirical reality and can be inferred through logic and reason. She is finitude that can be categorized, conceived, verified, observed, and quantified. She is static, reliable, and determinable” (Ibid). Thus, as One, She is the “source and destination of all that exists, the ultimate unconditional ground of existence that holds the universe of forms and multiplicity (DM 8.15, 8.33, 10.6). As Many, She is the universe of form, containing all that is visible to the physical eye and beyond” (DM 1.64; 1.78, Rodrigues, 2023 forthcoming). Thus in Her samaṣṭi form, She is infinitude, and in Her vyaṣṭi form, She is the finite, the millions of insects, mammals, reptiles, and other species.

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The Mahadevi/Shakti is the creative and sustaining, as well as the dissolutive or re-absorptive power underlying the manifest cosmos. She is the matrix of the universe and, as mula-prakriti, its foundational material substance. Hence, She fully permeates the world. Indeed, Shakti does not employ a specific power or force to create the world— ultimately, She is the world, and all its diverse forms are aspects of Her being (Sherma, 1998, 106–107).

There is yet another state between the One and the Many, which is the intermediary state of void or None (śūnyatā). This is a state of potentiality through which phenomenal reality comes into existence. Śākta theologian and practitioner Rita D. Sherma describes how the Indian invention of the zero in mathematical elaboration draws from theological and metaphysical inquiry. She contends that what the Buddhists describe as emptiness (śūnyatā) should, be described as zeroness. Using a number line with positive numbers such as 1, 2, and 3 on the right of the origin number 0 and negative numbers -1, -2, and -3 on the left of the number 0, she shows how 0 represents the potentiality to transform to any side of the number line. Thus, 0 can transform to +1, +2, or -3, so on and so forth. Sherma argues that what is being interpreted as void is, in fact, the state of latent potentiality pregnant with the capacity to change into a differentiated manifested state. This state is in constant flux, is impermanent, interdependent, and dynamic. In this form, “She is the ontological absence that precedes all form and phenomena, indeterminable and elusive, the flux that conditions itself through cause and effect. She is variable, inconstant, and mutable. She is free-wheeling and unpredictable, sometimes appearing as white, sometimes yellow, blue, and red (McDermott, 2001, 39)” (Rodrigues, 2023). Thus far, the Goddess’ primary modes of Being based on the DM have been articulated as One, None, and Many; however, this is an oversimplified version. The Goddess has millions, billions, and zillion forms. Indeed, from a Śākta perspective, pluralism is endless and infinite. No wonder one of the titles of the Goddess is Ananta Rupiṇī (Infinite Form). She dynamically morphs from form to form. She mutates into cosmological, topographical, environmental, bio-diversity, and all kinds of manifestations. Recently, a new paradigm has been proposed to understand religious diversity. It is called a “fractal interpretation” of religious diversity (Race & Knitter, 2019). In A Fractal Interpretation of Religious Diversity, religious studies and intercultural theology scholar Perry Schmidt-Leuekel applies Benoît Mandelbrot’s fractal theory to argue for diversity among the religions. As per Benoît Mandelbrot (1924–2010), a mathematician and polymath who developed fractal theory, “fractals” are endless “patterns, structures, or forms” that are observed to have degrees of self-similarity across various scales (Schmidt-Leukel's, 2019). These complex visual patterns display either a “component of the pattern,” an approximate, or an exact structural similarity to the whole (Schmidt-Leukel's, 2019, 4). Thus, for example, a self-duplicating configuration is manifested in “a fern leaf” as it is “composed of smaller leaves showing the same pattern as the larger leaf. Similarly, the pattern of the whole cauliflower is replicated in the structure of its florets. And for various trees, it is true that the structure of the whole is mirrored in its branches and side branches” (4). Thus, what appears to be chaotic at the surface level is grounded in fractal

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patterns of endless replication. Mandelbrot observed infinite recursive patterns in natural phenomena ranging from “ice crystals, rock formations, or coastlines” to “fern leaves, cauliflower, or trees” (4). Using Mandelbrot’s theory of fractals, Schmidt-Leuekel argues that the world religions display a “micro-macro-cosmos scheme” in which larger “macrocosmic structures replicate on the microcosmic level” (5). The nucleus of the theory is that the diversity that we observe among the religions globally is mirrored in the diversity that we find within each of the major religious traditions. And that we can also discern some patterns of this diversity—or elements thereof—within the religious orientation of individual persons. In other words, religious diversity is neither chaotic nor entirely random (Schmidt-Leukel’s, 2019, 3).

Schmidt-Leuekel notes how his fractal theory of religious diversity points to a middle ground between those who argue that religions are incommensurable on the one hand and those who contend that religions “overlap” or “intersect” on the other hand (8). He argues for three scales of religious diversity replication in which patterns and distinguishing features that demarcate pluralism reappear at the first or second levels mentioned below: 1) the level of interreligious diversity, that is, religious diversity at the global scale; 2) the level of intrareligious diversity, that is, the diversity within the major religious traditions; 3) the intrasubjective level of religious diversity, that is, common but diverse predispositions of the human mind and psyche as they may manifest either simultaneously in the form of hybrid religious identities or successively as transitions of religious orientations in the course of individual religious biographies (Schmidt-Leukel’s, 2019, 9).

Thus, for example, at the interreligious diversity level, we find “prophetic religions” contain “elements and features of mystical and sapiential religions, mystical religions those of prophetic and sapiential religions, and sapiential religions those of prophetic and mystical ones” (9) These patterns are then discerned among “individual members” at the intrareligious diversity level as well as the intrasubjective level among “particular individuals” (10). At the intrasubjective level, we see its manifestations as “simultaneous” and “successful components” in their religious identity” (10). Fractal theory for religious diversity is a persuasive argument for ontological similarities, but I argue that the universe has room for irreducible ontological differences, and both exist simultaneously. Mystics, sages, and scientists have argued for ontological similarities from time immemorial. Indeed, scientists have proved ontological similarities, advancing the fields of physics, chemistry, geology, biology, and so on and so forth, having discovered universal structures and patterns in the universe. Recently New York’s Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center ran a small but successful trial on 18 persons with rectal cancer. Every single patient who took the drug dostarlimab for six months reported the disappearance of their tumors (Pfeiffer & Mehta, 2022). This kind of research is possible because our biological structures, as human beings, are similar. The DM presents fractals in our inner beings as humans. In the Hymn to Aparājitā (In Praise of the One Who is Undefeated), the Goddess’ infinite complex patterns of

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self-similar immanental presence across all form and phenomena is noted. Her infinite recursive presence is observed a within their consciousness, intelligence, sleep, hunger, shadow, power, and so on and so forth as noted below: To the Devī, who in all beings is seen as consciousness, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of intelligence, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of sleep, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of hunger, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of shadow, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of power, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of thirst, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of forgiveness, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of order, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of modesty, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of peace, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of faith, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of loveliness, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of good fortune, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of activity, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of memory, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of compassion, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of contentment, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of mother, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To the Devī, who abides in all beings in the form of error, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again. To her who presides over the elements and the senses, and is ever present in all beings,

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to the all-pervading Devī, salutations again and again. To her who pervades this entire world and abides in the form of consciousness, salutation to her, salutation to her, salutation to her again and again (DM 5.17–80). This recursive presence observed in the chant above displays a rough selfsimilarity in all form and phenomena. Let us take the example of sleep. This rough self-similarity allows for divergent sleep behaviors that vary from person to person. Hence, some may be sleep-deprived, others insomniac, while others may have no problem with sleep. We see a prominent fractal in the DMs depiction of the human ego and its attendants. The ego (ahaṃkāra), represented by the metaphor of a buffalo demon Mahiṣāsura, is portrayed as having several attendants like “desire, anger, greed, pride, jealousy, and delusion” (Kālī, 2003). Seen through a fractal lens, the DM presents these as infinite self-destructive and self-perpetuating patterns that organize and reorganize themselves within ourselves. Thus, desire, greed, pride, so on and so forth, arise endlessly in a dynamic self-similar pattern. Not intrinsically evil, the ego sees itself as separate from the rest of reality. It is the individual experience of consciousness and subjectivity that grants the individual an identity of difference. This sense of “I am-ness,” creates a distinction, a separation between the self and the rest of phenomenal reality. “I am-ness” is the by-product of māya, which is usually translated as illusion in Śankarā’s Advaitā Vedānta (Suthren Hirst, 2005, 89–100). However, in Śāktā cosmology, māyā is not an illusion, it is the nature, function, and veiling power of the Goddess, Her very own śākti. Māyā comes from the √ma, which means to measure. Consciousness (cit) measured gives rise to form. Through the veiling power of māya, the Divine Mother gives rise to the “mutable, morphogenetic, and material” world of genus and species (nāmarūpa) (Sherma, 2000, 43). Thus, we may conclude as per the PR, we are fractals of the Divine Mother Goddess, microcosms of the macrocosm. However, I argue that this pluriformity is not superficial but deep. Śākta pluralism allows ontological difference and irreducible entities. This creates a complex, layered, and paradoxical ontology. Deep diversity may not be conflated, sublated, or flattened into a homogenous, indivisible mush. In the Śākta schema, diversity contains simultaneous contradictions, ambiguities, and inconsistencies. This means contradictory elements can be simultaneously present within and without the adept. The universe is not unidimensional but multidimensional. The Devīarthavaśīrṣa (DA) expresses the multidimensional complex enigmatic nature of all reality in the following chant: 1. All the gods collected near the Goddess and with great respect asked of the Great Goddess, “Who are you?” 2. She replied, “I am the intrinsic nature of Consciousness. From me both Nature and Consciousness have taken birth, this world of true existence and untrue appearance. 3. I am the form of bliss and blissnessness. I am the form of Wisdom of Unity and lack of wisdom as well. I am the capacity of understanding what is Brahmā, the Supreme Consciousness and what is not Brahmā.

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I am the great elements of existence as they unite in forms and in their ununited individual aspects as well. I am this entire perceivable universe. I am the Wisdom of Eternal Harmony, and I am lack of Wisdom; I am Knowledge and I am Ignorance; I am unborn and again I take birth. I am above and below, and even beyond (DA 1–4; Saraswati, 2010, 94–95).

The above chant exposes the contradictions within the Goddess' form, which as we have established, consists of the physical world of form and phenomena, of entities. Thus, based on the DM, I have argued for logical contradictions in the universe. This means, as per Śākta logic, there can be concurrent ontological similarities and ontological differences granting entities irreducibility. I argue that external visual patterns betray ontological differences and distinctions. For example, physiologically, my body has a diaphragm that may have a rough or exact fractal geometrical similarity to other elements in the world. However, I am a unique being subjectively, cognitively, behaviorally, and experientially. This means that, on the one hand, I am united in many aspects with the universe, with other humans and sentient beings, yet I am also ontologically different. From a Śākta lens, our unity to the cosmos is not symbolic or metaphorical but is true, real, and substantial. What grants this unity is the Real Presence of the Goddess as She mutates into the universe of form and phenomena as explained in the PR. What grants ontological difference, I argue, is subjectivity citta, a Sanskrit term hard to define; nevertheless, we must labor since it is most relevant to our discussion. Ian Whicher, a notable scholar of yoga philosophy, notes a variety of meanings attributed to the term citta in the Patañjali’s Yoga Sūtra, such as “mind,” “mindstuff,” “mind complex,” “consciousness,” “awareness,” “psyche,” “psychic nature,” “thinking principle,” to “internal organ” (Whicher, 1998, 27).3 Citta is sometimes termed cosmic intelligence or the cosmic mind that governs all form and phenomena. Indeed, that is what She is in Her consubstantive form. However, in Her individuated form, it is the little mind that governs one’s bodymind, and senses. It is also the measurable dimension of one’s physiology, biology, anatomical, anabolic structures including one’s subjectivity. On the one hand, this subjectivity is related to one’s body, mind, sense complex and is seamless to other beings. On the other hand, it is differentiated from other beings and the universe. Differentiation allows individuality of experience. For example, one eats food, but that does not nourish the 663 million people across the world because our bodies are differentiated (Roser & Ritchie, 2019). While ontological differentiation allows individuality, I argue that as differentiated entities, we are irreducible. Neil Douglas tells the humorous story of meeting his lookalike on a plane to Ireland. He narrates how he was the last on a plane to attend a wedding when he saw someone in his seat. When he asked the person to move, and when the person turned around, he was surprised that the man had “his face” (Gorvett & Brunelle, 2016). Later, he met the same person at the hotel check-in desk and the bar. This made the 3

Ibid.

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men accept that the “universe wanted them to have a drink,” so they had drinks together (Twitter, 2015). The likelihood of finding a twin in the world has long fascinated people. There are popular websites and online tools for finding one’s twin. However, research shows that there is room for irreconcilable differences. Forensic science has already proven that each human person has a unique or singular set of characteristics when it comes to facial metrics, fingerprinting, and voiceprint analysis. Fingerprinting and voice print analysis have been used in various ways, including criminal background checks, biometric security, and mass disaster identification. Teghan Lucas and Maciej Henneberg set out to find out if human faces are unique. Building on the presupposition of forensic science that human individuals are unique, they analyzed 3982 individual’s public collections of photographs of U.S. military personnel to analyze “singularity.” Eight facial metric traits were used to search for duplicates. With the addition of each trait, the chances of finding a duplicate were reduced until singularity was achieved. Singularity was consistently achieved at a combination of the maximum of seven traits. The larger the traits in dimension, the faster singularity was achieved. By exploring how singularity is achieved in subsamples of 200, 500, etc. it has been determined that about one trait needs to be added when the size of the target population increases by 1000 individuals. With the combination of four facial dimensions, it is possible to achieve a probability of finding a duplicate of the order of 10(-7), while the combination of 8 traits reduces probability to the order of 10(-14), that is less than one in a trillion (Lucas & Henneberg, 2015).

The experiment concluded that “the chances of sharing just eight dimensions with someone else are less than one in a trillion. Even with 7.4 billion people on the planet, that’s only a one in 135 chance that there’s a single pair of doppelgangers” (Gorvett & Brunelle, 2016). Similarly, fingerprint analysis used since the mid-nineteenth century for identification purposes argues for unrepeatable singularity among human persons. The distinctive general and specific contours that appear on the loop, arch, and whorls of individual fingers display specific patterns that are unique and unrepeatable. Fingerprint studies reveal that the inside of the end joints of the fingers and thumbs and their interrelational ridges cause impressions that are distinctive to each individual (Hoover, 2006). Of all the methods of identification, fingerprinting alone has proved to be both infallible and feasible. Its superiority over the older methods, such as branding, tattooing, distinctive clothing, photography, and body measurements (Bertillon system), has been demonstrated time after time. While many cases of mistaken identification have occurred through the use of these older systems, to date the fingerprints of no two individuals have been found to be identical (Hoover, 2006).

So unique are individual fingerprints that “even identical twins, with identical DNA, have different fingerprints” (National Forensic Science Technology Center, 2013).4

4

Hindus have long used the science of palmistry or chiromancy. By reading the specific shapes, lines, and contours of the hand, palmists can tell one’s place in the cosmic schema, one’s personality archetypes, one’s strengths, and weaknesses, while also connecting it to the past, present, and the future. Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain mystics and sages are able to tell one’s past, present, and future just by looking at one’s face.

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My final example to prove irreducible entities is taken from voiceprint biometrics. Today, banks and several financial service companies use voiceprint biometrics for identification. This technology, developed by Bell Laboratories in the 1940s for military intelligence purposes, is now being used to solve criminal cases. Voiceprint identification uses “aural (listening) and spectrograph (instrumental)” comparisons to identify a speaker (Cain et al., 2020). The first major determining factor of voice uniqueness is the size of the vocal cavities, such as the throat, nasal and oral cavities, and the shape, length and tension of the individual's vocal cords located in the larynx. The vocal cavities are resonators, much like organ pipes, which reinforce some of the overtones produced by the vocal cords, which produce formats or voiceprint bars. The second factor in determining voice uniqueness lies in the manner in which the articulators or muscles of speech are manipulated during speech. The articulators include the lips, teeth, tongue, soft palate, and jaw muscles whose controlled interplay produces intelligible speech” (Cain et al., 2020).

Indeed, the chances that two individuals would have the same shape and size of vocal cavities while having the same speech articulation is highly unlikely (Cain et al., 2020). Śākta cosmology makes similar arguments. A Śākta entity is ontologically similar yet different. I have already shown how both are simultaneously true at the same time. A Śākta entity cannot be viewed from an isolationist, disjunctive lens but is embedded in a karmic cyclical schema that is a codependent, complex matrix of factors that contain visible and invisible realities. These realities range from the causal, subtle, and the gross including the world of entities, societies, families, sentient beings, and cosmic cycles or ages (yugās). The present human entity is both continuous-discontinuous. In each lifetime, a body is acquired, that is the effect of a series of causes planted in previous lifetimes. Thus, one’s body, in this lifetime, and was created in other life cycles with other beings. This subtle body acquires a gross discontinous body in the present lifetime in order to generate higher levels of consciousness, self-identity, and liberation. The discontinuity exists at the gross level as the body contains a new genetic makeup specifically garnered to acquire a new experiences, cognitive conditions, mental, emotive, and affective content as it strives toward liberation. This old-new body is unrepeatable, singular, distinct, and different. It cannot be compared to anyone, past or present. Indeed, in this worldview, destinies are not substitutable, for each existent is required to put to work its destiny; nor are the destinies comparable—for one’s body complex is one’s singular endowment/gift/curse and chance. There is no meta-narrative position from where an ideal paradigm for emulation can be offered. As singular and finitudinal entities, every body complex is required to put itself to work for its transfiguration (Rao, 2014, 127).

4 Conclusion In this paper, I have constructed a Śākta model for religions in a linguistic pluralism. “While Christians focus on religious diversity from the perspective of salvation and revelation in Christ, Hindus push the question of diversity by observing all plurality

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as being grounded, contained, emanating, and manifesting from and in the “One” (ekam). To Hindus, religious diversity is a strand within the whole tapestry of the universe that showcases cosmological, topographical, environmental, and bio-diversity. Thus, diversity is the very essence of all existence” (Rodrigues, 2023). Using a fractal theory of religious diversity, the DM texts, and forensic science, I advance classical interpretations of Śākta Advaita that lean towards consubstantial unity alone. Thus, I argue that each sentient being, each entity, religions and every iteration of that religion has its form and substance, its function, personality, and character, unlike any other entity on Earth. From a Śākta lens, we are ontologically similar yet different, continuous yet discontinuous, One and Many simultaneously. Drawing from the PR mystery, on the one hand, we share properties that are generic to other entities due to the outpouring of the presence of the Goddess in the universe of form and phenomena. On the other hand, based on the VR and the MR, every permutation and combination of religions, shape and color of entities, cosmological and terrestrial, marine, and ecodiversity is unique. Thus, on the one hand, the Goddess is the genus from which all species arise, at the same time, She is also every individual species, insects, mammals, and reptiles in their limited form and character. Indeed, Śākta cosmologies combine form and formlessness, apophatic and cataphatic theologies. I propose that this framework may be useful to understand the phenomenon of religions in a linguistic pluralism. A Śākta entity is irreducible, continuous-discontinuous, acquiring a specific instantiation, a gross body that is unrepeatable, singular, and unique. “Thus, O king, the true nature of the Devī’s embodied forms has been told to you” (VR 17).

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On the Power of Imperfect Words: An Inquiry into the Revelatory Power of a Single Hindu Verse Francis X. Clooney

This volume is interested in investigating, along with related themes, the transformations or adaptations that a human language—speaking, writing—undergoes when transmitting a divine message, a revelation expressed in human words. This essay suggests that exploring how traditions have thought and performed the divine in human language can be usefully undertaken; that spiritual charged poetry is a powerful medium of divine communication in human words that both fall short in speaking of God and yet, in that failure, speak eloquently; and that reading intertextually, even interreligiously, is a way to disclose powerfully that divine communication. My context for this inquiry is the poetic and theological tradition of the south Indian Hindu community known as Śrīvaiṣṇava Hinduism. By theology and piety, this community is devoted to the supreme deity Nārāyaṇa (known also as Viṣṇu, and embodied also as the famed Rāma and Kṛṣṇa), and Śrī Lakṣmī, his divine consort. It is a living tradition that benefits from a thousand years of continuous flourishing, and is grounded in both the vernacular Tamil and the sacred Sanskrit languages. The twelve mystic poets known as the Ālvārs (usually rendered “those immersed [in God]”, henceforth “saints” or “Tamil saints”) flourished in Tamil south India in the seventh–tenth centuries. The nearly four thousand Tamil verses of their works, the Divya Prabandham (Divine Canon), were revered already by the thirteenth century as a body of sacred literature, equal in revelatory power to the great religious classics of Sanskrit literature, the Upaniṣads and the Bhagavad Gītā, and similarly worthy of commentary. While most Hindu traditions agree that the majesty and

This article was previously published in Sophia 61, 9–21 (2022). https://doi.org/10.1007/s11841021-00896-8 F. X. Clooney (✉) Harvard University, Cambridge, MA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_9

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greatness of God cannot be expressed in a straightforward way in human words, the Śrīvaiṣṇavas strive to show how the Ālvārs’ verses succeed in communicating in words what is beyond words. That is, the tradition is neither simply apophatic nor simply cataphatic. Śaṭakōpan, the ninth century Tamil poet saint is esteemed as the greatest of Śrīvaiṣṇava Tamil saints. All four of his works1 are revered as revealing the mysteries of the love and grace of Nārāyaṇa, taken to be the supreme deity, and always accompanied by his consort, Śrī. The last of the four, the Tiruvāymoli (Holy Word of Mouth), receives the most commentary as the apex of entire canon of Tamil works in the tradition, and is taken to be the culmination of the saint’s spiritual and poetic journey. But this paper takes us back to what is traditionally positioned as the first of his works, the Tiruviruttam (Holy Verses in the Vṛtta Meter), 100 devotional verses in the vṛtta meter and in the genre of ancient Tamil love poetry which accentuates the episodic union and separation of lovers. Given the traditional view of the saint’s oeuvre of four works, the Tiruviruttam is taken to be his meditation on his plight in life and his separation from the Lord he loves. Every verse in some way dramatizes the plight of separated lovers, and the ups and downs of their fragile relationship.2 The verses in the Tiruviruttam are in the voice of a young man and a young woman occasionally together, too often apart and intensely missing one another. The pair are unnamed, just “he” and “she.” Sometimes her friend or her mother or his friend speaks, affording us other perspectives on their intense but fragile love. In the following pages I examine just a single verse from the Tiruviruttam that, as its obscurity is deciphered, turns out to have a performative dimension, both creating and resolving a crisis about what can be communicated in words: In that lotus where the senses circle keṇṭai fish war, Held apart by a single creeper, but still they dart about, piercing like spears. Like ocean waves that gush ambrosia when churned by Kṛṣṇa’s hand I’ve been churned. Those who have seen can no longer scold me. (Tiruviruttam 57)3

I will briefly read it on its own, for what it can tell us without commentary; even in translation, I am wagering, it can speak on its own across time and space, language and culture. I will then read it in accord with the long Śrīvaiṣṇava system of interpretation. In the final part of this essay, I reflect on how the work of deciphering this interpretation draws in even the reader who is neither a native to the tradition nor a tourist, but rather what I will now start calling the “pilgrim reader,” the visitor who comes patiently and to learn, ready to engage in reading practices which have grown

1

Tiruviruttam (100 verses), Tiruvāciriyam (7 verses), Periyatiruvantāti (87 verses), and Tiruvāymoli (1102 verses) 2 See Venkatesan’s Introduction for an overview of the Tiruviruttam. 3 pulakkuṇṭalap puṇṭarīkatta pōrka keṇṭai valli onrāl / vilakkuṇṭu ulākinru vēl vilikkinrana kaṇṇan kaiyāl / malakkuṇṭu amutaṃ curanta mari kaṭal pōnravarrāl / kalakkuṇṭa nānru kaṇṭār emmai yāruṃ kalaralarē All translations are my own except where noted.

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up in the tradition, even while monitoring consonant and divergent practices in her own home tradition.

1 An Understated Vision The first two lines are mysteriously populated with a lotus that is the center of attention for the senses, keṇṭai fish and a creeper: In that lotus where the senses circle keṇṭai fish war, Held apart by a single creeper, but still they dart about, piercing like spears,

Yet these lines are hard to understand, since they say one thing, fairly simply, while seemingly alluding to something else. There is nothing religious about them, inviting though they may be. Readers well versed in Tamil literature may recognize resonances with the old Tamil literature of the caṅkam period, centuries before: references to animals and flowers, for instance, sketches of natural scenes that seem yet to be suggestive of something more, particularly human states of mind and heart. But the fact of precedents in old Tamil poetry does not of itself add religious meaning to these lines which remain oddly understated, yet “begging” for some greater symbolic import. But the next line is religious, evocative of the famed myth of the churning of the ocean (usually) by gods and demons by means of a mythic serpent wrapped around a mythic mountain,4 with a resultant gushing for of a precious ambrosia of immortality (amṛta). But here it is Kṛṣṇa, not warring gods and demons, who churns the ocean, simply by his hand: Like ocean waves that gush ambrosia when churned by Kṛṣṇa’s hand I’ve been churned.5

A classic myth is now made personal: I myself, says the verse’s speaker, have been churned like that, and by none other than Kṛṣṇa. The remainder of the fourth line finally targets the verse’s central claim: Those who have seen can no longer scold me.

The speaker is explaining something—not clear in the verse itself—to someone who has not seen what the speaker has seen. It is as if the speaker is toying with the listener, not quite saying what it is that the listener has not seen but would appreciate had it been seen. The implication too is that listeners who do see what the speaker has seen will be able to understand the speaker’s complaint, and perhaps have been or will be churned themselves by the touch of Lord Kṛṣṇa. New readers are like the disadvantaged friend, since they too will not at first understand that the allusion to 4

For several classic tellings of this myth in ancient Indian literature, see O’Flaherty, 1975, 173–179. We notice a small twist here, that the beloved god Kṛṣṇa is the one churning the ocean, and with his own hand, a point rarely made, if anywhere else.

5

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the churning of the ocean is simply part of the larger dynamic of having to learn words, references, ways of speaking, memories inscribed in a tradition they did not grow up with. By my reading, the verse is deliberately understating what it is talking about.6 If indeed it is a young man speaking to an uncomprehending friend, then it may be that that the latter not only has not seen what the young man has seen, but he may very well not quite know what the young man is talking about, even if he guesses that the man is talking about a woman he has seen. This failure in communication is key to the verse: what is imperfectly described provokes the listener, and by extension a current reader as well, to explore further, since the words as given only intensify the expectation for something more. One way to begin to decipher all of this is by a sensible appeal to the immediate context in Tiruviruttam. I summarize the immediately preceding verses in this way: 54: bees are addressed, begged to fly away in order to facilitate uniting the speaker with the one who stole the butter)7; 55: O bees, are there flowers anywhere as fragrant as her hair, which is as fragrant as the heaven of the one who came down to earth as a boar? 56: a friend is addressed: we can survive just by the scent of basil in the hair of the one who swallowed the whole world; 58: that lord who spanned the earth in three steps—might he stride right here too?

And here in 57, 57: Kṛṣṇa churns the ocean with his hand.

So Kṛṣṇa is alluded to in each of these verses—butter thief, the boar, the wearer of sacred basil8—but he is present only in an oblique off-hand manner as if noticed out of the corner of the eye, hinted at but not really the focus of what is being said. But later, as we shall see, by way of this understatement he turns out to be present in a deeper way, central to the meaning of the entire verse.

Ordinarily, one finds translations that make the verse perhaps too clear, as does Venkatesan’s recent translation: “Her earrings entrance the senses. In her lotus-like face her dark eyes dart like keṇṭai / whose war is blocked by a gently curving creeper / such eyes: wide and sharp as spears. No one can mock me. Those eyes /bewilder me / I am like the ocean with its crashing waves / giving up its nectar / when Kaṇṇan [Kṛṣṇa] churned it with his mountain.” The great commentators of course make explicit what is not said directly, given their overall understanding of Tiruviruttam in the context of the great Ālvār’s works. There is no basis on my part to disrespect or ignore what they say, but neither to read their interpretations back into the verse as we have it. 7 This is a reference to another famous myth recounted in the Bhāgavata Purāṇa of the butter thief— the boy Kṛṣṇa stealing butter from the churn. 8 Tulāy in Tamil, tulasī in Sanskrit. 6

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2 Reading with the Tradition How far a reader can enter upon the verse, so as to move from textual to intellectual to spiritual understandings, depends in part on who this reader is. Some Śrīvaiṣṇavas in Tamil Nadu will know this verse and similar verses as if by second nature. They may even today be able to call up, or at least resonate with, the classic motifs behind the verse, and the many intertextual echoes resonating in and around it; and they will know the mythic allusions well. Still other native Tamil speakers may at least be proud of the beautiful language heard here, and recognize classical caṅkam precedents where “he and she” and their friends are always overheard amid obscure conversations that speak of love and longing in times of brief union and long separation. Commentators ancient and modern have striven to help readers to enter more deeply into the meaning of verses like Tiruviruttam 57. They offer simple expositions of it, construct an intertextual web, and thereby indicate how such a verse uses words to draw readers into an understanding of the verse, and then into the experience provoked by the words. To show this unpacking of a sacred verse within the limits of this brief essay, I will rely now on the modern commentary of P. B. Annangarachariar and Uttamur Viraraghavachariar, two esteemed twentieth century teachers deeply versed in the old commentaries but writing in a more accessible Tamil style. Annangarachariar gives a straightforward rendering of the verse: The context for this verse is this: the young man pushes back at the criticisms of his friend. That is, after achieving a consummation of a divine union, because of the sadness of separation the young man lies there exhausted. When he sees him, his friend asks, “For what reason are you worn out in this way even now?” Unable to conceal the truth from his friend, the young man admits, “I have fallen into the snare of a woman.” (Annangarachariar 200)9

But the friend balks at this, thinking collapse too strong a reaction to a mere encounter with a young woman, particularly for a man so virile and experienced as this young man. But he pushes back, complaining that someone who has never seen her cannot understand what he is suffering. He obliquely describes her, perhaps by pointing to things in nature nearby, so that her effect on him is at least fragmentarily communicated to his friend. But Annangarachariar makes explicit the various allusions: the lotus is her face, the circles are her earrings, the fish her eyes, and the creeper her nose that so finely keeps her eyes apart: Friend! Do you know what this girl’s face is like? With her lovely earrings she is like a lotus. Do you know what the eyes in her face are like? They are like two keṇṭai fish battling one another. They are enemies about to jump on one another, attacking out of jealousy, but her

9

References are to Tiruviruttam 1930, with the commentary of P. B. Annangarachariar. Translations mine.

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nose is like a creeper, it stands between the eyes and keeps them apart. But then with anger each by itself darts around, as if to stick the other with spears. (Annangarachariar 201)

Seeing all this has deeply agitated the young man, in a way that he can best explain by making explicit the religious parallel: When my girl looks at me with such eyes, I am churned, as when Lord Tirumāl [Kṛṣṇa] churned the ocean waves. (Annangarachariar 201)

Long ago, the myth goes, the deity had churned the ocean so that the ambrosia of immortality might gush forth from the hidden depths. So too, from deep inside the young man in turmoil, and something undying has come forth. If, with tradition, we blur the line between the speaker in the verse and its composer, even the words of this verse itself can be taken as arising from the saint’s own intimate struggle with God. The point of the last line then is both a rebuke and an appeal: I am churned this way, but whoever has directly seen her eyes will never berate me, but rather will say, “You are immersed in her beauty—how remarkable it is that you haven’t given up your spirit but remain alive!” (Annangarachariar 201)

The friend is by implication rebuked, since he too should come to see the beauty of that face, those eyes, that nose. So too, it seems, the reader then is implicated: if you understand what I am talking about, you too will be enthralled, no longer merely a puzzled onlooker. The revelation will come alive for you too, as the verse’s obscure words unveil the Lord who has so powerfully reverberated in the experience of the young man and, we might dare to presume, of the poet himself. It is key to understand then that the work of understanding Tiruviruttam 57 is meant to provoke a similar experience, just as the experience of the young man, churned like the ocean, becomes the vehicle of experience for the reader in the real time of hearing and reading even now. A second layer of commentarial interpretation lies in the weaving of this verse into the wider array of relevant sacred texts in Tamil and in Sanskrit. This single verse, like any other single verse, is understood to be a part not only of Tiruviruttam, but of a whole canon of sacred literature. The commentators highlight key points in the verse by the citation of other texts that in some way echo or embellish those points. In this way, its authority is increased and its resonances intensified, as the dynamic operative in the verse and the roles of divine and human actors are recognized across the canon. Some quotations simply indicate texts that come readily to mind as similarly evocative. For example, Tiruvāymoli VIII.8.1 is adduced as offering a similar portrayal of a face, albeit more explicitly: Lustrous eyes, full and ripe lustrous lips, White bright teeth shining within, crocodile earrings shaking Cloud-colored, shining topknot, four arms, with a bent bow, Shining conch, club, discus, sword: unique, he is within me, I am at his feet.10

10 In turn, for the first line of VIII.8.1, the classical commentator Naṃpiḷḷai detects parallels in Tiruvāymoli VIII.5, where the saint both vividly describes Kṛṣṇa’s face and expresses great longing

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So too, the churned ocean in Tiruviruttam 57 reminds Annangarachariar of a reference to the loving heart as deep as an ocean: “in the great field of my heart [Kṛṣṇa] planted love great enough to fill an ocean.” (Tiruvāymoli V.3.4) He turns to the Sanskrit canon as well. In the Rāmāyaṇa, lord Rāma too is like an ocean: “Possessed of all good qualities, increasing the joy of [his mother] Kauśalya, in depth like an ocean, by fortitude he like a snow-capped mountain.” (Rāmāyaṇa, Bāla Kāṇḍa 1.17) These parallels are inexact but any given reference to the ocean reminds the commentators of every other reference to the ocean. A more direct narrative parallel occurs with reference to Hanuman, the monkey warrior who is the faithful servant of Rāma. Hanuman had gone to Śrīlaṅkā to visit the captive Sītā. Only when he sees her for the first time, does he come to understand how beautiful she is, and the greatness and severity of Rāma’s anguish and fortitude: Rāma has done what is hard to do. Though this lord is bereft of her, Still he supports his own body, he is not disheartened by grief. (Rāmāyaṇa, Sundara Kāṇḍa 16.27)11

Once Hanuman has seen her, he fully understands Rāma’s anguish in separation. What the famed Rāmāyaṇa dramatizes on a grand scale is encapsulated in this little verse. We could go on in exploring such references, and trace from each of them still further resonances with other Tamil and Sanskrit texts prized by the community as it weaves a great web of intertexts. But the point is clear: as Tiruviruttam 57 resonates across the canon, its inscrutability is lessened and its authority heightened in the cross-reading. The speaker, taken to be Śaṭakōpan, has a consistent voice, such as will be heard in all his works. That speaker, young man, saint, poet—all are just like Rāma yearning for his Sītā, churned as if the hand of Kṛṣṇa had reached deep inside him. A third level of interpretation aims at the inner meaning (svāpadeśa) of the verse, as it provides spiritual nourishment for listeners and readers drawn into the truth that it expresses in poetic form. Like every other verse in Tiruviruttam, verse 57 is read in terms of the community’s enthrallment with the saint himself and thus with his verses. After citing the views of a series of older commentators, Annangarachariar first points to enduring relevance of the verse: The lord’s people who know the light of the Ālvār’s eye of knowledge are immersed in it. But they see others around them who, although they see how these are thus immersed, remain determined to find fault. This verse is their rejoinder. (Annangarachariar 203)

More broadly, Annangarachariar sees the verse as instructive on how one advances on the spiritual path. This elusive verse teaches those willing to learn. actually to see him again, in Tiruvāymoli VIII.7.1, where the divine dwarf fulfils the saint’s wish by entering into the saint, vividly appearing in his mind, and holding his mind entirely fixed on the lord, and in Chāndogya Upaniṣad I.6.7, where the radiant person has eyes like deep red lotuses. 11 There are other references to the Rāmāyaṇa as well. The paradigmatic love of Rāma and Sītā sheds light on how much the young man misses the young woman, since they are meant for one another (Sundara Kāṇḍa 16.5); the young man’s longing is like that of Rāma, who cannot bear to be without Sītā. (Rāmāyaṇa, Sundara Kāṇḍa 66.10).

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Indeed, he finds the verse suggestive of a process akin to that found in Bṛhadāraṇyaka Upaniṣad II.4.5, with its mandate for hearing, thinking, and meditating (śravana, manana, nididhyāsana) in order to attain realization (darśana): There are three steps to knowing the primary thing that is the cause of liberation: hearing, thinking, vision. Among these, hearing is listening to the words of the teaching of an ācārya who has had the experience; thinking is clear mental reflection, by authorities and by reason, on the meaning of the words of that teaching; vision is clarity that arises upon the destruction of doubts about the primary thing. With respect to the inner meaning of this verse, knowledge—the eye of the saint—is combined in turn with each of the three means illumined by the first two lines of the verse. (Annangarachariar 203–4)

This makes sense if we recall that Annangarachariar makes clear what is only implicit in the verse: the topic is a young woman’s face, with indications of the senses at work, the eyes and ears and (by way of the battling fish) the cogitating mind at work. The ears with their earrings indicate hearing; the warring fish (eyes) symbolize competing theological views; the creeper (nose) demarcates the wise teaching making peace among warring theological positions. On this basis the way is opened, Annangarachariar is suggesting, to the true and subtle knowledge of the Lord. He then summarizes the vision, the knowledge symbolized by those piercing eyes: By this process of listening and thinking, uncertainty is entirely banished, a state of subtle and enduring knowledge is reached, and there is vision of our Lord. Like the ocean waves that emitted ambrosia when churned by the hand of Kṛṣṇa we, accomplished in all fruitfulness, are vanquished by this unique knowledge of the saint and we reach a state where devotion overflows. The saint is saying that we are now among those who understand the nature of his own knowledge. Such is the inner meaning of the latter two lines of the verse. . . Indeed, like the ocean waves that emitted ambrosia when churned by the hand of Kṛṣṇa, the Lord himself is vanquished by the peerless knowledge of the saint that overflows in devotion, and he too loses control. Such is the inner meaning of the verse. (Annangarachariar 204)

In this way the saint himself—the author who composes the verse but who is also the implied speaker in it—becomes the real object of devotion, churned and churning, as the verse (and all the others in Tiruviruttam) might come forth as a word both divine and human.12 Uttamur Viraraghavachariar elaborates the divine-human relationship perceived to be inherent the verse. By an ingenious reading of the first line, he imagines how it is the lord and the saint—the young man and the young woman—who are meeting in the heart lotus, that enigmatic lotus mentioned in the first line. The contesting keṇṭai fish, the saint and the Lord, argue regarding true knowledge and true love, neither conceding dependence on the other, even if neither can really imagine being apart from the other. They churn and are churned by one another. As a result, the uncomprehending friend is the beneficiary of the divine-human quarrel of saint

12

The Lord is overwhelmed by the saint’s knowledge (vision), love, and beauty. See the brief account of this theme in Clooney, 1996, ch. 4. On the human and divine authorship of the verses of the saint, see also Clooney, 1985.

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and Lord, benefitting from the struggle that led to the words of the verse, words that in turn provoke the same struggle in the reader who is trying to understand. This, after all, is what the revelation is about, the provocation of an experience of God, of Śrī Nārayaṇa, by faltering human words that attempt to describe what one must in the end see for oneself. As the reader works through the words, the revelation dawns. Perhaps because the saint’s Tamil verse is for all—free of the restrictions that bind Sanskrit learning—and because his love is unrestricted, Viraraghavachariar is able to note the wider effect of this verse, beyond the narrow bounds of gender, caste, and beliefs. Even hitherto excluded readers can enjoy this verse and what it reveals: women and śūdras, traditionally not allowed to learn Sanskrit, as well as those holding heterodox views and excluded for doctrinal reasons: In order that women, śūdras, and the deniers of the faith might reach clarity on the knowledge of the real, of what is beneficial, and of the whole of the excellent experience that occurred in past days, the Lord himself is lost in the Ālvār’s glance, and graciously made these gracious deeds. (Viraraghavachariar 101)

The poetry teaches in ways otherwise not possible, as the drama—of the lover and his beloved, the Lord and the saint, the saint and the community—becomes the drama of every attentive listener down through the ages.

3 Seeing Indirectly But this leads directly to the third and final section of my essay: the pilgrim reader, neither native nor tourist, can conscientiously and patiently find a way into the verse, by study such as I have recounted in the preceding pages. This person, though disadvantaged, ends up a real even if imperfect participant in the same drama, caught up in the words of the verse, the young man’s faltering self-defense, now implicated in the fact that only those who have seen God can really understand what it means to long for God. But even so, one might fairly ask, “But where is the revelation—now? Can such a verse really have its revelatory effect for a pilgrim reader who works her or his way into the tradition from afar?” Once the verse, its context, and the long history of expert reading are appreciated, the available resources increase immeasurably, and it becomes possible for pilgrim readers to come near to the Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition by reading their way into it, close up to a given single verse, such as Tiruviruttam 57, with the other 1300 verses of our saint to follow later on. I myself came to this verse as someone who is not a Tamil or a Śrīvaiṣṇava, but by dint of slow learning, I am someone who has been reading Śaṭakōpan’s works on and off for nearly 40 years, with some help from teachers, but too often on my own. My knowledge of Tamil verses of course cannot be like that which arises from native experience and due to the benefits of communal formation in a recognized lineage. It came about only by way of this student’s choice in graduate school to learn some Tamil, as best he could, and then, early on, having stumbled upon the poetry of the

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Ālvārs, making the effort to read that poetry, and to continue to do so over a very long time. Yet I am not merely lacking in the benefits accruing to Śrīvaiṣṇava learning. I am not from nowhere. As a Roman Catholic with a theological education and decades of the study of the Bible for the sake of preaching and teaching, I am definitely from within a religious tradition that understanding the living and enlivening nature of sacred words. The Biblical revelation I began with arose in another part of the world, in other mother tongues. Due to all this, I suggest, I am more and not less sensitive to the power of acts of translation across religions and cultures works, such as allow Tiruviruttam 57 to do its poetic and intellectual and spiritual work on pilgrim readers such as myself. I am suggesting that the saint’s poetry and the Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition of reading will not be entirely foreign to readers who know something of another tradition’s learning, such as that of my Roman Catholic tradition, or who is versed in Rabbinic or Quranic or Buddhist modes of reading. The pilgrim reader who comes equipped with the learning of her own tradition continues the holy reading we find so brilliantly exemplified in the Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition, now playing it out on a much wider stage of learning and spiritual insight. This reader retells a verse like Tiruviruttam 57 in her own language, in a way that makes sense in her mother tongue and home tradition; expanding the field of intertextual links in the languages of her own canon; deepening and enhancing this spiritual engagement by drawing on her own tradition of spiritual study and practice. After learning the verse itself as best as she or he can as a knower of other mystical poetries, the pilgrim reader too can proceed by way of the phases I have outlined as germane to Śrīvaiṣṇava tradition: learning from commentators ancient and modern as they retell the verse, as a text woven into a vast web of intertextual significations—and then, as we shall see, a still wider interreligious web—and finally by a contemplative process going deeper and deeper, in order to come to see through the text what cannot be heard and then seen by way of words that would pretend to be able to state things simply and directly. Just one example must suffice here. When reading South India’s poetry of the young woman and young man such as is exemplified in Tiruviruttam, I am always reminded of the Song of Songs, which has long been recognized as strikingly parallel to ancient Tamil poetry of the sort we have been reading.13 When I had been studying Tiruviruttam 57 for some months, this Song verse came to mind: You have wounded my heart, sister, my bride, You have wounded my heart With one of your eyes And one hair of your neck. (Song 4.9)14

13

The most concerted effort to draw parallels between ancient Tamil poetry and the Song of Songs can be found in Mariaselvam. See also Clooney, 2013. 14 As translated in Hoyland 1979. I have used this translation, out of the many available, because it is from the Latin used by Hoyland (likewise rendered in the 1979 translation).

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Of course, here too we must slow down and learn something of what Song 4.9 means on its own and has meant in the Song, and then in the Jewish and Christian traditions. Commentaries on the Song abound, in Rabbinic tradition, and among Christians from the time of Origen until now. Supplementary resources abound in Hebrew, Greek and Latin and also now in translation. If one does not know Hebrew (as I do not), a volume such as Michael Fishbane’s Song of Songs, Shir ha-Shirim: The Traditional Hebrew Text with the New JPS Translation and Commentary. A direct way into the Christian tradition might similarly begin with Richard A. Norris’ The Song of Songs Interpreted by Early Christian and Medieval Commentators which, as the title indicates, draws masterfully on Christian sources arrayed over nearly two millennia. And so we can read our way into this verse of the Song, allowing it in its indirectness reveal to us the beloved and the power of the beloved in our lives.15 But when we start to contemplate Tiruviruttam 57 and Song 4.9 together, both are unsettled and as it were churned in order to generate a flood of new insights. The choices of each poet, as interpreted in their tradition, to write indirectly of the experience of God, has been canonized in that tradition. Now, in the spirit of that indirection but pushing it further, both traditions turn out to be at a bit at a loss in terms of speaking of God and the experience of God, particularly since neither tradition is willing to reduce God to a name or concept. For each tradition, language has a more provocative, constructive role that is intrinsic to its revelatory power. In their falling short and speaking indirectly, individually and together, a certain more primal power is released. The reading of the two texts together—even focusing on “her eyes” and their piercing glance twice over—turns out to be still more incisive, more penetrating than might be accomplished by working only with either of the verses. Śrīvaiṣṇava readers will not have expected this new reading, but it is inspired by the manner of reading they, but not only they, have done for a thousand years. Christian readers—and Jewish readers, I surmise—will likewise be unprepared for the prospect of these two texts taken together, even if we too have been prepared for this textual engagement that enables us to find kindred spirits in the south India we visit as pilgrims. Revelation is expressed, caught, hidden in the tangles of different sacred languages. Stressed by the vagaries of human language, it then grants access to those who stay with the words, puzzle them through, making sense and slowly weaving a wider array of connections in canons old and new. This is what happens, I suggest. I 15

I have previously had some experience in reading medieval commentaries on the Song along with Śrīvaiṣṇava commentaries on Tiruvāymoli. In His Hiding Place Is Darkness (2013), I engaged in a reading of Śaṭakōpan’s main work, the Tiruvāymoli with its commentaries, along with the Song with the three connected medieval Cistercian commentaries of Bernard of Clairvaux (on Song 1–2), Gilbert of Hoyland (on Song 3–4), and John of Ford (on Song 5–8), who read and preached and wrote in accord with the medieval tradition of study loosely termed lectio divina. The point was to intensify pondering and suffering the absence of the Beloved in two traditions of poetry and commentary, intensifying the whole process by diving into the holy confusion of reading both traditions together. Here, in a fuller essay, I would return to Gilbert of Hoyland for inspiration as he interprets the dynamics of seeing and wounding and being wounded in Song 4.9. See his sermon on this verse.

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am not inviting us to justify this situation by reducing revelation to poetry, or by characterizing all such poetry as human approximations of an ineffable divine, or even by positing that it is the same God who is loved in both Tiruviruttam 57 and Song of Songs 4.9, even if that theologically must be the case (since neither Jews nor Śrīvaiṣṇavas nor Christians believe there can be more than one supreme deity). Rather, I am suggesting that we would be foolish to stop reading such holy poems together, as if to read only in the tradition we grew up with. Read, and see what happens. What is not easily said in one tradition or the other may be said, still imperfectly but all the more intensely, by the new nearness of two traditions. Like keṇṭai fish, they flash and dart about, dazzling and piercing, catching our hearts. Those who only watch from afar will inevitably remain skeptical, or merely puzzled, and so here too the challenge applies: “Had you seen what I’ve seen (or read what I’ve read), you would no longer scold me.”

Bibliography Tiruviruttam Tiruviruttam, Tiruvāciriyam, Periyatiruvantāti, with the commentary of U. Viraraghavachariar. Chennai: The Visishtadvaita Pracharini Sabha, 1971. Tiruviruttam, with the commentary of P. B. Annangarachariar. Kanchipuram: Granthamala Office, 1930. Tiruviruttam of Nammālvār. Trans. by B. S. S. Iyengar. Bangalore: Sri Parampara Sabha, 2004. A Hundred Measures of Time: Tiruviruttam. Trans. by A. Venkatesan. London: Penguin Classics, 2014.

Other References Clooney, F. X. (1985). Divine word, human word in Nammālvār. In In spirit and in truth (pp. 155–168). Madras. Clooney, F. X. (1996). Seeing through texts: Doing theology among the Śrīvaiṣṇavas of South India. State University of New York Press. Clooney, F. X. (2013). His hiding place is darkness: An exercise in Hindu-Catholic theopoetics. Stanford University Press. Fishbane, M. (2015). Song of songs, Shir ha-Shirim: The traditional Hebrew text with the new JPS translation. The Jewish Publication Society. Hoyland, G. of. (1979). Song of songs (Cistercian Fathers Series translations. Vol. 20 (Sermons 21–32). (L. C. Braceland, & S. J. Kalamazoo, Trans.)). Cistercian Publications. Mariaselvam, A. (1988). The song of songs and ancient Tamil love poems: Poetry and symbolism. Editrice Pontificio Istituto Biblico. O’Flaherty, W. D. (1975). Hindu myths: A sourcebook translated from the Sanskrit. Penguin.

On the Oscillation Model and Its Logic Stanisław Krajewski

1 Introduction The purpose of the present paper is to indicate a phenomenon that has emerged to the author as a result of analyzing interreligious dialogue. The phenomenon can be called the oscillation process and seems much more general. One of the problems is how to describe the logic of the phenomenon. It is claimed here that the oscillation process occurs in various situations, or at least it accurately models these situations, but it has hardly been noticed, let alone properly described. It is akin to the situations that occur under the rather familiar rubric “complementarity”, but under a possible interpretation of complementarity it can be seen as being not the same. And to formulate a formal “logic” of the oscillation process seems to require ideas that are not standard. To present the phenomenon of oscillation we begin with examples. This is done in Sects. 2 and 3, following essentially Krajewski, 2012, 2017, 2018. (Earlier mentions of oscillation, each invoked in the context of interfaith dialogue, as are the cases in Sect. 2, were made in Krajewski, 2007, 2011.) Generally, the process of oscillation is a series of events, each being a transition from one approach to another, while the two approaches are incompatible. Thus, an oscillation between two approaches takes place: from one to another, then back and then again, and again, etc. Both approaches are needed but having assumed one of them a participant in the process is led to the realization of the inevitability of the other. The oscillation model is distinct from Hegelian dialectics in which synthesis is the aim. Here we are faced with oscillation with no synthesis. A crucial point here is that oscillation is not an additional ingredient but an essential aspect of the situation. This

S. Krajewski (✉) University of Warsaw, Warsaw, Poland e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_10

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leads to the question whether the oscillation phenomenon is different from the presence of complementarity known from modern physics. Despite substantial similarity of the two phenomena the answer is negative if complementarity in physics means that each of the complementary approaches gives a description that can be seen as sufficient; it is only another experimental situation that would require the other approach. In the case of oscillation the insufficiency of the adopted approach, whichever is taken, emerges at some point, and it appears as a need to switch to the other approach to continue the description of the same reality. Yet this sort of oscillation between different approaches can also be also seen in physics under an appropriate interpretation of complementarity. Therefore, in Sect. 3 it is said that the nature of the distinction between the alternating perspectives in interreligious dialogue on one hand and those in quantum mechanics on the other may be expressed as an oscillation between various meanings of complementarity. It would be of interest to develop a logic of the oscillation process. To some extent it should be like paraconsistent logic. One idea is to adopt so-called paraclassical logic. It provides a simple model. Yet more is needed, namely, modelling the process itself, not just the ultimate result of it. It seems we need something that could be called sequential paraclassical logic. This is proposed in Sect. 4. This section is new, with no counterpart in earlier papers by the present author. It is related, however, to papers by da Costa & Krause 2006, 2008, 2014, where an idea of the logic of complementarity is indicated.

2 Examples of Oscillation: Interreligious Meetings The present author became aware of the oscillation model in connection with his attempts to describe the nature of interfaith dialogue meetings. This is briefly recounted in this section. Example 1. Interfaith dialogue Entering an interreligious meeting one assumes a certain view of the plurality of religions. There are two basic approaches (cf. Krajewski, 2012). Approach I: objective, universal, supra-religious According to it, different religions are considered from a neutral standpoint. This is an outsider’s approach, or rather a view from above. One could say that from this perspective religions form something like a chain of mountains. Each religion is like one peak in the chain, and the aerial view adopted by the expert makes it possible to evaluate the individual mountains, compare them, find common traits and differences. This methodology is natural in scientific investigation, including psychological, sociological, historical, and also philosophical study of religions. Approach II: subjective, (inevitably) particularistic, religion-specific

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According to it, one must be somehow religious in order to perceive what is really important in religion(s). Even those who are not deeply committed to their own tradition can assume that to look at religions in the proper way one needs to be grounded in one of them. And for a religious person it is natural to consider other religions from the perspective of one’s own faith commitment. This approach is the opposite of the “aerial view.” It assumes that one is located on one of the mountains and perceives all the other mountains from this vantage point. Now, I believe that both approaches are significant, inevitable, and useful. They can be easily detected in interfaith meetings. Yet each of them can be problematic: broad knowledge helps to understand but makes one too “theoretical” and prevents noticing specific aspects of an unknown religion; on the other hand, immersion in one’s own religiosity can prevent appreciation of other, dissimilar, forms of religious devotion. Approach I is unavoidable when we want to talk about various religions. Actually, even the very term “religion” makes sense only if we assume that there exist various religions that have sufficiently much in common to be seen as exemplifying one concept, religion. We must have an idea of religion to talk about the religions of the world and of inter-religious dialogue. It is, however, difficult to say what ‘religion’ means, and in what sense it is a common denominator. And, in fact, some representatives of various faiths insist that their own tradition is not really “a religion.” Approach II is also unavoidable. One reason is that however important can be the psychological, sociological or other scientific approaches to human religiosity, they always face a danger of naturalism, that is, the tendency to reduce religion to its natural aspects. The main reason for which Approach I is insufficient, even when we assume that the term ‘religion’ makes sense, is very simple and fundamental: there exists no religion in general, there are only particular religions. This can be compared to the obvious fact that there cannot be a “human language in general,” there are only particular natural languages. Now, to turn to interfaith dialogue encounters, let us note that the following two principles, or even “commandments,” have been assumed at such meetings (Krajewski, 2012). Principle of Respect Respect the dialogue partner, do not distort his religiosity, try to understand him in a sympathetic way, avoid caricaturing his religion and strive to look at it through his eyes. Principle of Faithfulness Be true to your religious identity, do not compromise or water down your own religion. It is essential to add that one may be, or even must be, critical of one’s own tradition, but at the same time the participant in dialogue must be aware that she represents the religious tradition in its entirety.

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In my opinion, the practice of interfaith dialogue proves that both principles are largely compatible. What is sure, however, is that they imply contradictory suggestions concerning the panorama of (the other) religions. Assuming the first principle, if no distortion of the dialogue partner’s religion is to be made, one should look at it from the partner’s perspective. The extent of possible identification with another religion is, however, limited. After all, the change of religion is not what interreligious dialogue is about. Therefore, a less demanding position is preferable, a fair treatment of religions and the rejection of any attempt to treat one religion as normative. And this amounts to something close to Approach I. Assuming the second principle, if faithfulness to one’s own religion is unfaltering, the other religions must be perceived from the particular vantage point of one’s own tradition. Something akin to Approach II emerges as the natural position. Of course, the received view of other religions is usually negative, distorted, and sometimes close to caricature. An effort is needed to observe the Principle of Respect. Approach I as well as Approach II both emerge as inevitable, natural, useful, implied by some principles important for interfaith dialogue, and present in real life encounters. Yet they are incompatible. Let us imagine an interfaith encounter. Even if I were familiar with the dialogue partner’s religion I still could begin with a universal common ground. Yet, in order to understand the other’s words and behavior deeper I would naturally connect them with my own religious experiences. In this way a step would be made from Approach I to Approach II. Alternatively, I could begin with the particularistic Approach II. However good Approach II can be, one would soon feel that it is one-sided and should not be maintained indefinitely. After all, we have a lot in common with dialogue partners as human beings, members of common civilization, perhaps a nation or a profession, etc. So, inevitably, a step to Approach I is made. Making it is, however, not the end of story. There remain all the previous reasons to make a step back. In particular, a stimulus to make the step back to Approach II results from the realization that the general common ground provided by our common humanity is too general: neither common secular space nor science of religion is sufficient to help us understand the phenomenon of religiosity, and in particular the partner’s religiosity. What has emerged is a process. Each of the two approaches is not only natural, useful, and inevitable, but each actually engenders the other. Oscillation takes place: from Approach I to Approach II and then to I, and again to II, and to I, etc. The solution to the problem “Which of the approaches is more basic for interreligious dialogue?” reads “Both.” Not simultaneously, however. Oscillation takes place:

Approach I … Approach II

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Example 2. A non-standard interpretation of Franz Rosenzweig’s “and” The concept of the oscillation process can be used to explain an aspect of the meaning of one of the key concepts in the theological philosophy of Franz Rosenzweig, as was done in Krajewski, 2018. In his masterpiece The Star of Redemption, the book that has significantly influenced the theory of interfaith dialogue, Rosenzweig presents Judaism and Christianity as complementary realities. They are both valid, even if completely different, answers to Revelation. It is essential for Rosenzweig’s vision that they fulfill different roles: one is the fire of the star (representing the complex universe, or rather, to borrow a term form modern science, multiverse, consisting of God, World, Man), the other its rays. The fire provides light to the nations, and the rays accompany the Christian conquering march through the world. Thus Judaism and Christianity function as two different modes of being. They are both necessary for the work of Redemption, and their ultimate goal is common. Rosenzweig’s system shows how a Jew can claim from a Jewish perspective that the Christian mission is not only fully acknowledged but it may be, and should be, understood by the Christian partner in his own way. The partner is needed in a most fundamental way because the full truth can be revealed only by the activities of both. They do not need to cooperate directly, but each must be aware of the partner’s presence, and accept his role. This provides a solid basis for respect and even reverence for the other tradition. Rosenzweig incorporates complementarity in a most serious manner. More can be claimed: an oscillation is accepted. Similarly to Example 1, rather than assuming timeless conceptual positions, we envisage a process. Time is taken seriously into consideration, which is a very Rosenzweigian approach. Thus we get the “suprareligious” and the “religious-specific” approaches combined by the “and” in a new role, that of an indicator of oscillation. This result leads to the conclusion that two sophisticated interpretations of the “and” have emerged. One, polar complementarity, has been well known, as it appears in several ways in Rosenzweig’s treatise. It is a dynamic ‘and’ indicating the way Judaism and Christianity are connected, God and the World, etc. Now another interpretation of the ‘and’ is possible, namely, oscillation, a process occurring in time. Example 3. Philosophy of interfaith dialogue, continued The dialogical philosophers, such as Martin Buber or Emmanuel Levinas, who have contributed so much to our understanding of dialogue were constantly referring to religion. They have not developed, however, philosophies of interreligious dialogue, that is, of dialogue that is specifically interreligious. In order to explain this claim, which is done after Krajewski 2007, 2008 and 2018, let us notice that the two visionary thinkers were concerned with inter-human, rather than specifically interreligious dialogue. The latter requires treating its participants not just as generic humans, but as humans whose faith forms a constitutive part of the dialogical relationship.

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Buber’s “I-Thou” relation remains the fundamental point of departure, as does Levinas’s ethical relationship conceived as the foundation of properly understood dialogue. Yet to extend the theory of dialogue, we should consider, I believe, not only “Thou”, or “You” (singular), but also “Ye,” or “You” (plural), as a fundamental reality. In interreligious dialogue, it is necessary to present the Ye not as a social structure, but rather as an original reality in which transcendence is manifested. This seems to fit at least the Abrahamic religions. Thus we get the following picture of an interreligious encounter. I begin by treating the partner as “Thou” (Buber style), doing it as well as I can, but the moment her religious commitment emerges as essential it becomes clear that “I-Thou” word is not enough. In order to consider her with all her religiosity I need to refer to the “Ye.” Soon, however, I realize that I am faced with one particular person, so the plural is rather inadequate. Instead, the “Thou” approach seems necessary. But, as before, it is not sufficient, so I switch to the “Ye” again. And so we continue. Oscillation seems inevitable. It can be schematically rendered as follows: Approach I: Thou Approach II: Ye

3 Other Examples of Oscillation Oscillation can be detected in other domains. The two examples offered below are sufficient to suggest that the phenomenon can be widespread. Example 4. Characterization of Jews as a group The distinction of the two approaches of Example 1, the universal and the particular, can be adopted to understand the meaning of the term “Jew” in a way that seems illuminating. There are many attempts to say who are Jews as a group. Most proposals belong to Approach I, since they apply a sociological category: a religion, a people, a nation, a tribe. Each category is useful, and, at the same time, each is inadequate. Approach II would mean here that Jews constitute a unique group, a sui generis entity. In Biblical Hebrew, the people of Israel, or the House of Israel, is designated as am segullah, which indicates uniqueness. Our two approaches become: Approach I: Jews being a sociological category: a religion, a people, a nation, a tribe. Approach II: Jews as constituting a unique group, a sui generis entity. Much can be said in favor of each of these views. Clearly, all just mentioned sociological categories are fruitfully applicable. Some other categories can be invoked too, for example, family. Yet from a more traditional Jewish perspective all those concepts remain insufficient. Jews look more like a people or a family “with a mission,” and to understand the point properly a degree of immersion in the tradition is needed. Still, considering social issues, it is necessary to use general

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categories, and frequently it is necessary to juxtapose Jews with other groups, and then the general sociological concepts must be used, so Approach I is back. Thus, also in this case oscillation seems inevitable. (This was mentioned in Krajewski, 2011, 2012.) It is also worth noting that the very idea of the Jewish “mission” can be explained either from within (Approach II), as a unique covenant with the Creator, or from outside (Approach I), as a conviction born from Jewish experiences, but not dissimilar to other similar convictions. Thus, also in the attempts to define Jewish specificity some oscillation between the two approaches seems unavoidable and fruitful. Example 5. Philosophy of mathematics A completely different kind of examples is possible when philosophical views of mathematics are analyzed. The examples invoke familiar issues, for example the duality between the intended model of a theory and the many other models that a first order theory always admits. It is, however, non-standard to look at the situation as involving two approaches and an oscillation between them. The simplest expression of this oscillation refers to numbers. Most people, including professional mathematicians, assume that numbers exist out there. Or at least this is the case for the standard natural numbers 0,1,2,3,. . . Those who are familiar with foundations of mathematics and the incompleteness theorems, discovered by Gödel and extended by others, begin with the same naïve conviction about the existence of numbers but, due to their knowledge, they accept the fact that some properties of the finite natural numbers depend on highly non-finite assumptions. For example, assuming the consistency of the theory ZF + MC, i.e., the standard set theory extended by the statement of the existence of a measurable cardinal number, we automatically admit the truth of the statement that there are no solutions to a certain Diophantine equation. This statement is not natural number-theoretically, but is logically simple. (This follows from the Matiyasevich-Robinson-Davis-Putnam Theorem. A good introduction to this subject can be found in Davis, 1995.) Without entering into details of this matter it should be clear that when numbers are considered theories must be seen as basic. Some properties of the natural numbers depend on problematic features of the theories. A formalist approach becomes natural. It is, however, hardly the end of the story. Theories are not arbitrary. Formalism is not sufficient, almost all of us sooner or later do refer to the natural numbers. The intended model is back. And then the inadequate character of this naïve view can emerge with its formalist consequences, and again. . . It seems to me that the situation can be described as oscillation between the two approaches, the realist and the formalist. Approach I: objective, Platonist approach Approach II: theory-dependent, formalist approach Some philosophers may try to stick to one of the approaches. Yet it seems that a majority would oscillate. In other words, there are mathematical realities in which the incompleteness phenomenon implying the existence of many models is essential and, at the same time, the presence of the intended model is de facto unavoidable.

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Clearly, the two approaches presented in each of the above examples are complementary. At the same time, it is unclear whether the concept of complementarity is sufficient to explain the situations indicated in the Examples 4 and 5. And it seems that it is insufficient to explain Examples 1 and 3, those describing interreligious encounters. The concept of complementarity in physics has no standard unambiguous meaning. According to Leon Rosenfeld, „Complementarity is no system, no doctrine with ready-made precepts. There is no via regia to it; no formal definition of it can even be found in Bohr’s writings, and this worries many people” (after Cohen & Stachel, 1979, 532). That is why the comparison of complementarity with the phenomenon of oscillation must depend on the interpretation of complementarity, a debatable matter. The creator of the modern concept of complementarity, Niels Bohr, talked primarily about incompatible features of material objects at the quantum level. According to Erhard Scheibe, “Bohr’s final formulation of the topic . . . refers to mutually complementary phenomena” (Scheibe, 1973, 31). Thus, “the apparently incompatible sorts of information about the behavior of the object under examination which we get by different experimental arrangements can clearly not be brought into connection with each other in the usual way, but may, as equally essential for an exhaustive account of all experience, be regarded as ‘complementary’ to each other” (Bohr, 1937, 291; quoted after Scheibe, 1973, 31). On the other hand, referring to oscillation, we talk about approaches to the issue rather than properties of the objects studied. Admittedly, Bohr also referred to general principles, for instance when he mentioned the “complementarity between the principle of superposition and the dynamical conservation laws” (after Scheibe, 1973, 32). Yet his focus was always on the properties of the material world. Each of the complementary approaches can be seen as sufficient for the description of the situation at hand, and it is only another experimental situation that can require the other approach. Thus, light can be seen as either waves or particles, so people say that it is both; in fact, when the photoelectric effect is explained, the corpuscular nature of light is invoked, as did Einstein, and when interference of light is described, then the wave description is applied. In the case of oscillation the insufficiency of the adopted approach, whichever is taken, emerges at some point in the account of a phenomenon, and it appears as the need to switch to the other approach, because the insufficiency of the current one is felt at some point by the subject involved in the event. It is still the same person, continuing to refer to the same reality. We are faced with a sequence of changes of perspective of one agent rather than different accounts that can coexist so that each agent can maintain his position indefinitely. Now, when complementarity is characterized one can also adopt the perspective I have just associated with oscillation. According to it, we try to express in classical terms the quantum reality that is fundamentally non-classical, and complementarity is a consequence of shifting approaches. Thus an electron is a wave for us, but sometimes when we observe it the electron is, for us, a particle. “The electrons passing through the slits are described by a wave function . . . Then when they hit the screen they are being observed, and it’s at that point they appear to us as particles”

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(Carroll, 2019, 48). Under this interpretation one can perceive an oscillation between the perception of waves and that of particles. Therefore, the process of comparison of the general idea of complementarity in physics on one hand and the general pattern of oscillation as manifested in interfaith dialogue on the other can itself be described as another example of something like an oscillation. Namely, either one assumes that they are basically of the same kind or that they deeply differ. Thus two initial approaches are possible: Approach I: Complementarity and oscillation are fundamentally the same, both are a matter of approach. Approach II: Complementarity and oscillation fundamentally differ, complementarity is about matter, oscillation about our approaches to it. Each approach can be consistently maintained, but none would be sufficient. How general are the phenomena of complementarity and oscillation? With regard to complementarity in physics there were debates whether it was a general position rather than specific modern physical conception. For example, some authors saw William James’s account of psychology as a source for Bohr. However, according to the editor of Bohr’s papers on this subject, Joergen Kalckar, “Rosenfeld very aptly remarked” that “Bohr’s conception of complementarity in quantum mechanics is not the expression of a ‘specific philosophical position’, but an inherent part of the theory which has the same validity as its formal aspect and is inseparable from it” (Bohr, 1985, 28). And it is exceptional within physics: “Quantum mechanics is unique among physical theories in drawing an apparent distinction between what we see and what really is” (Carroll, 2019, 11). Those remarks seem to indicate that complementarity constitutes a specifically physical phenomenon. This claim remains possible even if other physicists1 and philosophers (cf. Plotnitsky, 2013), would see complementarity as an application of a philosophical position. In the case of oscillation, as suggested by the Examples 1 to 5, the process reflects a general pattern: distinct, incompatible approaches are possible, one giving rise to the other, which leads to the process of successive changes. The recognition of this picture amounts to a philosophical position.

4 Logical Systems Inspired by the Examples Adopting in turn distinct approaches that are incompatible with each other seems fine, even though taken literally the two positions contradict each other and ex contradictione quodlibet. Still, we feel safe: no contradiction should follow if we know how to handle the situation. In order to formulate a formal logical account of oscillation we should turn to paraconsistent logics. It would be good, however, to be

1 As stressed by Marek Kuś, to whom I am grateful for his opinion, for some quotes and the explanations of the “heuristic” view of complementarity that makes it similar to oscillation.

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as close to the classical account as possible. A similar approach was adopted by Newton DaCosta and Decio Krause who referred to examples in physics to propose a logic of complementarity (see their da Costa & Krause, 2006, 2008, 2014.) In their work they use the concept of “paraclassical logic” that I adopt as a starting point in the present paper. It should be mentioned that David Makinson in his presentation of the passage from classical to non-monotonic logics (in 2003, 2005) calls some consequence relations paraclassical, but it is a different use of the term. It refers to relations of consequence that are closure operations, i.e., they include classical consequence and also satisfy both cut and monotony. On the other hand, it would be of interest to relate the present proposal to preservationism of Schotch & Jennings, 1980, who also consider a consequence relation over maximally consistent subsets.2 The simple paraclassical logic is defined as follows. For a sentence α and a set of sentences A that may be inconsistent paraclassical consequence is defined as. A╠ α if and only if for a consistent subset B of A, B ‘ α. Here ‘‘’ denotes classical consequence, as will do the standard term ‘Cn’, and the notation ‘╠’ is new; the term ‘CnPcl’ will denote the paraclassical consequence. Note that paraclassical consequences of A always form a non-trivial set. For example direct contradictions are not derivable. (Makinson considers the intersection of all maximal consistent subsets of A. Maximality is needed, of course. We could say, loosely speaking, that while ╠ gives the maximal theory somehow produced by consistent subtheories, the intersection of all maximally consistent theories gives a minimal extension.) In the simple case fitting our motivating examples, we have A1, A2 – each consistent ⊆ A, together inconsistent. In particular, if A0 is the axiomatization of the common uncontroversial part then we can have A1 = Cn(A0 [ {α}), A2 = Cn (A0 [ {β}), and α, β are incompatible, that is,Ø(α ^ β) follows (classically) form A0. In particular we can have β = Ø α, or, slightly more generally, A0 ‘ β  Ø α. Clearly, we can have many mutually incompatible statements. In the basic case when A is just A0 [ {α, β} for incompatible α and β, the only consistent subsets of A other than subsets of A0 are A1 and A2. Then CnPcl(A0 [ {α, β}) = A1 [ A2, but their intersection can be larger than A0. In the simplest case, when β = Ø α, A1 and A2 are the only maximal consistent subsets of A and their intersection is A0. To establish this, let us use the notation T + S ≔ Cn(T [ S). We have A1 = A0 + α, A2 = A0 + β. Then Cn(A0) ⊆ A1 \ A2 and A1 \ A2 = Cn(A0) if β = Ø α or if the equivalence of β to Øα follows from A0. It is the only possibility to have the equality: Proposition 1 If A1 = A0 + α, A2 = A0 + β are incompatible then Cn(A0) = A1 \ A2 iff A0 ‘ β  Ø α.

2

I am grateful to an anonymous referee for pointing to preservationism. See also Schotch et al. (2009) and, for the proposal of “Chunk and Permeate strategy,” Brown and Priest (2004). It has also been noted that a comparison with the logic of belief revision (see Hansson, 2022) is needed.

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Proof If (β  Ø α) is derivable in A0, use the classical tautology [(α → γ) ^ (Øα → γ)] → γ to get Cn(A0) = A1 \ A2. On the other hand, if (β  Ø α) is not in Cn(A0) then the inclusion Cn (A0) ⊆ A1 \ A2 is sharp. To see this consider α _ β. It obviously is in A1 \ A2 but if A0 ‘ α _ β then, taking into account A0 ‘ Ø (α ^ β), we get A0 ‘ (Øα  β). The above logic can serve as the first approximation to the logic of oscillation. It is however essential that in our examples of oscillation the incompatible statements are not part of the respective theories, but rather represent diverging attitudes to the subject matter, or perhaps to the theories. Hence the following. Problem 1 Express the fact that α, β may be general principles, outside the theory. A formal expression of this fact can be made by having them formulated in a richer language. Perhaps they can be seen as belonging to a metatheory of A0. For example, one can consider a formalization of truth or satisfaction for A0. Various properties of this formalization can be expressed in the second order language. Yet connection of such metatheoretical considerations to the examples of oscillation is, unfortunately, not apparent. Another problem seems even more difficult. The main feature of the phenomenon of oscillation is that it is a process occurring in time. How can this be expressed formally? Problem 2 Express the process of oscillation, the fact that at one moment α is assumed, at the next β, and then again and again. We can try to do this by saying that we have a sequence of time moments t0, t1, t2, . . . In each moment a theory is adopted, so that we get a sequence of theories T0, T1, T2, T3, . . ., corresponding to our beliefs or approaches to the subject. Because in our examples we have only two theories, A1 and A2, our sequence looks rather as A1, A2, A1, A2, . . ., with A1 in the even moments (beginning with 0), A2 in odd moments. In each moment we are consistent, but overall we have inconsistent beliefs. What follows from the beliefs is the union of A1 and A2, that is, the logical consequences of our beliefs are according to ╠ considered sequentially. The system emerging in this way can be called sequential paraclassical logic. Rather than an arbitrary consistent subset, in each moment we consider specific consistent subsets.

Time:

t0

Approach

A1

t1

t2

t3

t4

t5

…

A1

… Approach β

A2

A2

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This scheme is too simple, however, because our knowledge grows. Therefore, n nþ1 we can assume that each subset grows: An1 ⊂ Anþ1 1 , A2 ⊂ A2 ,. . . for n = 0,1,2,. . ., and still each subset is consistent.

Approach

… Approach β We may assume that An1 is A0 + αn, and An2 = A0 þ βn . From the standpoint of model theory it would be natural to consider the “limit,” that is the set of α’s and the set of β’s. To do this would, however, reduce the process to its idealized result, which seems wrong. Problem 1 is about expanding the language and Problem 2 is about introducing change in time. It would be desirable to have more specific systems that would give answers to Problem 1 and Problem 2 simultaneously. Is this possible?

References Bohr, N. (1937). Causality and complementarity. Philosophy of Science, 4(3), 289–298. Bohr, N. (1985). Foundations of quantum physics. J. Kalckar (Ed.). (Collected works) (Vol. 6). North-Holland. Brown, B., & Priest, G. (2004). Chunk and permeate, a paraconsistent inference strategy. Part I: The infinitesimal calculus. Journal of Philosophical Logic, 33(2004), 379–388. Carroll, S. (2019). Something deeply hidden. Quantum worlds and the emergence of spacetime. Dutton. Cohen, R. S., & Stachel, J. J. (Eds.). (1979). Selected papers of Leon Rosenfeld. Reidel. da Costa, N. C. A., & Krause, D. (2006). The logic of complementarity. In J. van Benthem et al. (Eds.), The age of alternative logics: Assessing philosophy of logic today (pp. 103–120). Springer. da Costa, N. C. A., & Krause, D. (2008). Physics and non-classical logic. In D. Degremont, L. Keiff, & H. Ruckert (Eds.), Dialogues, logics, and other strange things: Essays in honour of Shahid Rahman (pp. 105–122). College. da Costa, N. C. A., & Krause, D. (2014). Physics, inconsistency, and quasi-truth. Synthese, 191(13), 3041–3055. Davis, M. (1995). Introductory note to *193? In S. Feferman et al. (Eds.), Kurt Gödel, Collected works (Vol. III, pp. 156–163). Oxford University Press. Hansson, S. O. (2022). Logic of belief revision. In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Stanford encyclopedia of philosophy (Spring 2022 ed.) https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2022/entries/logic-beliefrevision/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Krajewski, S. (2007). Towards the philosophy of inter-religious dialogue. In L. Faltin & M. J. Wright (Eds.), The religious roots of contemporary European identity (pp. 179–191). Continuum.

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Krajewski, S. (2008). Emmanuel Lévinas and interfaith dialogue. In A. Lipszyc (Ed.), Emmanuel Lévinas: Philosophy, theology, politics (pp. 160–169). Instytut Adama Mickiewicza. Krajewski, S. (2011). A meditation on intellectual humility, or, on a fusion of epistemic ignorance and covenantal certainty. In J. Heft, R. Firestone, & O. Safi (Eds.), Learned ignorance. An investigation into humility in interreligious dialogue among Christians, Muslims and Jews (pp. 241–256). Oxford University Press. Krajewski, S. (2012). Oscillation: Interreligious dialogue between objective and subjective approaches. In N. Riemer (Ed.), Jewish lifeworlds and Jewish thought. Festschrift presented to Karl E. Grözinger on the occasion of his 70th birthday (pp. 381–388). Harrasowitz Verlag. Krajewski, S. (2017). What I owe to interreligious dialogue and Christianity. The Judaica Foundation. Krajewski, S. (2018). Franz Rosenzweig, the Jewish people, »and« Christianity in Dialogue. In M. Handelman, E. Meir, & C. Wiese (Eds.), Rosenzweig Jahrbuch / Rosenzweig Yearbook 11, Das »Und« im Werk Franz Rosenzweigs / The »And« in Franz Rosenzweig’s Work (pp. 68–84). Verlag Karl Alber. Makinson, D. (2003). Bridges between classical and nonmonotonic logic. Logic Journal of the IGPL, 11(1), 69–96. Makinson, D. (2005). Bridges from classical to nonmonotonic logic. King’s College Publications. Plotnitsky, A. (2013). Niels Bohr and complementarity. An introduction. Springer. Scheibe, E. (1973). The logical analysis of quantum mechanics. Pergamon Press. Schotch, P. K., & Jennings, R. (1980). Inference and necessity. Journal of Philosophical Logic, 9, 327–340. Schotch, P. K., Brown, B., & Jennings, R. (Eds.). (2009). On preserving: Essays on preservationism and paraconsistent logic. University of Toronto Press.

Part III

Religious Identities in Translation

Just as Good as the Original? Establishing the Septuagint as Sacred Ashley L. Bacchi

The Hebrew Bible is viewed by Jewish communities not only as the sacred Word of G*d, but as offering multiple layers of meaning that have been explored through literal, philosophical, midrashic, and esoteric lenses.1 Some traditions regard the text as omni-significant, so laden with mystical significance that it is viewed as black fire on white fire, meaning that every element of the page from the white of the paper to every stroke of black ink holds layers of divine truth.2 Thus interpretation and commentary has been an integral part of Jewish history. This has allowed for vibrant and diverse Jewish traditions across time and geographical location as there is an implicit acknowledgment that there is no one single reading. Interpretations of the divine text have always been up for discussion, debate, and (re)interpretation which has allowed it to fit a variety of cultural contexts.3 Hebrew is thus acknowledged as an ancient and sacred language to Jewish communities across the world, but not all people that identify as religiously or ethnically Jewish know Hebrew. Does one’s ability to read Hebrew impact one’s identity as Jewish? While the majority of communities would say no, this is a question that has been raised in a

1

PaRDeS for example is an acronym for a Jewish form of exegesis: Peshat referring to surface or plain-sense literal meaning; Remez referring to “hint” or philosophical or allegorical meaning; Drash referring to “search” or homily, midrash, or metaphorical meanings; and Sod meaning secret or esoteric, mystical, or hidden meanings. PaRDeS as an acronym was first discussed as an interpretive model by Moses de León in the thirteenth century, but we can find examples of this approach beforehand. Concerning spelling of G*d, see Schüssler Fiorenza, 2021, 2 fn 5. 2 For reference to “black fire on white fire,” see Midrash Tanchuma, bereshit 1; Jerusalem Talmud, tract Sota 8, 3, 37a. 3 This is exemplified in rabbinic literature by the preservation of different interpretations by rabbis through a dialogue of back and forth in the Talmud. A. L. Bacchi (✉) Starr King School for the Ministry, Oakland, CA, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_11

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variety of religious communities over time as sacred texts have been translated into what some traditionalists would classify as secular languages.4 This paper will explore Hellenistic and early Roman Judean reflections on the creation of the Septuagint and how its designation as legitimately sacred alongside the Hebrew Pentateuch was propagated and questions whether it held the same position with bilingual Judeans. Due to the limits of this paper, I will not be addressing the debates regarding when the Hebrew Bible was closed and canonized,5 rather the following will focus on sources which establish or reference the status of the Greek Torah/Pentateuch, known as the Septuagint (LXX), and question if and how its language may have impacted religious identity as well as religious expression of Hellenistic and Roman Judeans. The sources which engage in discussion about the authority of the Septuagint are the Letter of Aristeas, Philo of Alexandria, and Josephus. The Letter of Aristeas is written by a pseudonymous Alexandrian Judean author and consensus holds that it dated to the second century BCE.6 Aristeas is presented as the author, a gentile member of the third century BCE Ptolemaic court, who is reporting the events leading up to and including the writing of the Septuagint in a letter to his brother Philocrates. As the narrative unfolds, Demetrius of Phalerum, the librarian of the famous Library of Alexandria, informed Ptolemy II Philadelphus that his library did not have a copy of the laws of the Judeans (the Pentateuch/first five books of Moses). Philadelphus approved for a request to be sent to the high priest in Jerusalem, Eleazar, to send six elders from each of the twelve tribes to Alexandria to create a translation for his library. There is an excursus that addresses allegorical understandings of Jewish religious observance, such as the dietary restrictions of kashrut. The elders brought with them the Hebrew Pentateuch inscribed on parchment in gold. Philadelphus hosted seven days of banquets for the seventy-two elders, asking each of them questions in order for them to demonstrate their wisdom before they were sent to the island of Pharos to complete their work in collaboration with one another: “And they accomplished it, making each detail agree by comparisons with each other.” (§302, Wright, 2015, 433) Aristeas implies divine guidance and approval in §307 which states, “And thus it happened that the work of transcription was completed in seventy-two days, appearing as if the circumstance happened by some plan” (Wright, 2015, 434). The completed work was read out loud to the Jewish community, including the priests, elders, and leaders in Alexandria. And when the rolls were read, the priests and the elders of the translators and some from the politeuma and the leaders of the people stood and said, “Since the exposition has been made

4

For discussion of these themes see Eryılmaz, 2020; Hemel and Szafraniec 2016; Edwards, 2009; Seidman, 2006. 5 With the Hebrew Bible as a tripartite canon consisting of 24 books. See the following for debates related to the establishing of a fixed canon: Ossandón Widow, 2018; Lim, 2013; Carr, 2011. 6 All translations are from Wright 2015. While the text is most often referred to as the Letter of Aristeas or the Book of Aristeas (B.Ar) I will follow Wright in referring to it as Aristeas, the pseudonymous Jewish author as Ps.-Aristeas, and the character of Aristeas in the text as Aristeas. See Wright (2015) for overview of dating debates, scholarship, and the most recent translation.

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well, piously and accurately in every respect, it is good that it remain just as it is and there be no revision at all.” And then all assented to what had been said. They ordered that there be a curse, just as is their custom, upon anyone who might revise by adding or changing anything at all of what had been written or by making a deletion. They did this well so that it would always be preserved everlastingly and permanently. §310-311 (Writght, 2015, 441).

Benjamin Wright highlights that Aristeas functions as a validation for the status the LXX held as it was received in the second century BCE, which should not be confused with the original status it held when the LXX was originally produced. “The author portrays the Septuagint as being a free-standing replacement for the Hebrew text from its very origins, a translation that served as the sacred scripture of the Alexandrian Jewish community right from the beginning” (Wright, 2015, 13). Sylvie Honigman argues “the role and purpose of B.Ar. was to turn the story of the origins of the LXX into a myth” (Honigman, 2003, 41). Sara Raup Johnson concludes the purpose of Aristeas is: . . .to show, in particular, that the Septuagint is a perfectly, even divinely, accurate translation, made by scholars who were equally well qualified in Greek and Jewish traditions, working in an atmosphere of ideal harmony, cooperation, and mutual respect, and that therefore an Alexandrian Jew who kept the law according to the Septuagint was every bit as pious as a Jew who attended the Temple in Jerusalem. (Raup Johnson, 2005, 38)

Honigman has proposed that Ps.-Aristeas offers what she terms an “Exodus paradigm” which provides correspondences to key events in the biblical Exodus narrative which culminates in the giving of the law to Moses on Mt. Sinai in order to validate the LXX as having the same status as the Hebrew Torah (see Honigman, 2003, ch. 2). This is accomplished in some ways by offering an idyllic inversion of the biblical paradigm: “In the Bible, the Jews escape from Egypt not only to material freedom, but also to be given the Law on Mount Sinai, before they are finally led into the Promised Land. Ptolemy’s benevolence means that there is now no need to flee. The Law can and will be received in Alexandria. B.Ar. is the story of a non-Exodus” (Honigman, 2003, 56). Aristeas functions as a charter myth which validates the shift of the LXX from the status of a translation to a sacred text in and of itself as well as representing the fruit of the harmonious relationship of the Ptolemaic regime and the Judean community in Egypt. Consensus holds that the audience for Aristeas was Hellenistic Judeans. Does the text offer indications that Ps.-Aristeas intended to validate this shift intentionally? If so, what concerns do those indications suggest Ps.-Aristeas was addressing by establishing this charter myth? Honigman and Maren Niehoff contextualize Aristeas within Hellenistic literary trends to address some of the idiosyncrasies that are present in the narrative. For instance, Honigman discusses the Aristotelian method of close collaboration of scholars in the production of texts in the Athenian schools as the intellectual context influencing the translation project articulated in Aristeas as the result of collaboration between the seventy-two elders. Maren Niehoff sets the scene of Alexandrian scholarship, particularly Aristarchus’ grammatical enterprise, to create a picture of vigorous textual study heavily influenced by Homeric trends in text criticism and Aristotelian pedagogical approaches to proper text handling.

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Both Honigman and Niehoff argue that the use of technical words in relation to translation, editing, and transcription in Aristeas is deliberately ambiguous. Honigman argues this blurring is the result of equating this process of translation with the techniques used on Homer, which entailed first the reading of the text and then rendering the correct markings (Honigman, 2003, 47–8). Niehoff argues that Aristeas was concerned that the LXX would be subjected to these current trends in Homeric scholarship, namely text criticism (Niehoff, 2011, 19–29). Niehoff contends that the author’s use of technical terminology reflects a conservative stance on how sacred scripture should be handled. Aristarchus, the chief librarian and Alexandrian Homeric scholar of the second century BCE, was taking a text critical approach to Homer and identifying interpolations, such as additions, omissions, and motif transfers (Niehoff, 2011, 23–5). Once Aristarchus identified problem passages he would mark them accordingly with a set of characters to inform the reader of his conclusion, much like the notes that can be found in the Masoretic text today. Niehoff argues that the curse of interpolators in Aristeas §311 is a warning to Judeans against approaching the Septuagint in the same manner (Niehoff, 2011, 26–7). Thus details within Aristeas indicate that Ps.-Aristeas was not only validating the status of the LXX as sacred by evoking resonances with Exodus and allusions to Mosaic authority, but simultaneously engaging with Greek literary scholarship and establishing the boundaries for how far and in what manner Hellenistic Judeans were permitted to subject the LXX to those scholarly pursuits. Ps.-Aristeas is thus setting up the guidelines for how Hellenistic Judeans can piously engage with the sacred text, approving allegorical interpretations while prohibiting text critical approaches. Philo of Alexandria provides a prime example of those guidelines being followed. Philo (ca. 15 BCE–45 CE) recounts the creation of the LXX in his Life of Moses 2.25–44 and largely follows the same narrative given in Aristeas (see Wright, 2006). Whereas Ps.-Aristeas waits for the completed product to be read aloud to the community and then acknowledged as sacred, Philo recounts this as the intention from the start: Reflecting how great an undertaking it was to make a full version of the laws given by the Voice of God, where they could not add or take away or transfer anything, but must keep the original form and shape. (2.34) . . . and taking the sacred books, stretched them out towards heaven with the hands that held them, asking of God that they might not fail in their purpose. And He assented to their prayers, to the end that the greater part, or even the whole, of the human race might be profited and led to better life by continuing to observe such wise and truly admirable ordinances. (2.36) . . . they became as it were possessed, and, under inspiration, wrote, not each several scribe something different, but the same word for word, as though dictated to each by an invisible prompter. Yet who does not know that every language, and Greek especially, abounds in terms, and that the same thought can be put in many shapes by changing single words and whole phrases and suiting the expression to the occasion? This was not the case, we are told, with this law of ours, but the Greek words used literally with the Chaldean, exactly suited to things they indicated. (2.37–38)7

7

Philo, Life of Moses 2.34–38, all translations from Colson, 1966, 465–469.

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Philo repeatedly evokes active divine interaction throughout the process, which Ps.Aristeas only subtly implies once when the translators complete their work in seventy-two days, a detail which Philo does not include. The collaboration between the elders is abandoned for the more miraculous proposition that each scribe wrote independently and arrived at the same wording, a feat which Philo emphasizes as unbelievable given the nature of language thus proving its sacred nature. Philo further clarifies the relationship between both sacred texts: “. . .they regard them with awe and reverence as sisters, or rather one and the same, both in matter and words, and speak of the authors not as translators but as prophets and priests of the mysteries, whose sincerity and singleness of thought has enabled them to go hand in hand with the purest of spirits, the spirit of Moses.”8 (2.40–41). Ps.-Aristeas offers a charter myth that is grounded in the political and religious mortal landscape by deferring power and agency to Ptolemy, the high priest Eleazar, the seventy-two elders as well as the Alexandrian Judean community. Philo furthers the mythos by de-emphasizing the role of mortal agency by excluding the public reading and emphasizing the spiritual nature of the project. He adheres to the boundaries set by Ps.-Aristeas by re-affirming that the LXX should not be edited and demonstrates his proclivity to allegorical readings through his extensive commentary on biblical narratives which is his primary mode of interpretation to address any irregularities, contradictions, or seemingly controversial details of Jewish history.9 It could be said that Philo had a vested interest in reaffirming the sacrality of the LXX as a Greekspeaking Judean without access to the original Hebrew text. Is there the same level of investment for Judeans that have access to both texts? Is there the same apparent interest in maintaining the guidelines set forth in Aristeas concerning how to piously engage with the LXX as a sacred text? Flavius Josephus (ca. 37–100 CE) offers his own version of the account of Aristeas in Jewish Antiquities 12.11–118. Josephus even refers specifically to Aristeas as a person in Ptolemy’s court who was involved in the events related to the LXX beginning in 12.17. Now when the Law had been transcribed and the work of translation brought to an end in seventy-two days, Demetrius assembled all the Jews at the same place where the laws had been rendered, and in the presence of the translators read them aloud. Thereupon the people expressed their approval of the elders who had interpreted the Law, and also praised Demetrius for conceiving the idea through which he had become the originator of great benefits to them, and they urged him as well to give their leaders the Law to read; and all of them, including the priest and the eldest of the translators and the chief officers of the community (politeuma), requested that, since the translation had been successfully completed, it should remain as it was and not be altered. Accordingly, when all had approved this idea, they ordered that, if anyone saw any further addition made to the text of the Law or

8

Philo, Life of Moses 2.40–41. Trans. Colson, 1966, 469. There are extensive resources on Philo’s use of allegory, for a concise discussion and references see Kamesar, 2009. Note that there is a brief reference to the LXX in the fragments of Aristobulus (fragment 3, Eusebius Praep. Ev. 13.12.1–2), Aristobulus was also known for allegorical interpretations of biblical narrative. For comparison of Aristobulus, Aristeas, and Philo see Janowitz, 1991.

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anything omitted from it, he should examine it and make it known and correct it; in this they acted wisely, that what had once been judged good might remain forever. (12.107–109)10

Josephus returns to many of the details that were present in Aristeas but omitted in Philo. Josephus mentions specifically that two elders from each tribe will be chosen (12.39, 49, and 56), but in 12.57 and 12.86 he refers to the group as consisting of only seventy elders, which may be the origin of the received tradition which refers to the Greek Pentateuch as the Septuagint/LXX.11 Josephus maintains that the completed composition is read before the community and that it is agreed upon that it should be retained unaltered. The key points of difference that relate to our discussion are that he does not refer to it in sacred terms as being pious and accurate, he does not mention the ordering of a curse, and he opens a discussion for when text-critical approaches may be employed. Josephus was able to access both the Hebrew and the Greek Pentateuch which may account for the differences in Aristeas and Philo. Philo is primarily known as a philosopher while Josephus is primarily known as a historian, so their rhetorical styles as well as content differ noticeably. When comparing the full account in each source, Ps.-Aristeas and Josephus offer a number of similarities in various details. Josephus does not add any details that contribute directly to the charter myth which sacralizes the LXX. His account can be categorized in modern terms as the most secular or historical depiction, while Philo presents the most spiritually grounded account and Aristeas falls between the two. Josephus does not reflect any strict adherence to or interest in supporting the guidelines set out in Aristeas, but rather centers a focus on the mortal/political relationships the translation project itself attests to and how that reflects a wider acknowledgement of the importance and desirability of Judean wisdom. In this way Josephus’ expansions center on those communal relationships, where Philo’s center on furthering divine interaction. Should the translation and subsequent charter myth be seen as a signal of tensions between the Hebrew and Greek-speaking Judean communities? The claim in Aristeas that the LXX is sacred and functions in the same capacity and authority as the Hebrew is not a challenge to Jerusalem, but rather a validation of Greek-speaking Judeans and their continued connection to the divine law of their ancestral homeland. Erich Gruen makes a key observation concerning the relationship between Alexandria and Jerusalem: Insofar as one may detect a “synthesis,” it is not between Judaism and Hellenism but between Diaspora Jews and the center in Jerusalem. The main theme of the treatise delivers this point unmistakably: the Septuagint, the Bible of the Greek Diaspora, was itself the creation of Jerusalem sages and had the blessing of the High Priest. Whatever the truth of that questionable proposition, the Letter of Aristeas proclaims that Jews of the homeland and those abroad share a stake in their common tradition. (Gruen, 1998, 221)

10

All translations from Marcus, 1986, 53–55. See Marcus, Josephus J.A 12.57, 31n.b. Note that Philo does not make reference to the number of elders sent to Alexandria in his account. 11

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This aligns with Ps.-Aristeas’s description of the Hebrew text in §176–177 as well as the idyllic description given of Jerusalem in §100–120 and indicates that the Alexandrian Judean community understood sacred authority as emanating from Jerusalem. The charter myth that is created in Aristeas then combats the perspective that Greek speaking Judeans are in any way inferior regarding their access to the sacred. John J. Collins nuances this picture by contextualizing the political instability in Jerusalem in the second century BCE: The Letter as a whole is not characterized by any polemic against Judea, but it does not present a view of Judaism centered on Jerusalem either. It is rather a manifesto of the selfsufficiency of Diaspora Judaism, which respects Jerusalem as its source, but speaks of an idealized biblical Judea rather than the actual state of the Hasmoneans. (Collins, 2000, 103)

This contemporary political context adds another layer of meaning to my earlier characterization that the charter myth offers the translation as the symbolic fruit of the harmonious relationship between the Alexandrian Judean community and the Ptolemaic regime. It then functions as a subtle reminder of their close relationship with and loyalty to the Ptolemaic kingdom and attests to their history in Egypt. I have argued that Third Maccabees similarly highlights the long history of loyalty and piety by Egyptian Judeans in order to distance themselves from the militarily active Hasmonean dynasty to avert being seen as associated with a politically subversive regime (see Bacchi, 2014). The following has been a brief survey of Aristeas and Philo’s reflections on how the sacred nature of the LXX was established while offering Josephus as a bilingual counterpoint that challenges the guidelines for maintaining that sacrality. All three texts do not indicate that Judean identity is contingent on knowledge of Hebrew. Ps.Aristeas and Philo reflect an active interest in establishing the LXX as just as sacred as the Hebrew Pentateuch which allows for equal access to the divine Word for Greek-speaking Judeans. This exploration opened up new avenues for discussion concerning identity and how Ps.-Aristeas may have utilized this charter myth to subtly react to the contemporary political climate in Judea and reaffirm the relationship between Alexandrian Judeans and the Ptolemaic kingdom.

References Bacchi, A. L. (2014). God as kingly foil in III Maccabees. Zutot: Perspectives on Jewish Culture, 11(1), 57–69. Carr, D. M. (2011). The formation of the Hebrew Bible: A new reconstruction. Oxford University Press. Collins, J. J. (2000). Between Athens and Jerusalem: Jewish identity in the Hellenistic diaspora (2nd ed.). Eerdmans. Colson, F. H. (1966). Philo. Harvard University Press. Edwards, J. (2009). Language and identity: An introduction. Cambridge University Press. Eryılmaz, F. S. (2020). Translating inspired language, transforming sacred texts: An introduction. Medieval Encounters, 26(4–5), 333–348.

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Gruen, E. S. (1998). Heritage and Hellenism: The reinvention of Jewish tradition. University of California Press. Honigman, S. (2003). The Septuagint and Homeric scholarship in Alexandria: A study in the narrative of the letter of Aristeas. Routledge. Janowitz, N. (1991). The rhetoric of translation: Three early perspectives on translating Torah. HTR, 84(2), 129–140. Kamesar, A. (2009). Biblical interpretation in Philo. In A. Kamesar (Ed.), The Cambridge companion to Philo (pp. 65–91). Cambridge University Press. Lim, T. H. (2013). The formation of the Jewish canon. Yale University Press. Marcus, R. (1986). Josephus: Jewish Antiquities XII-XIV. Harvard University Press. Niehoff, Maren, R. (2011). Jewish exegesis and Homeric scholarship in Alexandria. Cambridge University Press. Ossandón Widow, J. C. (2018). The origins of the canon of the Hebrew Bible: An analysis of Josephus and 4 Ezra. Brill. Johnson, Sara Raup. (2005). Historical fictions and Hellenistic Jewish identity: Third Maccabees in its cultural context. University of California Press. Schüssler Fiorenza, Elisabeth (2021). Congress of wo/men: Religion, gender, and Kyriarchal power. Wipf & Stock. Seidman, N. (2006). Faithful renderings: Jewish-Christian difference and the politics of translation. University of Chicago Press. van den Hemel, E., & Szafraniec, A. (Eds.). (2019). Words: Religious language matters. Fordham University Press. Wright, B. G., III. (2006). Translation as scripture: The Septuagint in Aristeas and Philo. In W. Kraus & R. Glenn Wooden (Eds.), Septuagint research: Issues and challenges in the study of the Greek Jewish scriptures (pp. 47–61). Society of Biblical Literature. Wright, B. G., III. (2015). Letter of Aristeas: ‘Aristeas to Philocrates’ or ‘on the translation of the law of the Jews’. De Gruyter.

Multilingualism and the Early Years of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama Movement: Navigating Linguistic Needs, Muslim Identity, and Colonial Pressures Mashal Saif

To imagine a language means to imagine a form of life. (Wittgenstein, 1953, part 1 section 19) The question is not the practical one of which language is best for teaching at which level? The question is much deeper; much more basic. It is: ‘what identity, what cultural values, what ideology should one support?’ (Rahman ,2002, 231)

The teaching of multiple languages has been the norm in South Asian Muslim educational institutions for centuries. The practice continued to be prevalent in colonial India when a variety of Muslim reform movements founded their own educational centers. The founders of each movement had unique perspectives regarding which combination of languages – Arabic, Persian, Urdu, English and others – ought to be taught, to what degree, and for what ends. This chapter focuses on the perspective of one important South Asian Muslim scholar, Muhammad ‘Ali Mongiri (1846–1927), a founder of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama religious reform movement (Hashmi, 1989, 120). The chapter highlights Mongiri’s views regarding multilingualism which informed the Nadwat al-‘Ulama reform movement and helped dictate the curriculum of the inaugural seminary (madrasa) associated with that movement. Through focusing on the linguistic ideal that Mongiri envisioned, this chapter sheds light on several broad issues in the study of religion and South Asian Islam in particular. These include: the impact of colonialism on Indian Muslims; debates over whether language is only a means of communication or whether it is also

Many thanks to Dave Grace for his help in editing and proof-reading this chapter. I am also deeply grateful to Ahmed Rafique for help with the translation of some of the Urdu phrases and sentences quoted in this chapter. M. Saif (✉) Clemson University, Clemson, SC, USA e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_12

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inextricably linked with culture and might even serve as a medium for shaping one’s worldview; and tensions between Arabic (Islam’s “original” language) and local South Asian languages. While the focus of the chapter remains on Nadwat al-‘Ulama and Mongiri, I also provide a sense of the historical context in which Indian Muslims’ attitudes towards languages were being formed. Thus, the stances of competing religious reform movements – and particularly Deoband and Aligarh – are frequently mentioned, as are the views of colonial administrators who dictated language policy in British India. The chapter begins with an introduction to Mongiri and Nadwat al-‘Ulama. It then examines Mongiri’s views on English, Arabic and Urdu instruction at Nadwat al-‘Ulama’s inaugural seminary and how a variety of concerns drove his perspective on the acquisition of these languages. My focus on Mongiri is important and unique. Despite Mongiri’s status as one of the key founders of the Nadwa al-‘Ulama reform movement and the first rector/administrator general (nazim) of the initial seminary and headquarters founded by this movement, Mongiri has not received the recognition he deserves in Western scholarship. Instead, much of Western literature on the Nadwa has focused on Shibli Nomani (d. 1914) or later figures such as Abu’l Hasan ‘Ali Nadwi (d. 1999), amongst others. This chapter is also significant since it is the first study that focuses on early Nadwa’s emphasis on a variety of languages.1

1 Sayyid Muhammad ‘Ali Mongiri: A Brief Introduction Sayyid Muhammad ‘Ali Mongiri was born in July 1846 in Kanpur into a family descended from the Prophet Muhammad (al-Hasani, 1964, 7).2 Mongiri belonged to the Hanafi legal school and in terms of his Sufi affiliations, he was a NaqshbandiMujaddidi (Malik, 1994, 72–3). In his early years he was taught the Qur’an by his uncle and studied introductory books in Persian with Mawlana Abu al-Wahid Bilgrami (al-Hasani, 1964, 7). Mongiri was a member of the very first class of incoming students at the Faiz-i ‘Aam seminary in Kanpur where his teachers included Mufti ‘Inayat Ahmad (d. 1863) and Lutf Ullah ‘Aligarhi (d. 1916) (al-Hasani, 1964, 12 and Malik, 1994, 73). Mongiri’s biographer records that he studied innumerable books with Lutf Ullah ‘Aligarhi (al-Hasani, 1964, 8).

Muhammad Qasim Zaman (1998) has written an article on a later Nadwa figure, Sayyid Abu’lHasan ‘Ali Nadwi (b. 1914), and his views on Arabic. 2 The primary source information about Mongiri and Nadwat al-‘Ulama that features in this chapter is drawn from official Nadwat al-‘Ulama sources and the writings of individuals associated with Nadwat al-‘Ulama. Frequently these are the only primary sources that document the historical and biographical details that are vital for this chapter. At the same time, it is important to acknowledge that Jamal Malik rightly notes that some of the Nadwa sources narrate Nadwa history in a manner that is not always entirely accurate. For example, they privilege the ulama’s role in the Nadwa’s establishing at the cost of crediting others (see Malik, 1994, 72 footnote 34). Thus, Malik’s work pushes us to consider that Nadwa sources should be treated with some degree of suspicion. 1

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As discussed shortly, in several ways Mongiri’s views were deeply inspired by Lutf Ullah ‘Aligarhi who recommended reforming the madrasa syllabus and urged religious scholars to study “the new philosophy,” i.e., new methods of theological argumentation used in Christian missionary work and interreligious debate (Malik, 1994, 73). After completing his education Mongiri taught at his alma mater, the Faiz-i ‘Aam seminary. Responding to what he viewed as a pressing need, he “established the Anjuman-e Tahdib, a cultural society with the objective of bringing ‘Ulama and the modern advocates . . . closer to each other” (Malik, 1994, 74). Mongiri’s activism was coupled with academic undertakings. In his book The Muhammadan Message (Paigham-i Muhammadi), published in 1890, Mongiri wrote at length about the necessity of an institution that would bring together Indian Muslims under a single institutional umbrella. His desire for this organization was driven, in part, by his experience of living in Kanpur during the zenith of Christian missionary work (Malik, 1994, 74), which birthed in him a deep desire to meet the challenges posed by missionaries. Mongiri’s concerns regarding Christian missionary efforts were augmented by his appraisal that traditional Muslim scholars (‘ulama) were incapable of addressing Christian aggression appropriately since their dialectical theology (‘ilm al-kalam) had not kept up with the times (Malik, 1994, 75). How Mongiri’s concerns – about Christian missionaries, the unsatisfactory role of Indian ‘ulama, the inadequacy of the educational curriculum of madrasas, intra-Muslim discord, etc. – informed his educational outlook and led to the birth of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama movement will be discussed in detail shortly. For the immediate present, I turn to the colonial context in which Mongiri was living and forming his views.

2 Muslim Educational Movements in Colonial India In the second half of the nineteenth century, several Islamic reform movements arose in response to the concerns and anxieties generated by the unsuccessful 1857 War of Independence which led to the establishment of direct British rule in India. These movements advocated educational agendas which ranged from a return to “true” text-centric Islam to adoption of Western modes of education and the English language. The latter view was championed by Sir Syed Ahmad Khan (d. 1898) who established the MAO College; later named Aligarh. Lord Lytton laid MAO’s foundation stone in 1877 and the college “started functioning in 1879 on the lines of the colleges of Cambridge.” (Holt et al., 1977, 84). Aligarh envisioned itself as a modern, secular educational institution where English was the primary language of instruction (Hashmi, 1989, 73); Western sciences, arts and etiquette were also taught (Hefner & Zaman, 2007, 19). The staff at Aligarh included a “core of devoted Englishmen” (Metcalf, 1982, 327). Aligarh’s focus on English was meant to serve two inter-related ends. The first was to repair the relationship between the British and Indian Muslims by drawing the latter towards English language and English culture. To that end, Aligarh students not only spoke English but also frequently adopted

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British culture, dress, and mannerisms.3 The second aim of English instruction at Aligarh was to augment the position of Muslims in colonial India. Sir Syed envisioned that Aligarh graduates would serve in key positions in the British administration, ideally as “full partners” with their colonial masters (Metcalf, 1982, 316). Approximately two-thirds of nineteenth century Aligarh graduates did in fact serve in the British government (Metcalf, 1982, 327). At the other end of the spectrum of Indian Muslims’ responses was the Deobandi movement’s educational agenda. The movement founded its inaugural religious seminary in 1867 in the town of Deoband.4 Qasim Zaman describes this movement as possibly the most significant instance in South Asia of urging the populace to conform to a the “true”/“correct” Islam of religious texts (Zaman, 1999, 303–4). The syllabus at Deoband centered on a study of revealed texts, with a special emphasis on hadith and Hanafi jurisprudence. Early Deobandi luminaries such as Muhammad Qasim Nanotwi (d. 1880) and Rashid Ahmad Gangohi (d. 1905) were opposed to the focus on rational sciences (maqulat), including philosophy and logic. Gangohi stated the following regarding the teaching of maqulat at madrasas: “Philosophy is useless. Nothing is gained from it . . .” (Nadwi & Khan, 2017, vol 1, 64). Nanotwi was sympathetic to Gangohi’s position and held that “students should study, if anything, the currently more threatening ‘new philosophy’ of the West, not that derived from the Greeks” (Metcalf, 1982, 101). While sharing some of the views expressed by Deoband’s founders and Sir Syed, Mongiri was dissatisfied with both ends of the reform movement spectrum.

3 The Founding of Nadwat al-‘Ulama5 In 1892, at the annual convocation ceremony of Madrasa Faiz-i ‘Aam – the institute from which Mongiri graduated and where he was later employed – an advisory committee of ‘ulama decided unanimously to form a council (anjuman) of ‘ulama called Nadwat al-‘Ulama (al-Hasani, 1964, 115). A driving concern that was articulated by the founding members of this council was the dire straits of Muslim education (al-Hasani, 1964, 117). Even before the founding of Nadwat al-‘Ulama, Mongiri had been concerned (like the Deobandis mentioned earlier), about the undue focus on maqulat at madrasas. And as noted briefly in the section detailing Mongiri’s biography, Mongiri was also deeply disturbed by what he viewed as the inadequacy of the ‘ilm al-kalam taught at madrasas. Mongiri’s views were not unique amongst Muslim scholars of that era. In fact, Mongiri’s biographer explains

Regarding Indian Muslims’ adoption of British culture, Holt, Lambton and Lewis write that “From the last decades of the nineteenth century, the Western style began to infiltrate systematically into the life of the English-educated Muslim aristocracy.” See Holt et al., 1977, 89. 4 For a history of this movement, see Metcalf, 1982. 5 For a brief history of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama movement in its own words, see the official Nadwa website: https://www.nadwa.in/ 3

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that the ‘ulama attending the convocation ceremony at Madrasa Faiz-i ‘Aam had not been pre-informed of the initiative to form a council. They were all already cognizant of the problems besetting Muslim education.6 Thus, when the forming of a council was proposed, they all agreed to it there and then (al-Hasani, 1964, 117). Mongiri was appointed as Nadwat al-‘Ulama’s first nazim (al-Hasani, 1964, 117). In fact, he “may be rightly called the first real founder of the movement” (Hashmi, 1989, 120). Mongiri took it upon himself to introduce Nadwat al-‘Ulama to the world. To this end, he wrote extensively in newspapers and contacted a range of ‘ulama (al-Hasani, 1964, 118). In one of his writings, he identified two factors as contributing to the establishment of Nadwat al-‘Ulama. One factor was the unprecedented rise of in-fighting and disputes amongst ‘ulama that, per Mongiri, ultimately dishonored Islam (al-Hasani, 1964, 119). Mongiri explained that Nadwat al-‘Ulama aimed to settle such disputes and unite Muslims of all bents. A second vital factor was the abysmal education offered at madrasas (al-Hasani, 1964, 119). Describing the situation of madrasa students of his time Mongiri wrote that they were plagued by the realization that their educational training afforded them no possibility for financial stability. Thus, some left in the middle of their course of study and in so doing wasted the time they spent studying at the madrasa. Moreover, during that time they acquired no knowledge that would assist them in worldly affairs. Perhaps most troublingly, due to an unnecessary focus on maqulat, they knew nothing about the basics of religion. As for students that completed their course of study at the madrasa and graduated, per Mongiri, most of them were also beset by the problems described above. They too worried about a lack of livelihood. Some amongst them become preachers but were viewed with disdain by the populace. They had no mastery over religion and could not contribute in any way to the betterment and upliftment of Islam (al-Hasani, 1964, 121–2). Commenting further on the abysmal state of madrasa students and ‘ulama, Mongiri states: Woe of woes! There is no group of madrasa graduates who can defend Islam against the critiques posed by infidels and those versed in new philosophies . . . It is the ulama’s responsibility to eradicate the poisonous effects of these critiques by whatever means possible . . . Unfortunately, unaware of the needs of the time, the ‘ulama could not establish any religious undertaking (‘amr), nor can they give an opinion on such an undertaking . . . (al-Hasani, 1964, 123–4).7

Propelled by the desire to reform Muslim education in colonial India, in April 1894 Nadwat al-‘Ulama held its first official meeting at the convocation ceremony of Madrasa Faiz-i ‘Aam. Scholars from a wide variety of bents and affiliations – including more traditional ones as well as those affiliated with MOA College – were present. Four resolutions were passed at the meeting. Given the focus of this chapter, the three most pertinent resolutions for us are as follows:

6

As Jamal Malik notes, Mongiri’s critiques of the sub-par education offered at madrasas were reminiscent of colonial critiques wherein the British claimed that indigenous schools imparted “no mental training” (Malik, 1994, 78). 7 This quote has been abridged and edited for clarity.

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1. “The current system of education needs reform.” (Nadwi, n.d., 307) 2. “We should endeavor to persuade the principals of Islamic madrasas to attend the annual Nadwat al-Ulama meetings. . .” (Nadwi, n.d., 307) 3. Islamic madrasas should be organized under one umbrella (al-Hasani, 1964, 129).8 Another vital step taken at this meeting was the establishment of a twelvemember educational curriculum committee; Mongiri was one of the committee members (al-Hasani, 1964, 129). Moreover, at this inaugural gathering Mongiri was selected (again) as the nazim of Nadwat al-‘Ulama, and the decision regarding Mongiri’s rectorship of Nadwa that had initially been taken in 1892, was officially cemented (al-Hasani, 1964, 130). Amongst the speeches delivered at this event was one penned by Mawlana Hali. Although he himself could not be present at the event, his speech was read aloud. The speech emphasized the necessity of changing the curriculum of madrasas as well as the importance of disciplines such as history, geography, and Arabic literature (al-Hasani, 1964, 131). At Nadwa’s second annual meeting held in 1895, a resolution was passed for the inclusion of “modern subjects” in the syllabi of madrasas (Hashmi, 1989, 132). At the third annual meeting of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama, which was held in 1896 in Bareilly, a resolution was passed for establishing the council’s inaugural educational institution: Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa (Hashmi, 1989, 124). Mongiri’s biographer narrates that Mongiri was the first individual to envision and consequently propose the plan for the establishment of this seminary. His recommendation regarding the institution was accepted. His detailed plan was published and circulated amongst scholarly notables (al-Hasani, 1964, 146–7).9 Describing the purpose of Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa, Mongiri wrote that there was a need for ‘ulama with expertise in religious sciences, especially in ‘ilm al-kalam, so they could prove the veracity and excellence of Islam, and defend Islam against the challenges posed by non-Muslims (al-Hasani, 1964, 147). Detailing a second purpose of Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa, Mongiri wrote: “There is an urgent need that we should have a group of ‘ulama who are also aware of the state and events of the world . . . The reason for the declining influence of ‘ulama in the country is that the populace increasingly believes that ‘ulama are secluded in their cloisters and know nothing of the world. That is why the ‘ulama’s advice and comments on worldly issues are not deemed worthy of consideration. . .” (al-Hasani, 1964, 147–8). Mongiri identified proselytization and intra-Muslim intellectual exchange as yet another purpose of founding the Dar al-‘Ulum. He wrote: 8

This resolution is presented differently in Nadwi n.d, 308. In that work it reads as follows: To organize the plethora of Islamic madrasas, only a handful of renowned madrasas should be termed Dar ul-‘Ulums and the smaller madrasas should be affiliated with them. 9 There is some debate over the authorship of the plan for Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa. One source (Al-Hilal) states that the author was Shibli Nomani, who shared the plan with Mongiri and gave him permission to publish the plan in his, i.e. Mongiri’s, name. However, Mongiri’s biographer credits Mongiri himself for composing the detailed plan. While the authorship of the plan is disputed, there is no doubt that Shibli Nomani was a staunch advocate for the establishment of Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa. See Hashmi, 1989, 124–5.

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“There should be a group of ‘ulama who travel to distant lands. When visiting countries under Muslim rule, they should meet the Muslims there and engage in an exchange of views, think of how to advance the cause of Islam, and deliberate on how to implement the beneficial experiences from those countries in their country. In places where Islam is not in power, they should engage in missionary work. They should draw people to Islam by expounding on Islam’s merits and benefits” (Nadwi & Khan, 2017, vol 1, 141). Mongiri’s plan for Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa was exceedingly thorough. He mentioned, amongst other topics, individual rooms for students, a dining hall in which students and teachers could eat together, an Islamic uniform, physical exercise, archery, horseback riding, and a focus on internal reform through a study of Sufism and ethics (al-Hasani, 1964, 149–50). He also noted that students should be made to practice delivering hour long or even two-hour long speeches on intellectual, political, and historical topics (al-Hasani, 1964, 151). Also included in these details was the importance of students mastering Arabic. Mongiri also addressed the necessity of English and Urdu instruction at Nadwa. Below I explore at length Mongiri’s recommendations regarding these three languages. I do so while contextualizing Mongiri’s views amongst coeval attitudes towards these languages.

4 English Several issues need to be considered when contextualizing Mongiri’s attitude towards English. These issues include: the British perspective on educating South Asian natives in English; the colonial Indian Muslim laity’s attitude towards English; and various Muslim intellectuals’ views on English. I examine these issues in the abovementioned order and then turn to Mongiri’s vision. English education progressed in a piecemeal fashion with varied interests among colonial actors. While educational institutions were established quite early by missionaries, from 1757–1852, not a single English school was established by the British (Rao, 2021, 2). During this period, some extant educational institutions began introducing English as a subject. For example, in 1829, Calcutta Madrasah (an institute established by the British) began offering English as a subject (Rahman, 2002, 169). Moreover, the unrelenting insistence of British liberals led to a few schools being established after 1852 (Rao, 2021, 2). However, at times there were stark differences of opinion amongst various British groups. Important colonial administrators of the early nineteenth century were keen to prevent natives from mastering English and accessing Western education. Their views emanated from their desire to preserve the empire: they believed that natives’ access to English and

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European sciences would result in the loss of the Indian colonies, as had already happened with the American colonies.10 British attitudes towards natives acquiring English slowly began to take a turn. In February 1935, Lord Macaulay, the president of Calcutta’s Committee of Public Instruction shared his famous Minute on education stating the need to impart English education to Indian natives. The extensive Minute included the infamous line, “We must at present do our best to form a class who may be interpreters between us and the millions whom we govern – a class of persons Indian in blood and colour, but English in tastes, in opinions, in morals and in intellect” (Hamel, 2006, 2246). The Governor General in Council, Lord William Bentinck adopted a resolution favoring English education that very year (Hashmi, 1989, 5). In response, the Muslims of Calcutta galvanized and submitted a petition bearing approximately 8000 signatures. The petition expressed their unhappiness about the resolution which they viewed as aiming to convert natives to Christianity through exclusively favoring English and European culture (Hashmi, 1989, 6).11 The concerns of these Muslims were not baseless. Christian missionary activity aimed as proselytization was taking root much before Macaulay’s Minute. The missionaries believed that the morals and general welfare of the natives would be improved by their embrace of Christianity (Hashmi, 1989, 3). Furthermore, the missionaries had been upfront that their educational activities aimed to convert natives. Despite some early tensions between the administration and the missionaries,12 government schools, in the eyes of some colonial administrators, served the same purpose (Hashmi, 1989, 25). Sir Charles Trevelyan (d. 1886) had stated as much when addressing the Select Committee of the House of Lords in 1853. He said: “The primary design of the Government scheme of education is to advance the progress of civilization in India by the diffusion of useful knowledge, as the phrase is generally understood. The design of the Missionary institutions is to convert the Natives to Christianity. The two objects are distinct, but they are by no means opposed to one another” (quoted in Hashmi, 1989, 25–26).13 Not all British administrators shared this view. In fact, a closer look at colonial policy reveals that even 10 Explaining this line of thought, Charles Grant (1746–1823) stated that “the establishment of seminaries and colleges in America was one of the most efficient causes of the loss of that country” (quoted in Rao, 2021, 50). 11 The professional education of Indians within Britain began in the 1840s, with the second possibly being “Wazir beg, the son of a ‘Mohamedan Messman’ from Poona” who was trained and ordained as a Christian minister” (Lahiri, 2013, 3). 12 However, there were tensions between the East India Company (EIC) and the missionaries. The EIC was initially opposed to missionary activities fearing that if the company supported the missionaries, Indians would become hostile to the British. While the aforementioned reason was articulated by the company, scholars have argued that the divide between the missionaries and the EIC was actually a result of infighting between different groups of the Protestant Church in England. See Rao, 2021, 58. 13 A related argument is made by Gauri Viswanathan who argues that the colonizers used English literature to socialize Indians into British social values and to convince the natives of British superiority. See Viswanathan, 1987.

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post-1835, the British continued teaching natives in Indian vernaculars and English was reserved as a marker of elite education which was a prerequisite for obtaining high social status and important jobs in the colonial administration (Rahman, 2002, 162). Colonial Indian Muslims’ attitudes towards English learning varied widely. Some Muslims held that acquiring Western knowledge resulted in a proclivity to Christianity (Hashmi, 1989, 26). As noted previously, these Muslims’ views were cemented in a context where some key Britishers themselves were articulating the aim of Western education as conversion of the natives. “The fear of Christianizing influence, if not conversion to Christianity, kept Muslims away from Mission and Government schools, and strengthened their view that the British intended to interfere with their religion” (Hashmi, 1989, 26). A related view popular amongst some Muslims was that Western education produced individuals devoid of piety and religious convictions (Rahman, 2002, 174). C. F. Andrews, the biographer of the Muslim intellectual Munshi Zakaullah (d. 1910) who studied English at Delhi college, notes that Western education was “being openly called ‘kafir’, or infidel; it was openly said to produce atheists” (quoted in Rahman, 2002, 167).14 The abovementioned opposition to English and Western education was not shared by all Indian Muslims. Movements such as the National Mohammedan Association and Mohammedan Literary Society had been encouraging Muslims to study and embrace English even before the 1857 War of Independence (Holt et al., 1977, 81). Following the unsuccessful 1857 war many Muslim intellectuals viewed improving Muslim-British relations as a pressing need. To that end, Sir Syed Ahmed Khan (1817–1898) established the MAO College (later named Aligarh) – an institution that I have already discussed in some detail. While Aligarh staunchly advocated English and associated it with Muslim progress (Metcalf, 1982, 333), conversations amongst the ‘ulama and those of a more traditionalist bent primarily revolved around the conditional permissibility of learning English. For example the renowned Islamic scholar, Shah ‘Abdu’l-‘Aziz (d. 1824) issued a fatwa ruling that Muslims could learn English “provided that this knowledge is gained for intentions that are lawful to Islam . . . However, it is undesirable and illegal to learn English with the intention of flattering Englishmen and gaining their favor” (quoted in Rahman, 2002, 166).15 In a similar vein, Mawlana Rashid Ahmed Gangohi of Deoband said: “It is correct to learn the English language, provided one does not commit a sin and there may be no impairment in religion” (quoted in Rahman, 2002, 166). Explaining the lack of English instruction at Deoband, Gangohi stated that he saw no need to duplicate government efforts. He added that students could, if they so desired, study at government schools and acquire mastery over English and a Western education after graduating from Deoband (Metcalf, 1982, 102).16

14

Also see ibid., Chapter 5 for several other examples of Indian Muslims’ opposition to English. Also mentioned in Metcalf, 1982, 52. 16 Also see Hashmi, 1989, 44 and 49. 15

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Unlike the ‘ulama mentioned above, Mongiri spoke at length regarding the necessity of learning English. Thus, in a basic sense, Mongiri’s stance aligned with that of Sir Syed. However, Mongiri differed starkly from Sir Syed regarding the reasons for mastering English. Sir Syed viewed English proficiency as necessary for British-Muslim reconciliation and for Muslims to progress and augment their social and political status in colonial India. Conversely, Mongiri’s arguments in favor of English were two-pronged: firstly, to counter colonial demonization of Islam and Christian missionary efforts directed at Muslims, and secondly, to proselytize. Recall that Mongiri had lived in Kanpur during the heyday of Christian missionary activities. While Mongiri personally witnessed the threats posed by these missionaries, his biographer records that he was also alerted to them by a dream in which the Prophet Muhammad appeared to Mongiri and warned him of the very real danger to Islam presented by Christian missionary work. The Prophet told him, “Arise! This is not the time to be idle; this is the time to struggle in the cause of Islam ( jihad)!” (al-Hasani, 1964, 46). Even before envisioning the Nadwat al-‘Ulama movement Mongiri had already undertaken several substantial efforts to counter Christian missionary activities. One such undertaking was responding in detail to the criticisms of Islam put forth by Christian priests and, per his doting biographer, in so doing renewing the faith of those Muslims who were only marginally committed to their faith and were being swayed by the missionaries (al-Hasani, 1964, 45). Mongiri wrote several works refuting missionaries’ arguments; amongst them were Mirror of Certainty (Marat al-Yaqin) and Guidance to Muslims (Hidayat al-Muslimin) – the latter was a response to a work authored by the Christian preacher Imad ud-Din (al-Hasani, 1964, 57). A second significant undertaking was the establishment of an orphanage. Per Mongiri’s biographer, Christian missionary work directly targeted orphans and poor children who, upon being provided housing, food, and education, very easily converted to Christianity. To counter these predatory efforts Mongiri established an orphanage-cum-educational institution in which orphans could be housed and educated in order to save them from the machinations of the missionaries (al-Hasani, 1964, 51).17 Propelled by the desire to adequately and urgently respond to the missionary threat, Mongiri also advocated for a new curriculum. He stated, “We need to study dialectical theology for [countering the critiques and challenges of] new groups; new dialectical theology is needed for them. . .” (al-Hasani, 1964, 157). Detailing the need to master English in order to refute missionaries’ arguments and their modern modes of argumentation (“new philosophies”), Mongiri writes:

17

Mongiri’s biographer records that Mongiri’s efforts to counter missionary activities were based on a keen observation of missionary strategies. Mongiri recognized that Christians targeted their missionary efforts towards marginalized individuals who lacked financial means and social support. They induced conversion by providing these marginalized natives with financial, educational and other incentives. See al-Hasani, 1964, 40.

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To refute new philosophies, it is necessary to know the English language because this philosophy is in English. Translating this philosophy and responding to it – as was done in Islam’s early days with Greek philosophy – will not be enough . . . New philosophy’s principles and ancillaries are constantly changing. There is always the addition of new research and its findings. It will be very difficult to always be translating these additions before responding to them. Moreover, at times the translation and subsequent response will not serve their intended purpose because by the time the translation occurs and a response is written and published, new critiques will have arisen and our response will be useless in light of the new challenges (al-Hasani, 1964, 157).18

For Mongiri a related goal of mastering English was proselytizing to Westerners. With this goal in mind, Mongiri went so far as to term the learning of English as religiously necessitated. Explaining Mongiri’s views on English, his biographer writes that on the one hand, Mongiri cared deeply about ensuring that Muslims who had received a modern education should be interested in, and have a reverence for, Arabic and the religious sciences (al-Hasani, 1964, 191). However, Mongiri cared even more that ‘ulama and madrasa students – who were the leaders and guides of the Muslim community – should know English and the modern sciences ( jadeed ‘ulum). Mongiri wanted them to use English and the new sciences to explain Islam to Westernized Muslims and Europeans. Mongiri envisioned these English speaking ‘ulama traveling to Europe, alerting Europeans to the negative effects of modern materialistic culture and spreading the message of Islam (al-Hasani, 1964, 191). Writing about the necessity of knowing English to proselytize in Europe, Mongiri states: In our times, we are facing such religious and worldly needs that it is necessary to learn the English language. If some of our ‘ulama are so proficient in English that they can go to Europe and describe Islam’s virtues to Europeans in their own language, then Islam will be successfully propagated. In the same way, if [religious] treatises are written in English and promoted, that will also be very useful. Presently, a large subset of the world’s population speaks English; moreover, this group of native English speakers currently rules much of the world. Thus, it is necessary that one learn English for Islamic missionary work because currently English speakers are rulers and Muslims are the ruled, and the ruler is not compelled to learn the language of the ruled. If the ruled have something they need from the ruler, then by necessity they have to learn the language of the ruler. The preceding [sentences] detailed the religious necessity [of learning English]; and the worldly necessities [of learning English] are clear to all. Then how can it be that everyone becomes a worldrenouncer and does not engage in any way with the people of the world? (al-Hasani, 1964, 194–5).

At another point Mongiri wrote: “The situation has changed in this era. No one is interested in the objections that were raised in previous philosophical discourses; even the groups that raised those previous objections are no longer present. There is no need to learn those objections and responses to them. Now there is a new world; new sustenance; new water. Islam’s critics have raised new types of objections based on new philosophy. One cannot reply adequately to them by knowing older philosophy, despite what anyone might claim . . . A scholar . . . will not offer a convincing refutation unless he roots out that objection that is embedded in the objector’s heart, and those objections are in English which is why it is imperative to know English.” al-Hasani, 1964, 194. Mongiri was not alone at Nadwa in advocating English for “effective refutation of Western culture and religion” (Metcalf, 1982, 338). Several other Nadwa affiliates shared his appraisal. For example, Hali noted that one should study English to refute Christianity and European culture. See Metcalf, 1982, 338 fn. 53. 18

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Mongiri appears keenly aware of the ill-effects that many Muslims associated with English learning. In a searing diatribe, Mongiri dismissed this line of thought stating: The idea that those who have learned English often repeat the words “damn fool” as they die has no intellectual merit. Whoever is devoid of love for God and the Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) – whether he is someone who is learning English or Persian [and] Arabic – it is all the same . . . Arabic learners, who day and night indulge in debates over [irreligious] matters . . . instinctually [for these Arabic learners] these [irreligious matters] will be on their tongues at the time of death. Then [at this moment of death] whether one is repeating “damn fool” or other irreligious statements, it is all the same” (al-Hasani, 1964, 195).

This rich passage merits detailed explanation. Firstly, it provides insight into some Indian Muslims’ views of the impact of learning English. We get a sense of how deeply transformative this language learning is in the eyes of its critics. For these critics, English learners are transformed by English so deeply that even at the moment of death, a (one assumes) quintessential English phrase escapes their mouth instinctually and subconsciously. The phrase itself, “damn fool,” is also intriguing. It provides insight into the specific sort of subjectivity that is envisioned as inculcated through the learning of English. This subjectivity is such that even at the moment of death what emerges as second-nature is crass words. Importantly, this image is specially damning since there are specified rituals that a dying Muslim should ideally perform as they depart the world. These include reciting the Islamic declaration of faith and other prayers at the moment of death. In speaking out against the view that the dying English speaker is inclined to say “damn fool,” Mongiri is addressing the assumption that language and culture, as well as language and subjectivity, are interconnected. Scholars of language have long held that language and culture are intimately intertwined, and according to some theorists, impossible to separate. Thus Paul Friedrich (1989) argued in favor of a holistic approach and advocated the term linguaculture. Friedrich describes this notion as follows: “a single universe of its own kind [...] not only in terms of analysis but also in terms of the point of view that is implied by the discourse and actions of the participants. [. . .] [A] domain of experience that fuses and intermingles the vocabulary, many semantic aspects of grammar, and the verbal aspects of culture . . . . [It is a] unitary but, at other levels, internally differentiated domain or whole” (Friedrich quoted in Glaz, 2022, 6). Moreover, it is possible that the assumption regarding English speakers saying “damn fool” as they die is a view about the impact of language on individuals that runs deeper than the linguaculture argument. The assumption and consequent fear might actually be about language relativity. That is to say that “every language embodies in its very structure a certain world-view, a certain philosophy” (Anna Wierzbicka quoted in Glaz, 2022, 14). Gumperz and Levinson explain linguistic relativity as operating on the assumption that different languages might have fundamentally incommensurable semantic structures (Glaz, 2022, 15). This potentially impacts how speakers of different languages think and act. Consequently, each language might be associated with a unique world view (Glaz, 2022, 15). In the case of English, this worldview is characterized by the

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abandonment of piety and religiosity – this is the perspective of the critics of English mentioned in Mongiri’s passage above and well as some Muslims mentioned earlier in this chapter who were wary of embracing English. Refuting this idea of language relativity, Mongiri writes that languages in and of themselves do not have the ability to influence or corrupt the religious inclinations of their speakers. He states: Now think! English is also a language, like Persian, Turkish, etc. Just as Persian and Turkish were initially languages of non-believers, when speakers of these languages became Muslim, then these languages spread amongst Muslims. In the same way, if by God’s grace – and one should hope for such grace – English speakers accept Islam, then their situation will be the same as that of Persian and Turkish speakers. And just as you see religious [Islamic] books in Persian, God willing, you will also see such books in English (al-Hasani, 1964, 195).

Mongiri’s views regarding the necessity of learning English in order to proselytize to non-Muslims were shared by many other Nadwa affiliates and in March 1896 at a Nadwa gathering a proposal was put forward regarding the method for propagating Islam in countries where Islam was a minority religion. The proposal detailed that select English speaking students should be given appropriate stipends to learn Arabic and acquire a rigorous understanding of Islam. Following this training, Nadwa would dispatch them abroad to propagate Islam and proselytize (al-Hasani, 1964, 183). In February 1898, the members of Nadwa had a meeting in Kanpur where English learning was discussed (al-Hasani, 1964, 187). Mawlana Muhammad ‘Ali stated that a decision had been made to teach English speaking students Arabic and Islam at Islamic seminaries. However, this decision could not be implemented. Thus, ‘Ali recommended that the training of English speaking students should be arranged at the Dar al-‘Ulum that would be established under the Nadwa movement’s auspices. This recommendation was unanimously accepted (al-Hasani, 1964, 191). Along the same lines, the Executive Council of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama explained that the objectives of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama included: “. . . the propagation of Islam in foreign countries. The Nadwa will bear the expenses of those who will visit foreign countries for propagation of Islam among Muslims and non-Muslims. Naturally, such men will have to learn the language of the country where they will go for propagation of Islam” (Hashmi, 1989, 122). Despite the embrace of English by Mongiri and other leaders of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama movement, there was a recognition amongst many at Nadwa that English learning was not always a neutral undertaking. In 1894, at the first Nadwa convention, Mawlana Muhammad Hussain Allahbadi delivered an address in which he noted, amongst other issues, the detrimental impact of English education (al-Hasani, 1964, 127). Similarly, Mawlana Sayyid Muhammad Shah Sahib Rampuri stated: “Those who are employed [in worldly professions], have to study English [out of necessity] since it is a need of the time. This is why our loved ones study in some schools [which provide a Western education]. When they return from these schools, they have shaved their beards, grown their mustaches, are wearing coats and trousers, and making heretical statements . . . .” He went on to laud Nadwa for wanting to bring together the teaching of English and Arabic and a wide variety of

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subjects under one roof. He further suggested translating books of hadith, Qur’anic exegesis and Islamic law into English so students could learn English alongside these religious subjects (Nadwi & Khan, 2017, vol 1, 193). Even Shibli Nomani, who strongly advocated the teaching of English at Nadwa in order to proselytize, wrote: “those scholars who want to teach only English literature to Muslim students, teaching 5 crore Muslims just English, will divert them from the teachings of Islam, and this will be fatal from [sic.] Islam in the long run. This is why it is necessary and required for those scholars who study modern education as well as religious education, work for the protection and promotion of Islamic teachings. Therefore the establishment of Darul – ulum [sic.] is necessary” (Nomani quoted in Kumar, 2017, 680). Similarly, Mongiri’s biographer notes that Mongiri – in a letter to a friend – mentioned the benefits and drawbacks of learning English as well as the limits that must be observed when undertaking this task (al-Hasani, 1964, 191). Consequently, Mongiri constantly recommended pairing English instruction with Arabic instruction – a language I turn to shortly. In sum, Mongiri’s outlook evidenced a tension between dismissing the argument that English imparted certain dispositions and maybe even a worldview that was a cause of concern while at other times recognizing that English ought not to be embraced completely without reservation, unless it was coupled with Arabic.

5 Arabic Attitudes towards Arabic amongst colonial South Asian Muslims ran the gamut from embrace to disdain. On the one hand, there was a long-standing reverence for Arabic amongst many given its centrality to Islam. However, not all Muslims deemed Arabic worthy of study, especially as the educational and linguistic needs of the times were altered radically by colonialism. Mongiri’s letter to the deputy rector (naib nazim) of Nadwa al-‘Ulama, Mawlana Hakim Sayyid ‘Abd al-Hayy, written while Mongiri was in the Hijaz, notes the difficulty of convincing students to study Arabic. Mongiri writes that students think that Arabic is useless and that their worldly betterment can only take place through learning English (Nadwi & Khan, 2017, vol 1, 83). Similarly, Shibli Nomani, when giving a speech on the establishment of Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa remarked that those educated in the new ways (i.e. Western educated) would be dismissive of the teaching of Arabic that would be offered at Nadwa (Nadwi & Khan, 2017: vol 1, 163). This disdain towards Arabic was especially true of Aligarh affiliates. For Aligarh students and alumni, the need of the hour was English, not Arabic. The lack of emphasis on Arabic at Aligarh and the lack of respect for Arabic instructors at Aligarh is illustrated by several poignant anecdotes from the life of Nomani, who was initially employed there as an Arabic instructor and later became one of the leading scholars of Nadwa. Firstly, there was a pay differential between Nomani and teachers of “secular” subjects – a discrepancy that upset Nomani. The relative lack of importance accorded to Arabic and its instructor(s) was also evident in seating charts at functions. The degree to which

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this impacted Nomani is captured in a brief yet powerful anecdote: once when Nomani found himself, unlike his colleagues, seated at the rear at the college function, he wept (Metcalf, 1982, 340). The lack of emphasis on Arabic at times bordered on hostility. In fact, in 1904, MAO alumni succeeded in forcing the resignation of MAO’s English principal who had proposed starting an Arabic studies program at the institution (Zaman, 1998, 79). This disconnect between the MAO alumni and their English principal in the above anecdote points to a broader issue: Different attitudes amongst the British and the natives towards the significance of Arabic in colonial India. The principal’s desire for the sustained and rigorous study of Arabic amongst Indian Muslims likely emerged from the prevalent British view of Arabic “as one of the ‘classical languages of India’ . . .” (Zaman, 1998, 65). The British frequently lamented that South Asian Muslims were far from proficient in Arabic (Zaman, 1998, 65). This lack of fluency can, in part, be attributed to many natives’ disinterest in Arabic which was mentioned above. However, even amongst madrasa students who had a deep reverence for Arabic, proficiency was unusual. This deficiency is documented by a range of individuals. British officers who wrote on the linguistic capabilities of South Asian Muslims were far from impressed. William Adam, writing in the 1830s, “called them ‘Kath-Mollas’ and accused them of having memorized a little Arabic” (Rahman, 2002, 81). Similarly, Mongiri commented disparagingly that madrasa graduates were so weak in their conversational Arabic that they could not hold a conversation with an Arab for even 5 min (al-Hasani, 1964, 150–1). At Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa, Mongiri envisioned students acquiring native proficiency in Arabic. Mongiri’s biographer records that he recommended monthly debates in Arabic to sharpen students’ Arabic conversation skills (al-Hasani, 1964, 203). The official history of Nadwat al-‘Ulama adds that the plan that was envisioned included the presence of Arabic newspapers in the study room. All students will be required to study these newspapers daily at a designated time so that they are acquainted with the manner of contemporary [Arabic] language usage and are also familiar with the current affairs of Islamic countries and other nations. This [study of newspapers] is recommended because whenever contemporary students studying Arabic express their views on any country, people are shocked at their factually incorrect and strange statements. And this is a big reason why the esteem of students and the ‘ulama has been compromised (Nadwi & Khan 2017, 148–9).

Mongiri’s views were shared by Shibli Nomani who wanted students to study Arabic as a living language as well as a classical one. Moreover, Nomani wanted Indian Muslims to view themselves as intimately connected with their coreligionists in the Middle East (Metcalf, 1982, 338). As this plan for Arabic instruction was implemented, efforts were made to hire native Arabic speakers so students would have the chance to learn to speak Arabic like natives (al-Hasani, 1964, 203).19

19

Arabic instruction continued to thrive at Nadwa for decades after Mongiri’s initial plan. In fact, in 1932, the Nadwa began its own Arabic journal al-Diya. See Zaman, 2012 62.

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Mongiri’s desire for Arabic proficiency amongst Nadwa students was born out of a range of concerns. Firstly, as Mongiri’s quote critiquing the lack of Arabic proficiency of other madrasa graduates makes clear, in Mongiri’s eyes proficiency in Arabic was a marker of superior educational training.20 More importantly, Arabic fluency served strategic ends. It allowed Nadwa students and alumni to connect with their Arab counterparts and engage in intellectual and cultural exchange (Zaman, 1998, 64). This attachment to the Middle East was a hallmark of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama (Zaman, 1998, 61). The shared context of colonialism, and alongside it technological advancements such as the printing press and ease of travel aided early Nadwa affiliates to connect with the Middle East. Mongiri’s biographer identifies the steps that were taken to introduce Nadwa to the Middle East, particularly Egypt and Syria, where several newspapers published a range of articles on Nadwat al-‘Ulama (al-Hasani, 1964, 142–3). Given the Nadwa movement’s focus on curricular reform and the introduction of new subjects in the curriculum, Arab ‘ulama had an unusual interest in the movement (al-Hasani, 1964, 143). Their interest stemmed, in part, from the fact that colonialism in the Arab world had led to Middle Eastern Muslims sharing many of the concerns and experiences of colonial Indian Muslims (al-Hasani, 1964, 143). While the above-mentioned reasons for the focus on Arabic have been documented by Qasim Zaman as also broadly reflective of the Nadwat al-‘Ulama movement (Zaman, 1998), what I mention next is specific to Mongiri and has not been mentioned in other studies. As with the focus on English, Mongiri’s emphasis on Arabic was also a response, in part, to Christian attempts at converting natives. Mongiri viewed mastery over Arabic as necessary to counter missionaries’ proselytizing attempts and Christian critiques of Islam. An incident early in his life involving a student at Aligarh who Mongiri was teaching had convinced him of this necessity.21 The student had begun reading the works of several Christians, including the preacher Imad ud-Din; these works had cast doubts in his heart regarding Islam. The student went so far as to sit in the mosque and ask fellow students to respond to his doubts regarding the Qur’an’s eloquence and linguistic inimitability. Mongiri noticed that two excellent students were engaging with the doubter’s questions but had not been able to respond definitely and satisfactorily to his concerns. At that point Mongiri interrupted and stated: “The Qur’an is in Arabic and neither Imad ud-Din nor any of you are Arabic experts.” Ultimately, Mongiri was able to convince the doubter of the eloquence and inimitability of the Qur’an and the correctness of Islam (al-Hasani, 1964, 46–48). This incident potentially concretized the necessity in Mongiri’s mind of mastering Arabic before engaging in the necessary activities of defending Islam and 20 Zaman (1998, 64) makes the same point. Metcalf (1982, 337) also makes this broad point. Metcalf writes: “But some, at least, cultivated Arabic because of the prestige attached to the high tradition: they distinguished themselves from those involved in popular reform and deplored the vulgarization of religious learning brought about by the spread of Urdu – and the easy availability of printed books instead of copied manuscripts. They expected recognition for their elitist accomplishments. “Now even the rulers will respect us,” said one.” 21 Mongiri himself was at Aligarh at the time to study with Lutf Ullah ‘Aligarhi.

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proselytizing.22 Recall that Mongiri consistently recommended that English speaking students should master Arabic and have a rigorous understanding of Islam before they undertake missionary work abroad. Importantly, Mongiri’s emphasis on Arabic was not limited to linguistic proficiency. Mongiri’s biographer writes that “in terms of dress and eating and manner of residence, [Mongiri] has given preference to an Arab taste” (al-Hasani, 1964, 151). The Nadwa’s official history sheds a little more light on this vision: “All students will wear the same Islamic uniform and it will be modeled on that of Arab noblemen . . . All students will eat in the manner of the Arabs . . .” (Nadwi & Khan, 2017: vol 1, 144). Mongiri’s preference for Arab dress is also apparent at another instance. Mongiri recommended that at Nadwa’s graduation ceremonies, graduates should customarily be given an outer cloak worn by Arabs (‘aba) (al-Hasani, 1964, 151).23 Mongiri’s plan regarding Arabic instruction at Nadwa provides insight into what he valued in terms of languages(s) and culture(s). In the case of Arabic, Mongiri’s interest in the language far exceeded its use simply as a means of communication – if communication was the sole end, then eating and dressing like Arabs would not have been required. Instead, language went alongside inculcating a particular identity and set of cultural values. For Mongiri, the Indian Muslim Nadwa graduate was one who was not just connected with his originally-Arab religion, and potentially Arab roots,24 but who lived that Arab identity. Thus, the linkages between language and culture that Mongiri at times dismissed so offhandedly in his discussion of English seem to have taken on a different life in his discussion of Arabic where language learning was intertwined with the adoption of a range of Arab customs.

6 Urdu After Arabic the biggest treasure of religious Islamic literature is in Urdu. . .25

Urdu – the language most associated with subcontinental Muslim identity – has a relatively recent past. Urdu’s precursors, known at the time as Hindi, Hindavi or Hindui, were prevalent in South Asia from around the thirteenth century (Rahman, 2002, 198). These linguistic antecedents gradually morphed into Urdu which began 22 Shibli also noted the importance of learning Arabic and emphasized the significance of studying Arabic literature for reasons not mentioned by Mongiri. For example, Shibli noted that Europe had “emerged as an enlightened nation on the basis of the study of the Arabic language which contains extraordinary lessons on modern sciences.” He points out that madrasas do not focus enough on Arabic which is why the establishment of Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa is necessary. See Kumar, 2017, 680. 23 Jamal Malik offers a slightly different explanation of ‘aba using Platt’s dictionary. The definition from Platts reads, “a woollen cloak . . . usually of a block colour with stripes . . . worn by dervishes or faqirs.” Platts quoted in Malik 1982, 84. 24 Many South Asian Muslims claim decent from Arabs conquerors and traders who facilitated the spread of Islam in the subcontinent. 25 Khurshid Ahmad, Jama‘at-i Islami leader in Pakistan quoted in Rahman, 2011, 136.

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to be used in a range of Indian Muslim settings. The formal instruction of Urdu to Indians was initiated by the British who began teaching it at select schools in the Bombay Presidency around the 1820s. The British provided a further boost to Urdu when Persian lost its status as the official language in 1836 (Malik, 1994, 66). However, Muslim attitudes towards Urdu in the mid-nineteenth century were far from enthusiastic. For example, the head of Benares College’s English department noted that his students had no interest in Urdu and much preferred to learn English (Rahman, 2002, 211). Regardless, the British eventually introduced Urdu at their higher educational institutes such as Calcutta Madrasah and Delhi College (Rahman, 2002, 212–3). Prejudice against Urdu remained rife well into the later decades of the nineteenth century. Sir Syed Ahmad Khan is quoted as saying that many Muslims “strongly disliked reading Urdu” (Rahman, 2002, 214). The prejudice against Urdu was also initially endemic amongst the ‘ulama. However, Urdu was rapidly becoming a symbol of Indian Muslim identity (Rahman, 2002, 215). And the ‘ulama too came to gradually “accept Urdu as an ‘Islamic’ language” (Rahman, 2002, 220). The language of instruction at madrasas became Urdu even while the core texts of the madrasa curriculum remained in Arabic and Persian. As part of that shift to Urdu, the ‘ulama began to publish in Urdu, utilizing the printing press as one way of compensating for the loss of Muslim political power (Rahman, 2002, 220). By the end of the nineteenth century Urdu had become the language not just of print but also of teaching, lecturing, disputation, and everyday conversation amongst the ‘ulama and most North Indian Muslims (Rahman, 2002, 221). In fact, as several scholars have noted, madrasas (and religious reform movements in general), through using Urdu as the primary language of instruction, became a means of the spread of Urdu amongst Muslims across all parts of India (Rahman, 2002, 221 and Metcalf, 1982, 315 as well as Metcalf, 1982, 102–3).26 As the usage of Urdu was spreading the language was also undergoing changes. Leading this change was Munshi Zakaullah (d. 1910) at Delhi College who headed the Vernacular Translation Society. He translated English works “into a new, lucid, readable style of Urdu” (Rahman, 2002, 213). Zakaullah’s biographer, C.F. Andrews notes that Zakaullah’s works “set a [revised] standard for Urdu literature; to make it lucid and clear and easy to follow for the ordinary reader, and to free it from an overgrowth [sic] of Persian and Arabic words; which none but the learned understand” (Andrews quoted in Rahman, 2002, 213). While the Nadwa is most noted for its emphasis on Arabic, it is important to consider that Nadwa – like other religious reform movements of the time – also

26

Also see Deoband’s official statement on this matter. Deoband’s website explains that at Deoband, students from across India and even foreign Muslims all gathered together to study. Since the language of instruction was Urdu, the students were proficient in Urdu by the time they graduated. Thus, Deoband played a key role in fostering Urdu amongst Muslims. See: https://www. darululoom-deoband.com/english/sys_of_edu/index2.htm

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played a crucial role in the spread of Urdu.27 It is well known that Shibli Nomani was a prominent leader in the advancement of the use of Urdu (Kumar, 2017, 676).28 However, far less is written about Mongiri’s attitude towards Urdu. Mongiri recognized the importance of Urdu and emphasized the teaching of Urdu literature at Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa (al-Hasani, 1964, 242). Simultaneously, Mongiri recommended that Nadwa students should practice their Urdu writing skills. He noted that even if no feedback was given to these students on their writing, the very act of writing frequently would improve their abilities (al-Hasani, 1964, 242). In the same vein, Mongiri recommended that students should practice their Urdu speech delivery skills at least twice a month (al-Hasani, 1964, 242). He recommended that instructors should take notes as students delivered their speeches and should share their feedback with the students once the speeches had concluded. Mongiri asserted that without this immediate feedback, the exercise of delivering speeches would not be very beneficial (al-Hasani, 1964, 242). Mongiri explained that the Urdu used in these writings and speeches should be effective and impactful; the use of difficult Arabic words should be avoided (al-Hasani, 1964, 242–43). Clearly, Mongiri embraced the new lucid style of Urdu introduced by Munshi Zakaullah. Moreover, Mongiri recognized that Indian Muslims should be addressed by Nadwa students in a language and in a manner that would lead to effective communication and comprehension of their message. Speaking in Arabic-laden Urdu – while demonstrative of Nadwa students’ highbrow learning and their Arabic skills – was in fact to be avoided when addressing the populace. Thus, each language – English, Urdu, and Arabic – was to be used for effective communication with their corresponding audience, and linguistic proficiency should ideally not be held as a marker of erudition that should be lauded over others at the expense of effective communication. From Mongiri’s writings it remains unexplained exactly how a Nadwa student is to balance between a commitment to the Arabic language, accompanied with an embrace of Arab culture (Middle Eastern clothing and food), alongside the Urdu language skills that a student is also supposed to acquire. Urdu appears to be the language – that at least in Mongiri’s views – is used simply for speaking to the Indian masses. Whereas Arabic and Arabness (i.e. the embodiment of Arab culture) are supposed to be Nadwa graduates’ markers of identity.

Commenting on the Nadwa movement’s balance between Arabic and Urdu, Zaman writes, “The Nadwa’s emphasis on the Arabic language is thus not a way of disowning Urdu, which remains the primary language in which scholars of the Nadwa publish. . .” Zaman, 1999, 65. 28 For Shibli Nomani and Urdu also see: Rahman, 2002, 218. 27

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7 Conclusion In 1898 Nadwa’s long-awaited inaugural madrasa was established (see Noorani, 2015, 107). The multilingualism that Mongiri had envisioned for the institute was on full display at the Nadwa’s gathering in 1900 when the streets leading up to the gathering were adorned with flowers and signs in multiple languages, prime amongst them Arabic (al-Hasani, 1964, 223). The focus on multilingualism was also apparent at the event’s proceedings where, for example: a student read out an essay that he had written in Arabic without any assistance or feedback from his instructors; students were quizzed on the spot in front of the audience on their Arabic mastery; and, an Arabic praise poem was read aloud (al-Hasani, 1964, 225–6). Multilingualism was also being formalized into the Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa curriculum. In 1900 English was approved as an optional subject by the Dar al-Ulum’s executive council. English was elevated to the status of a second language at Dar al-‘Ulum Nadwa in 1902,29 and was made a compulsory subject in 1905 under the auspices of Shibli Nomani (Hashmi, 1989, 134). Ultimately however, English was only taught briefly (Metcalf, 1982, 339). The gradual adoption of English and its subsequent removal from the curriculum was testimony to a broader issue: the lack of acceptance of English education amongst several key Nadwa administrators and affiliates. As noted several times in this chapter, differences of opinion amongst Muslims about English persisted as did negative appraisals of the language. The hesitation to adopt English at times boiled down to the central question: what is the purpose and impact of a language? Does the learning of English go alongside the adoption of a worldview and a subjectivity that is characterized by irreligiosity and an abandonment of piety? Or, can language acquisition ever be neutral? Mongiri’s disagreements with others at Nadwa were over – amongst other issues – the change in curriculum and the teaching of English at the newly envisioned Nadwa madrasa. These disagreements grew over time and the chasm between various early Nadwa constituents deepened (al-Hasani, 1964, 207–9). Upset by these tensions, Mongiri submitted his resignation to Nadwa; his appeal was rejected. However, he finally resigned from his post at Nadwa in 1903 (al-Hasani, 1964, 288). He passed away about two decades later in 1927, having lived a deeply impactful life that laid the foundations for one of the most significant Islamic reform movements in colonial India – a movement which continued to be characterized even after Mongiri’s resignation with a linguistic diversity that was unparalleled amongst other movements of that era.30

29

Also see al-Hasani, 1964, 265. A little later in the Nadwa’s history, due to the efforts of Shibli Nomani, there were moves to add even more languages to the curriculum. These languages included Sanskrit, Hindi and Persian. See Kumar 2017, 679. Sanskrit and Hindi were introduced in 1908 with the aim of equipping students “to defend Islam from the criticism of Arya Samajis. But this addition proved transitory and could not be retained after the resignation of Mawlana Shibli from the Darul ‘Ulum Nadwatul ‘Ulama’.” Hashmi 1989, 137. 30

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“Expression to Our Christmas Feeling”: Schleiermacher’s Translation of Religion into the Bourgeois Family Daniel Weidner

In what language does religion speak in the modern world? How can theological terms still be meaningful in discourses that seem mostly secular? Is it possible to translate the language of religious traditions into languages that differ from them? What happens when theology speaks vernacular, and how can we identify and read religious connotations in secular languages? Such questions are not new, at least not for those religions we use to call ‘Religions of the Book’. Religions that hold fast to a canonized and codified text always have to translate this text into their very present. Often, it is the act of preaching that performs what we could call a homiletic translation: the act of preaching applies a canonical text on a current situation, and by doing so it posit the sacred text vis a vis a ‘world’ that interpreted and regulated. The very nature of preaching implies that it is never exhaustive and to be continued in time. Preaching also implies that Scripture, even though it is generally applicable to the world, remains also distinct to it and different from the profane issues of the everyday. Interpretations are many, Scripture is one; there are many vernaculars, but only one sacred language. The present situation of a religious language in a secular society can be conceived in a similar way. Historically, the process of secularization is often imagined as an act of translation. The literary historian Meyer H. Abrams, to give an example, describes romantic thought as a “displacement” of religious ideas, i.e., as an attempt “to save traditional concepts, schemes, and values which had been based on the revelation of the Creator to his creature and creation, but to reformulate them within the prevailing two-term system of subject and object” (Abrams, 1973, 13). Thus, e.g., Johann Gottfried Herder “translated the Biblical account of Eden, the fall, and the restoration into his version of universal history; for the Scriptural story, he said, D. Weidner (✉) Martin-Luther-Universität Halle-Wittenberg, Halle, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_13

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though told with a simplicity appropriate to children, embodies the true history both of the entire human race and of each member of the race” (Abrams, 1973, 202 f.). In contemporary philosophy, Jürgen Habermas sees the translation of religious terms into a “postsecular” discourse as essential for critical thought: “Secularization, if it is not destructive, has to have the form of translation” (Habermas, 2001, 29). Religious language, according to Habermas, might be meaningful even when translated in a non-religious context: Genesis 1:27, the narration about God creating human beings in his image, can resonate in a discussion on genetic engineering, suggesting caution when man becomes a creator himself. The Biblical verse, for Habermas, “expresses an intuition that might say something to those who are religiously unmusical, as myself” (Habermas, 2001, 30). Translation thus operates both within the religious and at the border of the religious and the secular. However, in spite of the usefulness of the metaphor of translation, it is decisive how we understand its vehicle, namely linguistic translation. Does translation carry a message into another language, or is it rather a continuous, ever-incomplete attempt to convey the meaning of the original, or perhaps something in between? The metaphorical ‘translations’ we mentioned – preaching and secular reformulation – are not only usually intertwined with translation in the literal sense: preachers would not only comment on Scripture but usually also translate it into the vernacular, and the secular reformulation is usually based on translations. Habermas, for instance, uses Luther’s translation of the Old Testament without much care about the meaning of the Hebrew Zelem, the “image” in which human being is created. Moreover, concepts of linguistic and literary translation often use religious concepts, be it that of a ‘message’, a kerygma that has to be proclaimed throughout the world, or that of a ‘sacred’ original text which carries inexhaustible depths of meaning. More recent theories conceive translaation neither as a mere a transport of a fix message nor as an endless approximation, but as an essentially dialogic practice that results in a hybrid text (Venuti, 2002). In translation, two languages or idioms enter into a relation that is usually acted out by the play of rhetorical figures, by narrative ambiguities, paratextual gestures, or complex media strategies. What worked literally in one language had to be rendered metaphorical in translation; vice versa, what is ‘lost’ during translation might reemerge in other locations, be it in the periphery of the narratives, in commentaries, or in visual allusions. According to Venuti, translation is never “remainderless”, for it never leaves the original text unaffected nor is it able to finish itself; instead, it leaves traces and produces meaning which was not there before and which can never be fixed in one grammar and one language: ambivalent phrases, overdetermined concepts, allegories that would point to different meanings at the same time – e. g. to both religious and secular codes. Translation is thus not only a metaphor, but a complex problem; it is not simply a method, but an act that always has a dense historical and cultural context which provides the resources on which it draws: implicit semantics in both the ‘source’ and ‘target’ language as well as figurative strategies to keep them both on display. By this very act, translation is able to reveal implicit elements in these two languages or semantic systems. If, as Walter Benjamin once argued, translation is always a test on

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the state of a specific language, vernacular theologies, i.e., the attempts to transfer and ‘translate’ religious language into the profane world, might be a powerful and sensible indicator to conceive a particular state of cultural meaning in a given historical moment: Which cultural codes resonate with the religious, and how can they enter into a dialogue?1

1 Privatization, Feminization, and Familiarization The historical example I want to discuss is Friedrich Schleiermacher’s Christmas eve (Weihnachtsfeier), a small literary piece published in 1806. Schleiermacher, often called the church-father of modern Protestantism, is a paradigmatic figure for our problem, since he tried to translate Christian language into the vernacular of the modern world throughout his life. His early Speeches on Religion (1799) not only reformulated the Christian message in the modern language of philosophical idealism but were also concerned with the form this message has to adopt: in carefully crafted Speeches.2 Christmas Eve was written seven years later, it is much less known, but it expresses a similar interest – to translate Christian language into a modern idiom – with even more concern for the literary form. It is a fictional dialogue written while Schleiermacher was translating the platonic dialogues and obviously experimented with the dialogic form as a means of expression.3 The text has a tripartite structure. It opens with a narrative part describing the setting of the following dialogues in the living room of Ernestine and Eduard, where three couples gather to celebrate Christmas. They converse about the feast and diverse other subjects, they exchange presents and enjoy the enthusiastic happiness of little Sophie, the young daughter of the hosts. Thereupon follows the second part, where the party decides that the three women shall narrate stories on their favorite memories of Christmas. In the third and final part, the three men extemporize speeches about the meaning of Christmas until they are interrupted by a further guest, the older Joseph, who admonishes the party, and the men in particular, that they waste their time in talking instead of really feasting Christmas – and the party unites in singing Christmas songs. We can read this small text as a kind of primal scene in a Freudian sense: as the moment in which the traditional language of Protestant Christianity is translated into a new, bourgeois idiom. As any translation, this has an ambivalent effect of vernacularizing Christ but also of Christianizing the vernacular. And this happens less on the level of concepts and explicit statements than in the very narrative and in

1

Benjamin’s famous essay on the Task of the translator asks this question of a potential afterlife of the religious itself, see Weidner (2020). 2 From the abundant literature see the engaged reading by Hermann Timm (1979). 3 On the historical and biographical context see Kurt Nowak (2001, 163–174), for a broader discussion see Ruth Richardson (1985).

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the fictional world, that is particularly open to overdetermination and semantic displacement, as we will see shortly. Historically, the text reflects at least four cultural trends in the history of protestant devotion in the late 18th and early nineteenth century (Hölscher, 2005). The first one is privatization which is already evidenced by the very setting of the dialogue: The pleasant drawing-room was gaily decorated; all the windows of the house had contributed their flowers to it, but the curtains were not let down, that the gleaming in of the snow might recall the season of the year. Engravings and pictures relating to the sacred festival adorned the walls; and a pair of beautiful prints of this kind formed the present of the lady of the house to her husband. [. . .] Things had thus been arranged by the cheerful and thoughtful Ernestine in order that the impatience thus excited, half in jest and half in earnest, might be only gradually satisfied, and that the various little gifts might remain surrounded for a while in a glimmering and enlarging light (Schleiermacher, 1890, 1).

We are situated in a bourgeois living room, nicely decorated with gifts and evergreens, albeit not yet with a Christmas tree which will emerge as the pivotal symbol of Christmas only in the nineteenth century. Most importantly, Christmas is not celebrated in the church nor on the streets, but at home – which both follows a general trend in Protestantism which always gave the household a religious significance and reflects a change during the eighteenth century when first the families of the nobility, later the bourgeois families prefer to celebrate on their own to joining the local parish. Privatization goes along with feminization. The preeminence of women among the churchgoers is a clear trend of the late eighteenth century, heavily discussed among contemporaries. In Schleiermacher’s dialogue, men and women are equally present, but gender plays a decisive role both in the dialogues and the setting. The dialogue actually takes a start from the beautiful decoration of the room and turns toward women’s affinity to beauty, it repeatedly highlights that women do have a more immediate relation to religion and to celebrations like Christmas, as e.g. Frederica argues: “If such things were left to you men only, they would soon perish; it is through us alone that they become a perpetual tradition”(Schleiermacher, 1890, 36). Later on, the characters repeatedly discuss the specific religious roles of the sexes, for instance when Eduard stresses “that the opposition of the unconscious and the reflective appears more strongly in us [men] whereas in your calm and gracious nature the balance of the two elements and their inner unity comes to light” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 34). In the end, this seems to suggest that the two sexes supplement each other in their specific religious characters – an allusion to the Platonic Symposium, but also to the gender roles of the bourgeois age (Scott, 2019). Privatization also implies familiarization, where it is particularly obvious that the familiarization of Christianity goes hand in hand with sacralization of the family which is typical for nineteenth century (Koschorke, 2011). The essential setting is the family, notably the father – mother – child triad. In the first, introductory part, little Sophie plays the main role, and it is stressed time and again that “Christmas is very specifically the children’s festival“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 7) and that even for the grownups, the specific “Christmas feeling” is identified with “this becoming young again, the return into the feeling of childhood” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 24).

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Familiarization is exemplified even stronger in the Christmas memory that Ernestine relates in the second part. She once went to church but was not affected at all by the sermon, i.e., by traditional forms of religion, until she saw a mother with a child on her lap: “Here I had all at once found the sanctuary that I had been long seeking in vain“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 38). Mother and Child being the “living forms corresponding to the beautiful pictures of Mary and the child“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 39), a resemblance that is strengthened by the recitation of a poem by Novalis. I see thee in a thousand forms, Mary, lovingly express’d; Yet none can show thy deeper charms That move the soul within my breast. I only know the World's uproar Appears now as a vanished dream; And joys of Heaven, unknown before, Through all my heart for ever stream. (Schleiermacher, 1890, 40)

The reference to Novalis’ poem also represents a fourth trend, namely aesthetization. Aesthetic figures play a decisive role throughout the text, from the description of the arrangement of the room via the ‘harmony’ of the conversation to the importance of music. In fact, music interrupts the fictional discussion several times, since, as Eduard argues: “What the word has made clear, the tones of music must make alive“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 26), and Ernst adds that, in reverse, music reaches its highest perfection as sacred music. This aesthetization does represent an epochal trend too, which refers to protestant traditions (e.g., in the valuation of music), and also displaces such traditions not only using art for religion’s sake but actually comparing and intermingling art and religion in a sort of “religion of art” (Kunstreligion) by Schleiermacher’s close friends Friedrich Schlegel and others, who made the discourse on art the trading zone where religious and secular meanings interact and new concepts both or religion and of art emerged (Auerochs, 2006). Thus, in toto, we see that Schleiermacher’s text reflects historical processes. Already the very choice of the topic shifts emphasis from the crucified Christ – a theme that was central in sixteenth and seventeenth century Protestantism – to the Newborn one: a “thanatological” Christian idiom is increasingly replaced by a “natological” one (Morgenroth, 2002; Timm, 1979). However, these idioms are neither completely foreign to each other nor always clearly distinguished. The historical trends I mentioned were far from being unambiguous, nor is the transformation they indicate unilinear and simple. By contrast, translation is a productive process, it transforms the target language and thus produces a new idiom: the idiolect of cultural Protestantism. As there is no remainderless translation, fragments and figures of the old language still ‘linger around’ in the new idiom and lead to overdetermination and indeterminacy that give us a more fundamental insight in the deeper structure of this transformation.

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2 Types of Ambiguities Schleiermacher’s text is full of ambiguities that project historical tensions on the surface of the narrative. Thus, the aforementioned shift from passion to incarnation is not a complete one, since the Child that Ernestine saw on his mother’s lap on that night has a gruesome destiny – the boy is already dead at the time of the narration. He had become a soldier and “died so heroically, but in vain, for the cause of freedom” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 40), which probably alludes to the lost Prussian war against Napoleon from 1806. Moreover, in the dialogue, the image of Mary with the child morphs into two pictures that Ernestine painted which “both represented her friend [the mother] and the son of her sorrow. The one represented him returning to her from the battle wounded, but covered with glory, the other as he takes farewell of her when about to fall as one of the last sacrifices of that most bloodthirsty time” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 41). The cult of suffering does not disappear completely, but is nationalized, as it will become much more manifest shortly thereafter in the so-called “war of liberation” against Napoleon in 1813 and 1814 when Schleiermacher and other patriots will declare a ‘holy war’ against Napoleon (Kaiser, 1973). It also foreshadows the later nineteenth century in which Christmas will increasingly be conceived as the specifically German feast, its central symbol, the Christmas tree, becoming prominent during the Franco-Prussian war of 1870/71. Nor are feminization and familiarization depicted in clear and unambivalent terms. Little Sophie has anything but a fixed gender role, but she rather detests female entertainment as needlework. More important, the entire distinction between the more intellectual men and the more naively pious women emerge in conversations between the sexes in which the women are anything but passive but critically and at times ironically criticize such ideas, remind men of their “want of dexterity” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 4), argue that in Christ there was harmony between the unconscious and the conscious – thus, he was, according to the criteria of Eduard, more female than male –, proudly claim to be superior narrators and finally, facing the men’s concluding speeches, act as commentators and evaluators (Vries, 1989, 169–183). Aesthetization, too, is ambiguously presented, namely in the performance by which little Sophie entertains the grown-ups. She has set up a puppet theatre that shows “representations of many important facts in the external history of Christianity”, namely a bundle of scenes from the life of Jesus, the Crusades, the Reformation, and even from the Orphanage in Halle, “the latest great work of religious zeal and enthusiasm” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 8). However, the richness of this history is its problem, since the stage is so crowded to make the spectator overlook the Christmas manger which is concealed behind a door. The entire apparatus being an artificial toy which seems to be outdated and all too complex and willful for its purpose. The contrast between a quasi-baroque theatre of Christianity and the pure and simple art of music reveals that aesthetization is never a simple and unilinear process but goes along with heavy changes in the aesthetic sphere, with the distinction between good and bad forms of art, including a broad discourse on these that refers to other

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contemporary discourses. The entire scene is obviously also an echo of the puppetry scene that opens Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister, the canonical Bildungsroman of the nineteenth century. The most complex of these processes is privatization, for it does not simply lead to modern liberal individualism or the core family, but relates to the nation on the one hand, and to the intimate circle of friends on the other. The latter, the sphere of “sociability” (Geselligkeit) is conceived as a sort of intimate interaction among different subjects both male and female, a community that is more private than the society with its abstract interactions, let alone the State. And, most importantly, this social sphere is not only the idea into which the Christian community – intimate and including both sexes – is being translated: it is also the medium of translation that happens in the community of dialogue. Schleiermacher is actually highly interested in this sphere which he experienced in the salons and intellectual circles of the early romantics, and he reflected upon it continually, since the early essay “Toward a Theory of Sociable Conduct” (1799, Versuch einer Theorie geselligen Betragens) which describes this sphere as a constant interdependency of individuals that is ideally realized in dialogue that mediates between the individuals and the community as well as between the particular and the general. Later in his life, in his translation of Plato as well as in his systematic philosophy, Schleiermacher will call this mediation “dialectics”. In the fourth of his Speeches on Religion Schleiermacher also argued that individual’s feeling of religion needs to express itself within a community: a covenant of brothers, a choir of friends, or an academy of priests. Religion thus has a social dimension: it belongs to religion’s nature to use all means of language and all accompanying arts to express and communicate one’s feelings. Moreover, this form of exchange is even essential for the ontological form of religion, namely the relation between many religions and one religion: “The religion of society taken together, is the entire Religion, the infinite one that no singular ever can ever comprise” (Schleiermacher, 1996, 72–94). In Christmas Eve, sociability is first represented in gift exchange, a gesture which is endowed with a religious meaning as well: “For what is this beautiful practice of giving each other presents but a pure exhibition of religious joy which expresses itself, as joy always does, in unsought kindliness, or in giving and serving, and here in particular, the great gift which we all equally rejoice in, is reflected in little gifts” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 24). Instead of the economic exchange that constitutes bourgeois society, true community is based upon free gifts. Even more important, sociability is performed in dialogue. Bourgeois conversations, and namely the conversation about Christmas, its meaning and feelings, occupy the role that liturgical practice once had: they create communion. But this proves to be far from being easy. The dialogue is interrupted from time to time, most explicitly by the common singing, which functions as a pause, in which the dialogue becomes silent: “Religious music produced at first a quiet satisfaction and retirement of the soul. There followed a few silent moments in which, however, they all knew that the heart of each of them was lovingly directed towards the others and towards something still higher“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 10). It is as if conversation alone cannot fully express

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neither this loving community nor the direction of the heart to something higher, but has to be supplemented by a different medium, as Edward states: “What the word has made clear, the tones of music must make alive, or must convey, and fix as a harmony, into the whole inward nature” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 26). This is even more obvious in the second part, where the discussion is replaced by narration, now accompanied by music. The Christian tradition is thus expressed in a number of different ways none of which is fully sufficient. Christianity is translated not into one language, but into different ones, each with its own logic and its own connotations.

3 Limits of Conversation In Christmas Eve, the final round is given to the men’s discursive elaborations about Christmas. In this move from the introductory general talk about Christmas via the artful narration to the explicit discourse, the text seems to follow a threefold epistemology which Schleiermacher also projects in the corpus of the Platonic dialogues. They propaedeutically develop into the quasi mythic presentations in the Symposium and the Timaeus and ends up with the “scientific”, discursive presentation in the Politeia and the Nomoi (Lamm, 2012, 392–420). However, this final step does not fully integrate the other idioms, nor is it the last word of the text. For also the men continue to struggle with the problem to express the very truth they address. The speeches of the men follow a triadic structure again. The first speaker, Leonard, represents the skeptic stressing that the original meaning of the Christmas celebration has been lost, much to the dismay of the women. The second, Ernst, argues that the Christmas feast is essential for the idea of the Redeemer, whereas the third, Eduard, immediately turns “to the mystical of the four Evangelists who presents but little in the way of individual events”, namely John, who indeed does not present the Christmas story at all, “but in his soul there rules an eternal childlike Christmas joy” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 69). Eduard then muses on the Johannite Christology of the word, arguing that “what we celebrate is just what we are in ourselves as a whole, it is human nature, or whatever you may call it” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 69). Incarnation is read as an anthropological feature which points to the individuality of the spirit – an individuality which is never complete but is always to be formed and cultivated: “In Christ, then, we see the Spirit according to the kind and manner of our earth, primordially take the form of self-consciousness in the individual” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 72). The language of Christology is here translated in the idiom of ‘individuality’, ‘human nature’, and of ‘self-consciousness’ so dear to modernity, with Christ as the paradigm and archetype of this process. However, Eduard’s final synthesis is neither simple nor complete, for he foresees the difficulties he will encounter when opening his speech. Not only is there not much left to speak about, but the preceding speeches of Leonhard and Ernst affect the understanding of the listeners: “certain echoes of every speech remain in the minds of the hearer, and these beget an always increasing resistance which the last

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speaker has the greatest difficulty in overcoming“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 68). In this setting, the speaker cannot simply express his thoughts but has to ‘undo’ the thoughts of the reader, namely the erroneous interpretations of the previous speakers. The other speakers, Eduard seems to argue, might have revealed this or that element of Christmas, but every single revelation becomes an obstacle if taken as an absolute. In the narrative, it is thus more than doubtful if Eduard finally succeeds, since his speech is not echoed by an answer of the listeners. Rather, it is simply interrupted: Therefore is it that there is a universal pulsating of joy in the whole new-born world, which only those members of the race that have been long sick or maimed do not feel. And this is the very glory of the festival which it was your wish to hear lauded also by me. – But as I see, I am not to be the last after all; for our long expected friend is now indeed also here (Schleiermacher, 1890, 72).

Here, on the very last page of Christmas Eve enters Joseph, the last guest, only to declare that he won’t held a speech and that all the talk appears “somewhat strange and almost foolish” to him, all the more so, since even “the poor ladies have also had to fall in it with perforce”. He will not speak at all: “For my part, I cannot today take up with such things at all. To me all forms have become too stiff, and all discoursing too tedious and cold. The unspeakable subjects demand and even produce in me an unspeakable joy; in my gladness I can only exult and shout for joy like a child“(Schleiermacher, 1890, 73). So, all the talking comes to an end and the feasting begins: “Come, then, and bring the child above all things, if she is not yet asleep; and let me see your glories; and let us be glad, and sing something pious and joyous” (Schleiermacher, 1890, 74). Conversation, this seems to suggest, could go on forever, all the more so since the sphere of sociability is an end in itself. It has to be superseded or supplemented by something higher, that continues the role that music played so far. If here, in the end, conversation itself is revealed to be all too provisional, this is not only a typical feature of romantic irony but reveals a tension in the model of bourgeois sociality. The sphere of sociality does not only presuppose a relative isolation from the larger society, a withdrawal in a private realm, as well as a division of sexes that organize the different roles. It also needs a ‘stranger’, someone entering the family and the private circle to redeem it from the ‘bad infinity’ of endless chatter and to orchestrate the more festive moments. Is this figure, Joseph, a figure of the past, directly coming from the story of nativity? Or does he rather represent the artist who will be the paradigmatic outsider in the bourgeois world, excluded but also providing a taste of infinity? And what is his role for the work of translation performed in the dialogue? This, too, is left open by the abrupt ending of the text.

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4 Conclusion: The Many Languages of Religion In his essay on the different methods of translation, Schleiermacher famously distinguishes two different “paths” of translation: “The translator either disturbs the writer as little as possible and moves the reader in his direction, or disturbs the reader as little as possible and moves the writer in his direction.” (Schleiermacher, 1997, 229) In Christmas Eve, we can paradigmatically see both tendencies. On one hand, the entire dialogue tries to familiarize what has become strange and foreign to the contemporaries: the message of the Incarnation of the Savior is moved towards the audience through an illustration, a comparison with the familiar scene, namely the interaction between father, mother, and child as well as between intimate friends. On the other hand, in that very interaction, in order to make this illustration work, certain elements of this setting have to be “defamiliarized”, i.e., they have to be seen in a new and sometimes strange perspective: loss and death have to be integrated into a situation that seems idyllic at the first glance but develops into the discussion between different standpoints. Indeed, whereas the whole setting aims to move the “writer” (the Christian message) towards the “reader” (the contemporary audience), many features of the text aim to move the “readers” toward the “writer”, especially in the dialogue where the different personae leave their contemporary standpoints to develop modes of understanding of the past. Translation thus works both ways, because it is presented not as a result, a stable “new version” of the old message, but as a process, an act that has to be performed and even bears some ritualistic qualities of the celebration it represents. The romantic ironies of the text underline this active, performative moment and its complexity. Religion in translation does not stop but continues to translate itself into ever newer meanings and gestures, settings and scenes, languages and texts.

References Abrams, M. H. (1973). Natural supernaturalism: Tradition and revolution in literature. Norton. Auerochs, B. (2006). Die Entstehung der Kunstreligion. Vandenhoek & Ruprecht. Habermas, J. (2001). Glauben und Wissen. Suhrkamp. Hölscher, L. (2005). Geschichte der protestantischen Frömmigkeit in Deutschland. Beck. Kaiser, G. (1973). Pietismus und Patriotismus im literarischen Deutschland: Ein Beitrag zum Problem der Säkularisation (2nd ed.). Athenäum-Verlag. Koschorke, A. (2011). Die Heilige Familie und ihre Folgen. Fischer Taschenbuch Verlag. Lamm, J. (2012). Schleiermacher’s Christmas dialogue as platonic dialogue. The Journal of Religion, 92(3), 392–420. Morgenroth, M. (2002). Weihnachts-Christentum: moderner Religiosität auf der Spur. Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Nowak, K. (2001). Schleiermacher: Leben, Werk und Wirkung. Vandenhoek & Ruprecht. Richardson, R. (1985). Friedrich Schleiermacher’s Weihnachtsfeier as ‘universal poetry’: The Impact of Friedrich Schlegel on the Intellectual Development of the young Schleiermacher [Dissertation, Drew University]. Methodist Archives.

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Schleiermacher, F. (1890). Christmas eve: A dialogue on the celebration of Christmas. T.&T. https://archive.org/details/christmasevedial00schl/page/10/mode/2up. Accessed Clark. 19 Apr 2023 Schleiermacher, F. (1996). On religion: Speeches to its cultured despisers. Cambridge University Press. Schleiermacher, F. (1997). On the different methods of translating. In D. Robinson (Ed.), Western translation theory from Herodotus to Nietzsche (pp. 225–238). St. Jerome Publishing. Scott, J. W. (2019). Sex and secularism. Princeton University Press. Timm, H. (1979). Fallhöhe des Geistes: Das religiöse Denken des jungen Hegels. Syndikat. Venuti, L. (2002). The scandals of translation, towards an ethics of difference. Routledge. De Vries, D. (1989). Schleiermacher’s “Christmas eve dialogue”: Bourgeois ideology or feminist theology? The Journal of Religion, 69(2), 169–183. Weidner, D. (2020). Life after life: A figure of thought in Walter Benjamin. Journal for Cultural and Religious Theory, 19(3), 463–475. https://jcrt.org/archives/19.3/8-Weidner.pdf. Accessed 19 Apr 2023

Testimony, Authorless Text, and Tradition: Toward Hermeneutic Pluralism Purushottama Bilimoria

1 Dis-Cours de Testimony: A Preamble In my earlier work, Śabdapramāṇa (2018), I explored the relationship between knowing and language and considered why and how is it possible to derive knowledge from linguistic utterances. The material for analysis was drawn largely from classical Indian philosophy, notably Nyāya and Vedānta. I also gave an analytical account of what would count as adequate ‘evidence’, i.e. conditions of epistemic truth and justification in the case of testimony. The work helped spur a renewed interest in this long-forgotten thesis from classical Indian thought. However, the framework I had adopted for the inquiry took for granted the view that words and objects (things) are quite distinct phenomena, and their connection is not unlike the connection of cognition with object, that is, in a relationship of representation, correctness, descriptive fit, and so on. I have since come to be concerned about language in rather different ways – less in terms of its ‘objective’ function and more in terms of the totality that language is, in the horizon of meaning, its construction, deconstruction, understanding, interpretation, and transmission in history, as well as translation in religious-cultural processes – in short, as a hermeneutical phenomenon.

This is a revised and updated version of the author’s paper “Authorless Voice, Tradition and Authority in the Mimamsa – reflections of cross-cultural hermeneutics,” published in Nagoya Studies in Indian Culture and Buddhism: Saṃbhāṣā 16, 1995 P. Bilimoria (✉) University of Melbourne/ JGLS OP Jindal Global University, Melbourne/Delhi-NCR, Australia/India JGLS, OP JIndal Global University, Delhi-NCR, India e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_14

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When we perceive that words continue to operate in the absence of objects and the symbolic form of language is forever extended in myths, metaphor, poetics, rhetoric, colloquial or vernacular discourse, arts, legends, the laws, etc., we appreciate that language exceeds the representational function and resists reduction to abstract (grammatical) categories and simple conceptual schemes. Likewise, language through memory makes present to our world certain tradition from the past that may have ceased to be (and perhaps also futurity), and it enables participation in the sacred or the ‘sacramental’, albeit, in some limited sense. What then is the enigmatic power and real object of language? Is it simply an instrument of human culture with a distinctive capacity to denote and designate? Might language, in all its plurality and ambiguity, be a mode of making things (existent and non-existent) present to consciousness? Might the object of language be language itself? Or could language be the ‘house of being’? Such questions about the complexity of language have increasingly been raised in the West, more specially since Dilthey and Schleiermacher’s efforts at outlining a program for hermeneutics which has been taken further in rather different though interesting ways by thinkers such as Gadamer, Ricoeur among others, or quite independently by Heidegger and later Wittgenstein, making at once a decisive shift away from the “linguistic turn” of the (European) Enlightenment. To be sure such questions were not absent in Indian (Brāhmaṇic) speculations on language in bygone years. One has only to point to Bhartṛhari’s doctrine of Śabdabrahman in which he attempts a complete identification of language (through stages of subtler gradation of speech, vāc) with the Absolute as Brahman. All speaking and understanding therefore proceeds from this ‘unity of word’, and (unconsciously) strives to return eventually to this realization (see Matilal, 1990a, 3–14; a more expanded analysis is in Matilal, 1990b, chapters 7, 10 and 11). Although this totalizing ontological identification is rejected by most other systems of Indian thought (especially the Buddhist, and I imagine all of Western philosophy), the basic impulse of grounding language in an ontology or of giving a metalanguage account of speech as constitutive yet transcending the conventions and varieties of language, is never far off the thought of much Indian speculations on language, from Ṛg-Veda through Rāmānuja to Radhakrishnan (see Staal, 1969). I come to the problematic from another perspective, for which I have turned to the rather neglected Mīmāṃsā, broadly identified as the school or system that elected itself to provide rules and principles for interpretation and understanding of the correct procedure for the performance of sacrificial rites (yajña) as prescribed in the Veda – the formalized ‘canonical’ scriptures of Brāhmanism (later absorbed into a more diffused Hinduism). True to its name (mīmāṃsā in its etymology resonates with hermenēia), the Mīmāṃsā evolves a hermeneutical framework for understanding the texts of Śruti, ‘the voice that is heard’ as the Veda is thought to be, by some. It may be noted in passing that while more generally the Veda comprises the Saṃhitās, Brāhmaṇas, Āraṇyakas and Upaniṣads, the Mīmāṃsā was interested only in the Brāhmaṇas, the ritual texts. The term ‘text’ is used here in the widest possible sense of a systematic ordering of words, and is not restricted to the written word, as obviously Śruti is initially the word that is heard and so transmitted, i.e. it has oral

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life much before it is committed to writing, though its literary texture (text-analogue in respect of devices and techniques, such as delimiters, accents, quotations, punctuations, notational markings, etc.) might be said to already prefigure in the reiterated (recited) voice and itself constitutes the condition for its exact transmission. In that regard the oral word might be said to share the textuality (textual fabric) of the written word, or vice versa, and the two modes coincide in the singular ‘voice’, śabda.1 Furthermore, the corpus of texts also tells us something about the religious universe of the specialists composing them, for since sacrifice controls the universe, they who control the sacrifice could well claim to authority over the knowledge of the ritual sacrifice; in that regard, as Signe Cohen points out, ‘religious texts can also be read as illuminating documents of social history and the creation of religious authority’ beyond being just whimsical “theological prattle’ or “mechanistic sacerdotalism” (Cohen, 2008, 8).2 Now if it is the case, as Gadamer seems to suggest (1988, 350ff), that language is the universal medium in which understanding is realized and the mode of this realization is interpretation, or that all understanding is interpretation, and all interpretation takes place in the medium of language, then a clear account of language would seem to mark the beginnings of any hermeneutical task. The theory of language should also have ramifications for thinking on the nature of text, tradition, and authority. While basing this brief discussion on the Mīmāṃsā approach, I shall deflect their views on comparable or alternative accounts in recent (Western) hermeneutical speculations, which for the present purposes will be restricted (though not representatively) to Gadamer and Derrida, with a view to engaging them in mutual conversation and critique. Whether the Mīmāṃsā theory coheres with the Veda’s own view of its linguistic nature and structure is a question that I will bracket for the present; but then a text, much less the author, is not always the best authority on its origin, meaning, rhetorical tropes, unconscious motivations, etc. (or so scholarship after Plato has led us to believe).

1 See Gadamer (1988, 353–4): “Certainly, in relation to language, writing seems a secondary phenomenon. The sign language of writing refers back to the actual language of speech. But that language is capable of being written is by no means incidental to its nature. Rather, this capacity of being written down is based on the fact that speck itself shares in the pure ideality of the meaning that communicates itself in it.” Besides, highly literate cultures seem to have felt the need for writing to give stability and a sense of permanence to their cultural coding, accumulated wisdom, rhetoric, as also their excesses, in the way that non-literate cultures (and I am more familiar with the Australian Aboriginals) exploited other avenues for coding their cultural `secrets’, history and ways of disseminating these, such as through songs, painting, markings on earth, carvings, and so on. For a trenchant criticism of the “tyranny of the written word” see Sullivan (1990, 41–59). 2 Cohen is citing the double-quoted judgments from Max Müller and S. Radhakrishnan respectively.

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2 Salient Features of the Mīmāṃsā Theory of Language: Apauruṣeya (Authorlessness) The starting point of the Mīmāṃsā theory of language is the propositional dogma that ultimately language is without origin. Although this proposition of non-origination is first stated in respect of the authorlessness – apaurṣeyatva – of the Veda,3 the thesis is generalized for language per se. What the authorless thesis basically entails is a rejection of an absolute or Transcendental Origin whose ‘voice’ (“logos”) as the transcendental signifier is thought to be proximate, possibly even identical, with itself as the pro-Genitor (Pater, God). Let us first consider briefly the claim of the authorlessness of the Veda (vedā-pauruṣyetva). We are tempted to say that this sounds like a preposterous idea: for the Veda must have had some author, as with any utterance or text. But as far as the Mīmāṃsā is concerned the author of the Veda, whether thought to be omniscient, divine, supremely transcendent, or of lesser ilk, is simply absent. Could the Mīmāṃsā possibly mean that the author of the Veda vanished (or withdrew for other purposes, like the Kabbalist author in the doctrine of Zimzum)? Or perhaps he fell into a deep cosmic sleep (like Viṣṇu-on-Śeṣa)? His (or her) presence is then in the absence. Besides, the authors are named in the Veda. To this the Mīmāṃsā reply that these names are either fictitious or they belong to those who recited the text, or that they refer to evanescent deities that arise instantaneously with sacrifices (Bhaṭṭa, 1978, 670–672). So the actual authors are not known or have been forgotten? What about the view regarded highly in some circles that the rsis or primeval seers ‘woke up’ beholding the Vedas in their visions? This suggestion is also dismissed by the Mīmāṃsā for no other reason than that the Veda is Śruti ‘what is heard’, not what is ‘seen’, although it might be admitted that at the beginning of each new world-issuing (sṛṣṭiprapañca), the seers have a recollection of the original Veda (Pārthasārathi, 1913, 87 and 123). The author does not exist at all: is that the Mīmāṃsā contention? This certainly seems to be the position; indeed, the Mīmāṃsā is known for its vehement rejection of a supreme Creator (Prajāpati), or a divine transcendent being (Īśvara). Elsewhere I have a given detailed account of the Mīmāṃsā arguments for this suspicion (or perhaps agnosticism) (Bilimoria, 1989, 1990). But even if the Mīmāṃsā were to be persuaded to take seriously the possibility of a transcendent/omniscient being, there is good reason to suppose that the Mīmāṃsā would not condescend to attribute the origin of the Veda to this magnificent being, for it is an unshakeable Mīmāṃsā conviction that all personal authority is open to error: the more a-personal a source of authority the less likely it is to be in error and the more credible it is. This must, the Mīmāṃsā insists, be the ultimate criterion for any valid grounding of knowledge. (In some ways this echoes a modern conviction in the impersonal propositions of mathematics and legal jurisprudence.)

3

apauruṣeyaṃ vākyaṃ vedaḥ (Gajendragadkar & Karmarkar, 1984, 7).

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The Veda then has no ‘revealer’ (even though it is often misleadingly referred to as ‘revelation’, or paradoxically denied to be a ‘revelation’ because it lacks the assertion of a ‘revelation’ – both moves being redolent of positive and negative apologetics respectively.) I shall not pause to consider other alternative candidates and possible scenarios proposed by the adversaries (pūrvapakṣakas) and commentators to account for the Mīmāṃsā denial of the author of the Veda – for example, the Navya-Nyāya theory of language and śābdabodha (linguistic understanding), which has been championed among others by Bimal K Matilal (see Bilimoria, 2017). I will move now to consider the Mīmāṃsā account and argument itself -though later I shall suggest a possible re-interpretation of this particular hermeneutic strategy.

2.1

Autpattika

The Mīmāṃsā finds an inexorable basis for the authorless claim in a linguistic thesis called autpattika, which basically claims an ‘originary’ union of signified (meaning) with signifier (word) in a relation of difference such that there is never a need to posit a ‘transcendental signified’ as the originating factor. Jaimini’s famous sūtra [Jaiminimīmāṃsāsūtra I.15] states this thus: autpattikas tu śabdasyārthena sambandhas tasya jñānam upadeśo ‘vyatirekaś cārthe anupalabdhe, tat pramāṇaṃ bādarāyaṇasyānapekṣatvāt: “But the relation (sambandha) of word (śabda) with its meaning (artha) is originary (autpattika); instruction is the (means of) knowledge of that (dharma, etc), and it is faultless (reliable) (even) in regard to thing (s) non-apprehended (empirically), its authority, for Bādarāyana (too), rests in being self-evident (i.e. independent of other sources).” (Subbāśāstrī, 1929, 1.1.5, my translation). What is important for us to note here is the first statement: autpattikaḥ śabdasyārthena sambandhaḥ. What does this mean? The standard practice has been to render autpattikaḥ as ‘eternal’, largely because that is the sense abara seems to have given it when he commented: autpattikaḥ iti nityaṃ brumaḥ (Śābarabhāṣyam in Subbāśāstrī, 1929 on 1.1.5). But autpattikaḥ is constructed from utpattiḥ + (ḍhak) = “origin”, which could mean “originating or arising instantaneously, inseparably, or without interruption”. Hence Jaimini’s use of the term autpattikaḥ in the above may be read as “the relation between word and meaning is originary” in the sense that the presentment of the word and its meaning is simultaneous, so that there is no moment in which they are separable one from the other. In other words, the word and its meaning arise (upon hearing) as if psychically or episodically co-present or coeval. Such is the “founding binary combination” (to borrow an expression from Derrida). I think it is often forgotten that Jaimini is actually referring to the actual instance in linguistic practice in describing this relation and that it is not an abstraction about some primordial origin (origine) or a priori source of the word. This insight is, in the first instance, psychologically-based, although it is extrapolated by extension through time for the binary combinations of all words and their meanings.

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In fact, even in Śabara, despite his use of the term śabdanityatva’, this reading is quite clear, for considering what Śabara goes on to say in elucidating on this: utpattir hi bhāva ucyate lakṣaṇayā/ aviyuktaḥ śabdārthayor bhāvaḥ sarnbandhaḥ, notpannayoḥ paścāt sarnbandhaḥ: “it is bhāva (self-presence) that is spoken of metaphorically as utpattiḥ (‘origin’). The relation between word and meaning is inseparable (aviyuktaḥ) by virtue of their (coeval) presence; the relation is not (constituted) after both have arisen, rather it is imminent” (Śābarabhāṣyam in Subbāśāstrī, 1929 on 1.1.5, my translation). In other words, utpattiḥ is taken not in the literal sense of ‘origin’ (utpanna), rather in the sense of svābhāvika [bhāvarnāmahi svabhāvāḥ]4 being by nature in co-presence. This relation is sui generis, natural and with a sense of permanency about it, for it is in the self-nature of the word and its meaning to be so, and thus this triad is not created, nor is it constructed. It is to be noted, however, that there can only be such a relation if the two parts are in certain fundamental ways distinct from one another. There being no possibility of the complete identity other than their unity in ‘voice’, their difference, which is marked by the vṛtti of their sambandha, or coeval relation, is also fundamental to their nature. Their ‘eternity’, if one continues to speak in these terms, may be more appropriately in respect of their difference than in respect of their pairing, for it is this difference that also preserves their continuity in discourse without the risk of their sedimenting into a unifying whole, the One Brahman, logos, and so on. Nevertheless, nityatva does have the more general connotation of “eternity”, “outside time”, “beginningless”. But, again, in the context in question the term “nitya(tva)”, as Madelaine Biardeau rightly points out, “does not connote eternity nor does it even specifically refer to permanence”; rather it has the sense of an “internal exigency” (svābhāvika) (Biardeau, 1964, 156–7; Gachter, 1983, 4). And for this there is no dependency on any kind of extrinsic appropriation, such as a qualification of existence in terms of time or its exclusion, or substance by quality, or the sender. It essentially defines a relational structure that belongs to the very nature of śabda and artha. The emphatic stress is on the constancy of the relation. In this sense it is “originary”, which I believe is better nuanced in the French “originaire” and “originel” (native, primordially prefigured), than in the English “original” (first, novel, originating) (see Heidegger, 1962, 209; 1975, 17 and 132ff; 1982, 124ff). Thus, I find it more instructive to render autpattika as “preeminently given” or “prefigured” in the sense of the inseparability of one from the other, read within a synchronic-structural matrix more than in some presumed diachronic time-frame (with or without a beginning). It is a corollary of this thesis that word and meaning also enjoy the status of being permanent fixtures of the linguistic cosmos, for without this assumption talk of the permanency of the relation will not be logically tenable. In this sense Śabara characterizes the relation as “apauruṣreyaḥ [śabdārthena 4

Apart from the Mīmāṃsā, some other darśanikas entertained a similar thesis of a differential yet inseparable relation of word and meaning. The Grammarians view the relation between the name and the nameable to be anadiyogyata (a beginningless capacity) (Kavirāja, 1984); Bhāmaha’s definition of kāvya also echoes something of this unity, for whom “expression and meaning is combined (śabdārthau sahitau) (Warder, 1978, 31).

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sambandha]”, and all the Mīmāṃsākas after him followed in using autpattika, apauruṣeya and nitya as being more or less synonymous. Śabara outlines the function of this relation in its linguistic manifestation, in responding to the question why is it that upon uttering the word “razor” the speaker does not have his mouth slit open? Because, he says, the relation is to be characterized as that of pratyāyaka and pratyāyya, i.e. (as I would like to render them) signifier and signified respectively. Śabara further describes their function in speech in terms of the name (saṃjñā) and the named (saṃjñin), which in broad terms corresponds to the vācaka/vācya or meaning/expression relation (Śābarabhāṣyam in Subbāśāstrī, 1929 on 1.1.5).5 We may note, again, that ‘difference’ is already at work in this formulation: the naming of the object or reference (the ‘referent’) is deferred, and a distinction is made within the sign, the word (śabda as a unit of speech) between the signifier and the signified (which I indicate by placing a bar between vācaka/vācya), and since there is ākāṅkṣā or expectancy between them they are said to be binary (and not all binaries are oppositional, some are complementary). It is by virtue of this intrinsic relation that the word comes to have this significative or denotative character (pratyāyakatva); and so the word conveys its meaning (in other uses as well) independently of other relations, such as of sense-organ contact or that involved in inference, or that requiring the speaker’s intention. And there is nothing artificial or plastic about this relation which again characterized as saṃjñā-saṃjñin, nominans-nomen (Magliola, 1984, 13). One might compare this with Gadamer’s linking of language with ‘naming’ and the expression of concrete experience. In his words: “The word is not merely a sign. In a sense that is hard to grasp it is also something like an image” or name manifesting experiential content. For Gadamer the word has a “mysterious connection with what it represents, a quality of belonging to its being”. And he points out that a word is not a sign that one makes or gives to another, nor an existent thing that one takes up in order to make something else – not least an ideal meaning – visible through it, rather “the ideality of meaning lies in the word itself; it is meaningful already” (Gadamer 377). The point I want to underscore at this juncture is that in so far as autpattika marks the difference of śabda (word) and artha (meaning) as also their integral connection, as a notion it exudes a profound psychological insight into the linguistic process; but the Mīmāṃsā, as I just hinted, go a step further and move this phenomenological insight into the domain of metalinguistic speculation and utilize it for their hermeneutical praxis. And here I discern a parallel with modern semiological insights, particularly those of de Saussure in his seminal text, The Course of General Linguistics, and their extension in Derrida. Let us explore this parallel.

Śabara had considered the relation (as well as the word and its meaning) to be the same in both (empirical) laukika- and (scriptural) vedavacanam, though he reserved the term śabdapramāṇa specifically for codanās (injunctive expressions) to cover vidhis and arthavādas; only with Bhāṭṭas śabdapramāṇa gets extended to laukikavacanam as well, with codanā as the limiting case for the vijñana of dharma; admitting that certain words in the Veda do not occur in ordinary discourse: so how is their relation fixed? For discussion see D’Sa (1980, 46). 5

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Fig. 1 Union of language components

3 Semiological Model: Cours de la langue v la parole In very general terms, de Saussure’s semiological thesis postulates that a sign (signe), which he uses to designate a whole, comprises an integral union of signified (signifié) and signifier (signifiant). The signifier is the psychological trace or impression of a sound, which is a phoné or phoneme (the sound-image), and the signified is an idea or concept (the meaning); the linguistic sign for Saussure is a two-fold entity, a Janus-faced thing, both sides of which are absolutely necessary for it to function as a sing, as with any set of binary pairs: to invoke one is to invoke the other (de Saussure, 1985, 28–46). The linguistic sign unites or is a binary, not a thing or object and a name, but a concept and a sound-image, as the signified and the signifier respectively. The two elements are intimately united, and each recalls the other, or creates a tension of mutual expectancy. This theory of signification comports a sense (an idea acting as signified) and a ‘voice’ (acting as the signifier). This indissoluble union of the two primordial (“originary”) components is the only essential thing in language, according to this model, which has been represented variously as (Fig. 1): What is important to note for our purposes is the fundamental unity of the signified and the signifier, albeit in a relation of mutual tension, and this is what makes it possible for the signifier, by becoming transparent, to allow the meaning to present itself; referring to nothing other than its presence. Saussure, it seems, wants to say that there is something of a natural bond between the order of signified in general and the order of phonic signifiers in general, as though the need to express meaning through sound was built into mankind’s very mode of being. However, in respect of the more specific of particularized expressions Saussure was emphatic that in any given language the relation between the signified and the signifier is entirely arbitrary (de Saussure, 1985, 28–46). That is to say, in speech the bond is

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constituted by conventions accepted by the language-community, and the signs are artificially produced. Furthermore, the signs in themselves do not have signification, linguistic value, but only achieve this in interrelation with other signs or a chain of signifiers in a system, i.e. in language. Nevertheless, Saussure does mean to say that there is no “motivation” on the part of the individual to form such a bond or even to change it, although he attempts to ground the process in an extended but complex social matrix, dispersed in the history of the speech-community, and is also suggestive of its indefiniteness. In other words, there is something of a “fixity” about the signified-signifier relation, certainly in terms of la langue (system) but as well in la parole (use); yet, paradoxically, there is no real “origin” of it other than the conditions which make it possible, which is discourse itself (Benveniste, 1966). But how can language be prior to the constituents that are supposed to make up language? Saussurean semiological model has been taken up and developed in different ways by poststructuralists. There has, though, been a tendency to understand signified and signifier in radically non-psychological terms, i.e. not simply related to the senses, such as hearing, but in purely material or entitive terms. Jacques Derrida, who takes the Saussurean model as his starting point, focuses on the separation, the difference, the indissoluble disunity that marks the signifiedsignifier relation as well as distinguishing one sign from other signs. To press this point he coined the neologism différance (from différer), which has the dual sense of differentiating and deferring, often indicated by a “\” (bar) (Derrida, 1978, 1973, 1972). The fixing of the relation, which Saussure had located in a social matrix, Derrida places or rather locates it within textuality (understood in the broadest possible sense as discourse). He decenters the subject as author and makes the text the context that accomplishes this inter-play of signs, their split and their dissemination. He even goes as far as to suggest that there is no life to signs outside of the text: il n’y a pas de hors-texte (Derrida, 1975, 8–9). Derrida makes the ‘interval’ that marks the distinction between the Sd/Sr as the most significant part of the Saussurean insight. Even more, he is of the view that there is no ultimate concept – the “transcendental signified” sacra, arché, logos, much searched for in metaphysics – independent of language that accounts for the ‘origin’ of the relations (relata) in language. He is also concerned about the way and extent to which the signifier in its phonetic image (phone) is privileged as a mode of expression over the written (graphé); which is not to say that for Derrida speech is opposed to writing (l’ecriture) for speech is forever writing (Derrida, 1981, 30). In Derrida’s work on Husserl’s Origin of Geometry there is the same fascination for the relation between eternal objects of geometry as the Mīmāṃsā had for the relation between word and meaning (the objects of language). However, the deconstructive turn hinges in the final analysis just on the recognition of the utter “conventionality” of language (Barthes, 1953). As to the question of origin, the classics had identified the signified as the originating factor of the signifier (voice), e.g. God the Father begets the Son, the Son in turn reflects the Father, and a chain of signifiers is set up and disseminated infinitely. But Derrida rejects the possibility of an ultimate ground, transcendental or metaphysical, as the originating factor of the signified and the “founding binary

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combination”, rather, he believes, and tries to show through a series of complicated arguments, that there are really only signifiers, which form an indefinite link chain in reverso modo. There is for him no logocenter which originates the sign; indeed, the absolute identification of language and ontology is resisted here with the device of différance. Saussure’s suggestion about the arbitrariness of the relation is exploited by Derrida to its logical limit in that he questions Saussure’s insistence on the natural bond between the two general “orders” of sound and meaning in the interiority of spoken language in contradiction to the arbitrariness (merely) of written notation. Derrida contends that, not only the binary combination, but the sum total of the phonic signifiers, that is each and every one of them, is arbitrary. Secondly, while in conventional representation we have the signified being mirrored in the signifier, with Derrida it is the signified which mirrors the signifier, and by a doubling back effect (dédoublement) the signifier become a signified, changes itself, and attaches itself to another signifier; this process could repeat itself setting up a chain link of signifiers, of which none has any independent or ‘natural’ signified attached to it. The nth signifier would have to transgress a whole series of signifiers to return to the ‘original’ signified, which however itself might have been simply another signifier, and so on ad infinitum! The so-called signs can only be pure signifiers, through and through. An infinite number of signs come into play (Derrida, 1978, xv, 12, 280). This dissemination of the signifier, then, also marks the dissemination of the sign, which is not unlike the Mīmāṃsā idea of ānādivyavahāratvam, beginningless convention. Although Derrida dismisses any radical and absolute grounds for the inherited difference or opposition between signifier and signified, he does not think that therefore it has no function or relevance; in fact, the relation might even be indispensable within certain limits – “very wide limits” (Derrida, 1978 xv; 1981, 31). The fixed locus is abandoned for the function. One might retort that Derrida has made his différance the originating principle, the source of it all. No. Because “[Tic) say that différance is originary is simultaneously to erase the myth of a present origin. Which is why “originaly“ must be understood as having been crossed out, without which différance would be derived from an original plenitude. It is non-origin which is originary” (Derrida, 1978, 203). “The absence of the transcendental signified extends the domain and the play of signification infinitely” (Derrida, 1978, 280). The autpattika principle could perhaps be read in similar terms, as being originary without having an origin, or as we earlier heard Śabara say, the term “origin” is simply a metaphor here: for what? we might say, for a presence which no sooner that it arises “crosses out itself’, for another presence, its absence, and so on. What Derrida intends is to simply expel the signifier by substituting it with the signified, or with concept. The sign remains deeply paradoxical, poised in opposition, and this, says Derrida, is true for all sentences. I have labored on this deconstructionist thesis in order to highlight the possibility that the quest for the origin of the signifier (and the signified, regardless of how their relation is conceptualized) can recede infinitely backwards “effacing itself in its own production”. Indeed, this idea of an infinitely transmissible tradition (i.e. a discourse about the world produced within the world texted by a system) is Derrida’s cherished

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project (Derrida, 1978). While the same end of an infinitely transmissible tradition is reached in both the Mīmāṃsā and Derridean accounts by wedging a differential mark between the signifier (word) and signified (meaning), the routes traversed by each are also radically different. While for Derrida, as we noted, the signifiersignified relation is fundamentally arbitrary, artificial and plastic, for Mīmāṃsā the relation is not arbitrary but preeminently fixed and is true for all history, or rather that it acquires an ahistorical and atemporal dimension – indeed, there is something ‘sacred’ about this marriage; while Derrida jettisons the signifier and retains only its traces in nebulous, even chaotic, chain of graphic signs virtually devoid of materiality in a system bound within itself, Mīmāṃsā gives equal weight to the signifier, which is linked to a subtler non-visible medium of ‘phonemes’ (varnas = “letters”) which in turn as a collective (‘morpheme’) is recalled/illuminated (abhivyañgya) by the traces (saṃskāras) left behind by the sound-image (dhvani) or, secondarily, by the graphic image (lipi) and other modes of materiality which awaken the meanings by this supplementary process. Varṇasamūihaḥ or combination of ‘letters’ give us words related to their respective semantic contents; combination of words (and related word-meanings) in a syntactical order (pada/padārthasamūhaḥ) give us sentences (vākya), and the combination of sentences produces text. Since the meanings arrive as it were with the words, their combination in a syntactical formation yields sentence-meaning (vakyārtha), which is a composite sense (ekavākyatā), and may require for its fulfillment various conditions, grammatical rules, metaphorical transfiguration, intentional re-arrangement, and so on (Pārthasārathi, 1913, 126). Furthermore, it is the overall signified (in a more composite expression) that governs the performative function of speech. Curiously one does not have to be kept waiting for the textual cipher: an urge or impulse (bhāvanā) towards a potential signified may be enough to propel one to action (provided one has understood correctly the task at hand). To illustrate this remark, suppose we take the injunctive expression (vidhi) “Whoever desire svarga [‘heaven] should perform sacrifice [x]”. Without concerning ourselves with questions of syntax, we notice here a string of signs, which breaks up into the signifiers, basically, as the liṅ-i-dhātu, svargaśabda, kāraka (which is neutral in the instrumental) etc., and the signifieds as the two-fold bhāvanās or impulses (efficiencies), namely, ‘performative action’ and ‘the phala (svarga, etc)’. But the phala is not actually observed or is not forthcoming in the sacrifice, for it is deferred or postponed; which means that the two bhāvanās in turn become signifiers portending a third signified: namely the apūrva (an ‘unprecedented’ efficiency), this is the “transcendental signified” (adṛṣṭārtha, literally, “unseen effect or entity”). However, the apūrva is “transcendental” (kūṭastha) only in a provisional and operational sense, for its significance is not so much in its being adṛṣṭatva – as Verpoorten (1987, 17–19) rightly points out – as in being a mysterious result “which has nothing before it” or being without a preceding instance, i.e. in its novelty and prior unknownness (ajñatatā), and so also in its near-empirical givenness for it retains the phenomenality of the almost certain phala (result), and further it will

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erase itself the moment the phala has matured. Hence, once again, the result or phala (actually a signified) functions as the signifier for the deferred but now-imminent signified, namely, svarga [‘heaven’‘, and which too, like the devatās (effervescently missing gods) (Bilimoria, 2021), has no ultimate or absolute ontological status in Mīmāṃsā worldview, just as with the idea of a Supreme God-like Being, Brahman, Īśvara, Puruṣottama, or by any other rigidified designators (Bilimoria, 1990). ‘Heaven’ is in all probability a signage for an inner state of happiness in another birth, or something to be consumed, and so its self-identity and supposed eternality (a loka, celestial loci) are inexorably elided (Bilimoria, 2020). And, of course, apūrva can be annulled or become a nihilating toque by the reciting priests or the yajamana taking a wrong step (bādha) in the act of the sacrificial performative. What is interesting is that the apūrva has no sign for it in the expression or evocations (saṃhitā, mantra, sama) themselves, and so in the absence of a disclosive signifier it cannot achieve reference to itself, self-reflexively or otherwise; it has no voice, it speaketh not, unlike the rest of mundane or conventional language that speaks us (or in the case of the inebriated, speaks wildly to us). Yet, the ‘hidden’ (avyakta), unmanifest and “not yet visible”, does achieve signification, though at the upper split level, i.e. as the pure transcendental signified. What this means is that an invisible, non-self-disclosive signifier can still unravel its equally hidden, bit now unconcealed signified. That is how Heidegger understood all of language to be in respect of being, or as he put it [the] house of being. However, a pertinent question arises: how can this split occur if autpattikatva is to be taken literally, i.e. as prefiguring an inseparable relation? We have to say that this occurs through two processes: there is to be imagined a verticular relation between the signifier and signified (as in the diagram) where the invisible signified is displaced by another more visible signifier, through metonymy, mnemonics, simulacrum, metaphor, or because the vācaka as a whole, i.e. a syntagm is the signifier in this instance. That is how mantras basically function and thus serve to achieve signification that would even make a mockery of the meanings or apparent meaninglessness of the parsed out, discreet and disparate linguistic parts that make up the whole expression (even the wholeness might be an arbitrary construction, but needed as it were for the reciter and the fire to pause to take a breath, prāṇa, or oxygen). This interpretation has proceeded, it may be noted, without any reference to the supposed speaker/author of the utterance or a subject’s intention other than that of the hearer. And it eschews any attempt to forge a direct, unmediated link between text and ritual, or word and action (see Clooney, 19856), as though no meaningunderstanding is involved in hearing words that impel one towards this or the other performance. The performative that we are referring in the foregoing is merely the performative of recitation, en-chant-ment of the fire (Agni) and the light-beings (devatā-s), evocation and utterances necessarily but not sufficiently accompanying the ritual action; the sacrifice proper is as much in the linguistically-marked performance (as noted here) as it in – albeit prior phase of – the ritual performative. These 6

On a survey of similar treatments, see D’Sa (1980), note 15 and Bilimoria (1989, 151–152).

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Fig. 2 Diagram

two must be kept separate if the role of śruti as the bearer of testimony in the larger vortex of Vedic sacrificial culture is to be understand. Let me present the foregoing analysis by way of a diagram (Fig. 2). The inter-looping of the binary pairs as represented in the diagram is, I believe, a significant indicator of the differential already impressed in the autpattika sambandha, or rather this itself marks another binary held in tension beneath the śabda-artha pair, namely, that of difference and naturalness. And this is most important form the point of view of a critique of metaphysics, for by this very recognition the Mīmāṃsā checks the tendency of any self-identification of signifiersignified, as occurs, say, in the Bhartṛhari’s Śabdabrahrnan or in the dissolution of all expressions into the Brahman of Advaita Vedānta, or a Being that might unite the opposites, overcome the tension, or a par-ousia, as Mahādeva or Īśvara, that governs their presence.

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4 Ramifications for Thoughts on Tradition and Authority The thesis of autpattika/apauruṣeyatva, by according primacy to language, may betray the impression that the dimensions of history and convention have no place in language. It might be argued that the apauruseya doctrine has been devised by the Mīmāṃsā to attach ahistoricity to the textual tradition so that the orthodox could claim the Veda to be atemporal, ahistorical and non-originated (see Pollock, 1989). Alternatively, one might argue that the entire authorless idea is a product of what, following Ninian Smart, could be termed “retroflexive amnesia”.7 The claim is that culture with a vast body of sacredly regarded doctrines, ideas, liturgical prescriptions, and moral forebodings, accumulated over a period of unremembered time, fails to maintain a well-defined perspective of its own past: it collectively (or subconsciously, even voluntarily) forgets its historical roots, and retroflexively identifies its accumulated wisdom with an authority that transcends the mundane, emperical processes. There is of course much wisdom in these charges. However, there is also a sense in which the Mīmāṃsā recognizes the indispensability of history and convention, and this becomes evident in its reliance on the notion of tradition which is intrinsically linked to the doctrine of apauruseya. This arises in the more concrete consideration of the contexts in which words and their associated meanings are learnt. Indeed, the Mīmāṃsā draws on the very factitity of forgotten origins of the oral tradition and turns this to its own advantage. Mīmāṃsā argues that as long as it is humanly possible to recollect, there is no knowledge of the authors of the Veda: all we know is that the text was heard by our fathers, our fathers heard it from their fathers and forefathers, and this line of hearing, goes all the way back to the ancients, who also heard them (Bhaṭṭa, 1978, 670). Thus there is a historically continuous succession of non-authoring ‘hearers’ (śrotrīyas). This is why the Veda is called Śruti, or śrautagrantha. It is not self-evident nor is there any real evidence that the Veda began with some one person or group. This indeed is the mystery. Besides, why should the Veda diminish in significance merely because its alleged author appears to be absent, or never did exist. The Veda has existed, and therein lies its significance. What we do know is that the Veda has been preserved and it in turn has nurtured and cultivated the tradition which has taken care to give it continuity. It is not difficult to see that the Mīmāṃsā is appealing to the tradition of learning language in a broader context. One person learns from other persons or by observing the association of their words with behavior towards the denoted objects. Each generation depends on the communicative praxis or convention of the elders (vṛddhavyavahāra) for transmission, and the elders on their forefathers, and their tradition of the ancient (prācina) or learned ones (mahājanas), and this extends indefinitely, making the process

7 Ninian Smart made this remark (recorded) in response to my paper on Śabda and Śruti: Tradition and Authority’, at an Asian and Comparative Philosophy Conference in Honolulu, 1984.

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anupūrvi or ānādivyavahāra (Pārthasārathi, 1913, 126).8 This endless line of transmission is often referred to as the śrotra-paramparā, or even as sampradāya, the matrix in which all learning (vidyāprāpti) and therefore understanding occurs, and it assumes an authority all its own. Deferring to tradition is also one way in which the question of origin may be postponed, which is partly what seems to be at stake here. Nevertheless, tradition has an important role to play in the linguistic praxis and the cultural processes in which this takes place.9 The Mīmāṃsā exploits this insight in the following way. Giving an interesting twist to the theory of linguistic learning, the Mīmāṃsā maintains that the learning is chiefly of the abhidhāśakti or general expressive power of words and it is later that the particular significance is assimilated. Thus the word ‘cow’ has the power to designate ‘cowness’ and when the word ‘cow’ is the associated with a dew-lapped animal, one understands the animal to possess ‘cowness’. Kumārila Bhaṭṭa rejects the Buddhist theory of apoha, meaning by elimination, on the grounds that meaning of a word is learnt not by elimination what it is not but rather by the inclusion of the ākṛti or general sense in the particular which is the word’s reference. The same abhidhāśakti that discloses the significance of the word goes through to sentence-meaning, i.e. interrelating the signifieds, displacing the general, sāmānya with the particular, viśeṣa, and through lakṣanā or secondary significative capacity, draws out symbolic, metaphorical, figurative, etc. connotations in specific usages of the expression. (I will pass over the more complicated theories of sentence-meaning in the rival Mīmāṃsā schools.10). Tradition also sets limits to the extent to which convention determines secondary, metaphorical and other variations or ‘play’ on the abhidhāna or primary significative capacity of words, although the derivations may overtake in ways that there is hardly any recognition of the original intent in the preeminent text of the tradition. But the Mīmāṃsā is quite adamant that while sentences or expressions may reproduce themselves in infinite permutation with unlimited meaning-combinations, words remain constant in their meanings, i.e. they continue their general meaning, and there are only a finite number of words (loke san niyamāt prayogasannikarṣaḥ syāt, Jaiminisūtra 1.1.26). Tradition also lays down certain practices and applications, and their interpretation, by which the ethical purport especially of the prescriptive utterances of transmitted discourse are realized. This latter is the domain of vidhis and dharma, as the very second sutra of Jaimini points out. It is precisely this eminence of tradition, without undermining the fundamental priority of language,

8

This fact of an infinite possibility of sentence meaning is important here: anantatvākyārthasādhāranatvāṭ (Pārthasārathi, 1913, 125ff.). Useful discussion in Taber (1989, 409 and 417). 9 In this context Gadamer’s view may be compared: “We must understand properly the nature of the fundamental priority of language the critical superiority which we claim over language is not concerned with the conventions of linguistics expression, but with the conventions of meaning that have found their form in language. Thus it says nothing against the essential connection between understanding and language. In fact it confirms this connection” (Gadamer, 1988, 362). 10 A detailed treatment appears in Bilimoria (1997)..

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that the Mīmāṃsā attempts to establish in its efforts towards delineating a hermeneutical exegesis in regard to the utterances of the Vedas (Bilimoria, 2012). Indeed, the idea of tradition that emerges from such a reflection has led no less than two contemporary (Indian) thinkers to argue that the Indian concept of śruti aptly represents the view that a culture’s self-understanding is constituted and transmitted by tradition. M. Hiriyanna, though more in an apologetic tone, explains the idea of the authorless śruti as the limiting case of nothing more or less than a systematized tradition. He takes the doctrine of apauruṣeya to be another way of accounting for the immemorial tradition by those who came to distrust appeal to human subjectivity for all its defects, shortcomings and delusions. They looked for another pramāṇa, authoritative source of knowledge, and for this they postulated Śruti or, in Hiriyanna’s words, “revelation”, the inviolable and primary authority (veritas prima) that tradition has known, preserved and transmitted (Hiriyanna, 1932, 179–180 and 267). Hiriyanna, however, cannot makes sense of an immemorial nonpersonal tradition, and so he moves to reduce Śruti to a body of intersubjectively corroborated expressions of primal experiences, “the probability of whose truth has already indicated by reason” (ibid). In short, Śruti as a tradition is a social product – a “race intuition” – that comes to acquire down the lane of history a non-personal authenticity. Moving away from the more orthodox (Mīmāṃsā) understanding of tradition but yet seeking to explain the locution of authorless Śruti in terms of this renewed understanding, J.N. Mohanty presents an interesting analysis. Although initially reticent to take seriously the doctrine of śrutiprāmāṇya (validity of scriptural utterances) because of its apparent antithesis to reason, he concedes the worth of the ‘wisdom’ of tradition, but only in a self-critical light (Mohanty, 1993). He utilizes a basically Husserlian phenomenological perspective tempered by a Gadamerian insight into the historicity of truth-events (alethēia), the happening of truth and untruth, in the life of tradition. Mohanty begins by rejecting “too literal an understanding” of the doctrine in question, for it betrays an insensitivity to the nature of Hindu thought; but he also rejects the equally “muddled cliché” that the scriptures express the spiritual experiences of their presumed authors (Mohanty, 1993; see also Gupta, 1989 and Sharma, 1991). Rather, Mohanty prefers to render Śruti simply as the “eminent texts of the tradition”, and as the self-effacing delimitation of the horizon within which the Hindu tradition itself, and within which, Hindus understand themselves. To elucidate further this interpretation of tradition Mohanty invokes Hegel’s notions of Sittlichikeit and Moralität – in the form Habermas has developed extensively – as the medium of cultural transmission of values, mores, customs, knowledge, technical reasoning, technē and actions as well as its own selfunderstanding and critical self-reflection up to that historical moment. And so the discovery of the meaning of a tradition is never ever finished; it is (as Gadamer would say) an infinite process. Thus to claim any degree of finality for the authority

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of Śruti that orthodoxy would seem to want to must, on this account, be deemed to be a misguided understanding of what tradition is.11 The task of understanding a tradition, it follows, may present other kinds of challenges, particularly when “the older ways of understanding and practice, even experience itself, no longer seem to work”; we find ourselves “distanced from earlier ways”, and what was once ground for radical stability or permanence has given way to radical impermanence or excess (Tracy, 1987, 7). Yet the paradox is that there is no possibility of escape from preunderstandings, conscious and preconscious, of tradition, which we each come with; we are formed by traditions whose power impinges upon us both consciously and preconsciously. And we might even be confused by the plurality and ambiguity of our traditions, and by their bewitching ‘game-like’ languages. Thus to try one’s best to understand or assimilate oneself to a tradition does not entail that one cannot be a critic also of that tradition; although, in order to be a critic of one’s own tradition, admittedly, one needs, in some measure, to transcend it – while, still, as a person belonging to it. What one needs to find is ‘an Archimedean point’ outside of it. But as Gadamer has rightly insisted there is no ‘Archimedean point’ and no such thing as a given unaltered and unalterable or immutable tradition (unless it is utterly static and fossilized), for a tradition is both the medium of interpretation and self-understanding of a community as well as the anonymous sedimentation of the on-going interpretation, in other words, tradition is the ground of the interpretations but it is also constituted in the process of these interpretations. Admittedly, what stands between the text from the past and the estranged contemporary reader is tradition itself; tradition which bears the text to the present, but not without carrying into its convention prejudices, not least in the way the text is to be approached and read. Prejudices are inevitable, and while the Enlightenment may have been a trifle too hasty in overcoming all prejudices, phenomenological hermeneutics is less sanguine and indeed less concerned about this prospect. But this awareness of the inevitability of prejudices also keeps one on guard and compels the reader to be vigilantly self-reflective and self-critical (Gadamer, 1988, 244–7). Thus, to interpret, to understand, to critique a tradition, is not simply achieved by gazing upon it as though it were an objective artefact, or a monument preserved from the past, but rather one has to be ‘in it’ and ‘out of it’, while recognizing that one’s own interpretation, whether it be prejudice, prejudgment, open or anonymous judgment, contributes to the continuous formation, re-articulation, perhaps even reinventing (as with the nineteenth century romanticism in India) of that very tradition.12 The power over our attitudes is also seen to be grounded and transmitted through tradition. But the task of the hermeneutical enterprise is not necessarily to return us to the past, rather it should make the past itself become present to us by

11 For a critique of Mohanty’s guarded and mistaken reading of the thesis of śabdapramāṇa, informed by Hegelian ethics and Fregean linguistics, see Bilimoria (2000). 12 Some of the discussion here is cribbed from my introductory essay to Mohanty (1993).

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communicating and expressing its memory directly to us; and this, Gadamer claims, is best achieved through a linguistic (literary) tradition, the absence of which leaves us with unsure and fragmentary ‘dumb monuments’ (Gadamer, 1988, 352). In other words, to understand a text “does not mean primarily to reason one’s way back into the past, but to have a present involvement in what is said. It is not really about a relationship between persons, between the reader and the author (who is perhaps quite unknown), but about sharing in the communication that the text gives us. This meaning of what is said, when we understand it, quite independent of whether we can gain from the tradition a picture of the author and of whether or not the historical interpretation of the tradition as a literary tradition is our concern” (Gadamer, 1988, 353).13 Such a trajectory of tradition is not entirely alien to Indian hermeneutics, at least in the non-dogmatic reading that I have proffered of the Mīmāṃsā. Gadamer’s thesis of tradition has been rather influential of late, and I wish therefore to dwell on it a little as we explore the connection of tradition with authority. According to Gadamer a culture’s self-understanding occurs in the background of tradition; tradition remains ‘unsurpassable’. In a telling passage, Gadamer makes a following bold claim about the “indispensability of tradition”, which I believe is instructive to cite in full: That which has been sanctioned by tradition and custom has an authority that is nameless, and our finite historical being is marked by the fact that always the authority of what has been transmitted – and not only what is clearly grounded – has power over our attitudes and behavior. All education depends on this . . . The validity of morals, for example, is based on tradition. They are taken over, but by no means created by a free insight or justified by themselves. This is precisely what we call tradition: the ground of their validity . . . tradition has a justification that is outside the arguments of reason and in large measure determines our institutions and our attitudes. (Gadamer, 1988, 249)

Authority however has gained a derogatory name since the Enlightenment cultural sciences, much as the Buddhists criticized the Mīmāṃsā reliance on agama or the authority of texts and on the utterances of trustworthy sources (āptavacana): authority, it is claimed, robs one of freedom and it goes against the grain of reason. But as Gadamer rightly points, and as the Naiyāyikas did much before him (Bilimoria, 2012, 281, 292–309), this is not the essence of authority: “. . . authority of persons is based ultimately, not on the subjection and abdication of reason, but on recognition and knowledge – knowledge, namely, that the other is superior to oneself in judgment and insight and for this reason his judgment takes precedence, i.e., it has priority over one’s own. This is connected with the fact that authority cannot actually be bestowed, but is acquired and must be acquired, if someone is to lay claim to it. It rests on the recognition and hence on an act of reason itself which, aware of its own limitations, accepts that others have better understanding. Authority in this sense,

13

Gadamer has been criticized, particularly by Habermas, for comprising reason or instrumental rationality in the effort to retrieve the experience of the past, without as it were throwing history a little forward to see if it meets the criteria of adequacy in all respects that we have learnt to date. For discussion see, for instance, Warnke (1987).

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properly understood, has nothing to do with obedience, but rather with knowledge” (Gadamer, 1988, 248). The symmetrical relation between authority and knowledge is precisely what the Indian philosophers attempted to establish in the doctrine of Śabdapramāṇa, which I mentioned in the opening sentence to this discussion. The extension of this doctrine to the statements of the Veda via the trajectory of tradition was the particular concern, controversial as it has proved to be, of the Mīmāṃsā. It is clear that the Mīmāṃsā wanted to give due weight to the idea of authority. It may also be noted here that in locating the authority of scripture outside the purview of both reason and a supremely ultimate being (eminent person, or God), the Mīmāṃsā lays itself open to the charge (from Enlightened Protestant theologians) of committing the grave sin of undermining or corrupting the very notion of ‘authority’, for by placing scripture, the word, over God and reason, the Mīmāṃsā has transgressed the very source(s) of authority. Indeed, such charges were brought against the Mīmāṃsā by the Nyāya, which the Mīmāṃsā scholastic writers were able to fend off with forceful counterarguments (Bilimoria, 1990). Gadamer has likewise been criticized for returning to another kind of foundationalism in the guise of traditionalism. But by the same token, and unlike Hegel, Gadamer welcomes a plurality of forms historically different and concretely situated traditions. In this regard Gadamer’s notion is open-ended, and non-totalizable or ‘objectifiable’, and it not as chaotic, discontinuous, haphazard, unbounded, and bewitching as Derrida’s negative view of tradition belies. (For Derrida the supposed wholeness and coherence of tradition is an unwarranted “axiomatic structure of metaphysics” like that of the theory of language it undergirds.) It follows from the picture of authority presented here that not all authority is bad or wrong, or corrupt and totalizing; that there is an implicit ‘method’ in tradition; that the way to handle the issue of tradition is not to reduce it univocally to a set of antiquated and antiquated and anachronistic beliefs, nor to blindly regurgitate its apparently receding spirituality, but rather to enter it, empathetically interact with it and in this dialectic allow a fresh understanding to emerge. Indeed, the distance – difference – that time and history (diachronic and synchronic) creates between a thinker or interpreter and the tradition provides an idle setting for the hermeneutic reflection to happen. For one can then, in retrospective, take into account the totality of past interpretations, and therefore more easily contextualize the tradition qua its representative (‘eminent’) texts to the present set of conditions and circumstances. Or, again as Gadamer puts it, “[E]ven the most genuine and solid tradition does not persist by nature because of inertia of what once existed. It needs to be affirmed, embraced, cultivated. It is, essentially, preservation, such as is active in all historical change” (Gadamer, 1988, 250; see also Mohanty, 1993). In concluding it might be contented that the more liberal, indeed a selfconfessedly hermeneutical, rendering of the Mīmāṃsā project as I have given here, sits oddly with its otherwise well-worn reputation as the most orthodox of Indian systems. What, however, can be made of an ‘orthodoxy’ that stridently takes a stance against, amongst other things, the belief in the existence and potency of the

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Transcendent, whether conceived as the plurality of gods (of the Vedas and Purāṇas) or as the absolute, the onto-logos (of the Upaniṣads and Vedānta), which the larger bulk of the Brāhmaṇic-Hindu tradition in one form or another shared? Secondly, while it is true that the Mīmāṃsā hermeneutics shows little trace of a widespread or significant influence on the actual performance of the Vedic rituals (although the Mīmāṃsā pandits I have been studying with in India avouch the converse), the principles formulated (nyāya) and its entire system of textual exegesis, known as sadliṅgas, were adopted, (a) by the philosophical systems, notably the Vedanta from the time of the author of the Brahmasūtra, and more rigorously by Śaṅkara onwards; and (b) in quite significant ways by the legalistic tradition, especially in the Hindu Miṭākṣara Law, to the present day. (There have been recorded instances of High Court judges consulting Mīmāṃsā pandits on the likely Mīmāṃsā interpretation of some traditional ruling, say, on inheritance rights, on which a case was being contested) (Bilimoria 1992, note 20). That is not to say however that the Mīmāṃsā account is free of other kinds of conceptual mistakes and linguistic defects, not least in its appraisal of history and its ritualistic excess at the expense of mantras, which no inquiry can afford to ignore. Not much has been said on the positive features and possible fruitful comparison they might commend with modern reflections on similar concerns, which has been my focus here. I have explored here a number of different trajectories – though none definitive, nor fully satisfactory to my philosophical mind – for explicating the ‘originary non-origin’ claim in respect of the Brāhmaṇic canonical tradition, the apotheosis of which is said to be marked in the Veda or śruti, itself thought to be exemplary of the pre-eminent ‘authorless voice’ as of the hermeneutic or interpretative self-understanding that is constitutive of the culture of the tradition, or alternatively of the anonymous residuum of the historical experiences of its people.

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Bilimoria, P. (1998). Testimony in Indian philosophy. In E. Craig (Ed.), Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://www.rep.routledge.com/articles/thematic/testimony-in-indian-philosophy/ v-1. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Bilimoria, P. (2000). J. N. Mohanty’s critique of word as a means of knowing and ’authorless tradition. In B. Gupta (Ed.), The empirical and the transcendental: A fusion of horizons (pp. 199–218). Rowman & Littlefield. Bilimoria, P. (2012). Śabdapramāṇa: Word and knowledge: A doctrine in Mīmāṃsā-Nyāya philosophy (with reference to Advaita Vedānta-paribhāṣā ‘Agama’). In Towards a Framework for Ṡruti-prāmāṇya. Springer. Bilimoria, P. (2017). Three dogmas of Matilal: Direct realism, lingophilia, and dharma ethics. Asian and Asian-American Philosophers, Newsletter of the American Philosophical Association, 17(1), 11–14. Bilimoria, P. (2020). Māntric effect, effervescent devatā-s, noetic supplications, and apūrva in the Mīmāṃsā. In R. D. Sherma & P. Bilimoria (Eds.), Contemplative studies and Hinduism. Routledge India (pp. 178–194). Routledge India. Bilimoria, P. (2021). The missing God of Heidegger and Karl Jaspers: Too late for God; too early for the Gods—With a vignette from Indian philosophy. In S. Chakraborty & A. Mukhopadhyay (Eds.), Living without God: A multicultural Spectrum of atheism (pp. 97–110). Singapore. Clooney, F. X. (1985). The co-originality (Auipattikatva) of word and action in the Mīmāṃsā and its relevance to revelation. Paper presented at American Academy of Religion, Anaheim. (Courtesy of the author). Cohen, S. (2008). Text and Authority in the Older Upanishads. Brill. D’Sa, F. X. (1980). Śabdaprāmāṇyam in Śabara and Kumārila. de Nobili Research Library. de Saussure, F. (1985). The linguistic sign. In R. E. Innes (Ed.), Semiotics: An introductory anthology (pp. 28–46). Indiana University Press. Derrida, J. (1972). La Dissémination. Minuit. Derrida, J. (1973). Speech and phenomena (D. B. Allison, Trans.). Northwestern University Press. Derrida, J. (1975). Of grammatology (G. C. Spivak, Trans.). John Hopkins University Press. Derrida, J. (1978). Writing and difference (A. Bass, Trans.). Chicago University Press. Derrida, J. (1981). Positions (A. Bass, Trans.). University of Chicago Press. Gachter, O. (1983). Hermeneutics and language in Pūrvamīmāṃsā: A study in Śabara Bhāṣya. Motilal Banarsidass. Gadamer, H.-G. (1988). Truth and method. Crossroad. Gajendragadkar, A. B., & Karmarkar, R. D. (Eds.). (1984). Arthasaṃgraha of Laugākṣi Bhāskara. Motilal Banarsidass. Gupta, S. R. (1989). The word that become the absolute: Relevance of Śaṅkara’s ontology of language. Journal of the Indian Council for Philosophical Research, 2(1), 27–41. Heidegger, M. (1962). Being and time (J. Macquarie, Trans.). New York: Harper. Heidegger, M. (1975). The origins of the work of art. In M. Heidegger, Poetry, language, thought (A. Hofstadter, Trans.). Harper. Heidegger, M. (1982). On the way to language (P. Hertz, Trans.). Harper. Hiriyanna, M. (1932). Outlines of Indian philosophy. Allen & Unwind. Kaviraja, G. (1984). Aspects of Indian thought. University of Burdwan. Magliola, R. (1984). Derrida on the mend. Purdue Press. Matilal, B. K. (1990a). On Bhartṛhari’s linguistic insight. In B. K. Matilal & P. Bilimoria (Eds.), Sanskrit and related studies: Contemporary researches and reflections. Indian Books Centre. Matilal, B. K. (1990b). The word and the world India’s contribution to the study of language. Oxford University Press. Mohanty, J. N. (1993). A critique of Śabdapramāṇa and the concept of tradition. In P. Bilimoria (Ed.), J. N. Mohanty, Essays on Indian philosophy traditional and modern. Oxford University Press.

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Pārthasārathi, M. (1913). In L. S. Dravida (Ed.), Śāstradipikā. With a commentary Yuktiasneha Prapoorani by Rama Krishna Misra and the Mayukha Malika by Somanath Partha Sarathi Misra. Vidya Vilas Press. Pollock, S. (1989). Mīmāṃsā and the problem of history in traditional India. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 109(4), 603–610. Sharma, R. K. (1991). How not to damn language. Journal of the Indian Council for Philosophical Research, 3(3), 127–145. Staal, F. J. (1969). Sanskrit philosophy of language. In T. A. Sebock (Ed.), Current trends in linguistics. Mouton. Subbāśāstrī, C. K. (1929). Mīmāṃsādarśanam. Ānandāśrama Sanskrit series 97 (Vol. 2). Ānandāśrama. Sullivan, L. E. (1990). “Seeking an end to the primary text” or “putting an end to the text as primary”. In F. E. Reynolds & S. L. Burkhalter (Eds.), Beyond the classics? Essays in religious studies and Liberal education (pp. 41–59). Scholars Press. Taber, J. (1989). The theory of the sentence in Pūrva Mīmāṃsā and Western philosophy. Journal of Indian Philosophy, 17(4), 407–430. Tracy, D. (1987). Plurality and ambiguity: Hermeneutics, religion, Hope. Chicago University Press. Verpoorten, J. M. (1987). A history of Indian literature – Mīmāṃsā. Otto Harrosowitz. Warder, A. K. (1978). The science of criticism in India. Adyar Library and Research Center. Warnke, G. (1987). Gadamer: Hermeneutics, tradition and reason. Stanford University Press.

Part IV

Scientific Codes and Religious Meanings

Gersonides – Translating Divinity Within the Limits of Knowledge Snezana Lawrence

1 Introduction We know that Gersonides, also known as Levi ben Gerson, or by the acronym, Ralbag, was born in Provence and lived all his life in the town of Orange. For a time, it seems he lived also in Bagnols-sur-Cèze, some 30 km west, and across the river Rhône from Orange (Rudavsky, 2020). Occitania, not limited to Provence but also including Narbonne, Lunel, Montpellier and parts of Catalan region such as Perpignan, was in the time of Gersonides a centre of Jewish learning (Maser, 2016). Little is known of his private life and no data is available of any of his offspring. We do know that he spoke Provençal but wrote exclusively in Hebrew although he probably did have a working knowledge of Latin and was able to read Arabic (Rudavsky, 2020; Kellner, 1998, viii; Glaisner, 2002a; Gregg, 1984). Thus, his opus was aimed exclusively at the Jewish population, and this should be kept in mind when analyzing his intentions or assessing their immediate influence. But as his work became well known outside of this Hebrew-reading audience only in the twentieth century (Carlebach, 1910) an increased interest in his contributions became contemporary to our own learning and scholarship. We thus set the task here to investigate these more recent interpretations and see what else is there left to learn about Gersonides and his work (Kellner, 1979).

S. Lawrence (✉) Middlesex University, Department of Design Engineering and Mathematics, London, UK e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_15

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2 Gersonides’ Contributions Gersonides contributed to a very diverse subjects including philosophy, logic, mathematics, physics, theology, and music. Whilst for us of greatest interest is his work in logic and mathematics, we will see how all the subjects and disciplines he dedicated himself to had, for him, a common purpose and were linked by a common thread. We will investigate on some examples how this actually worked in practice. It is worth mentioning at the beginning of this chapter that contemporary perception of mutual exclusivity between mathematics and theology does not work in the case of Gersonides’ work. Of course, this does it, in fact, work more generally in the wider history of mathematics, but may be seen often an unpopular view to have. Contrary to that, until the eighteenth century, the two disciplines were often manifested together in the lives of the most famous of mathematicians (Lawrence & MacCartney, 2015). So too in Gersonides’ theological opus we find mathematics had an important, if not a central place.

3 The Matter of Truth Gersonides held a belief that “Torah taught nothing that could not be confirmed by reason” (Kellner, 1979, 13). This central belief sets out the foundation for his epistemology. Additionally, and unlike other scholars of his time, he did not lock himself up in a library or a study but included the experimental insight to be an important part of learning and knowing the world. This was, as we will see, deeply religious in nature, but in his logical and mathematical method, religiosity is hard to detect even to a modern reader. Let us then first examine his method. Gersonides builds on Aristotle’s dialectic method which he learned from his Metaphysics (Klein-Braslavy, 2011, 4). In Aristotle, the sciences are seen and understood but may not always be demonstrable; there is also no single universal science (Berti, 1981). There is however something he calls first philosophy. This first philosophy, or metaphysics, deals with the first principles and teaches us that we must be able to establish facts on the principle of non-contradiction (Gottlieb, 2019). Gersonides builds on this but his dialectic method is diaporematic, which is a version of the dialectic. He held that this method suited his way of understanding and examining the world, but he also drew conclusion that this method was employed by Solomon in the three books ascribed to him: the Song of Songs, the Proverbs, and the Ecclesiastes (Klein-Braslavy, 2011, 6). What is the diaporematic method? It consists of three stages and is described by Aristotle in Metaphysics III.1. First stage is aporia – this takes place when we experience difficulties to reconcile what we hear with what we believe or if we hear two different answers to the same question. The results, thesis and antithesis, to the same question, perplex us.

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Second stage is to investigate as many possible or plausible opinions or statements. We may rely on the answers of those that base their statement on the authority of the wise men, or the authority of the established truths (i.e. generally what most people believe). In this stage, called diaporia, we investigate all such contrary opinions. The third stage, euporia, is the stage where we ‘solve’ our initial problem and establish the truth. Gersonides makes additions to this method by adding possible further sub-stages. For example, he reviews the thesis and antithesis offering support to an opinion, and simultaneously refuting its antithesis. He also sometimes advances objections to the reached conclusion and responds further to the challenges he has raised. Gersonides himself best explains thus: In fact, the demonstrations which are best verified by the intellect are those which are composed of incidentally necessary premises, because the very terms themselves entail that the predicate will be affirmed or denied of the subject. These necessary premises appear to be both necessary and essential because we cannot suppose that the opposite of such a sentence will exist at some point. [This is so] since a definition will not be separated from its definition nor a genus from its species (Gersonides, 1319, II–11, fol. 43r; Manekin, 1990, 570).

As others have already pointed out (Klein-Braslavy, 2011), Gersonides’ pursuit of finding out the philosophical truth is nothing less than his pursuit of finding his own purpose, knowing and approaching divinity, and even achieving immortality, all of which we will return to further down in this paper. His philosophical and scientific writings can therefore be also seen as an attempt to help disseminate such knowledge and guide others to achieve it.

4 Sciences and the Divine Gersonides found that the study of mathematics, physics, astronomy, and metaphysics was crucial on his journey of finding God. In this he was not alone in the history of mathematics, or science (Lawrence & McCartney, 2015), but he perhaps went further in that when he adopted a view that stated: to imitate God through the study of these subjects (Kellner, 1995) was a necessary step. Further still, his approach to Imitatio Dei would include the teaching of sciences. Centuries later, the English philosopher Francis Bacon spoke of the need to establish Salomon’s House, as a house of learning where wisdom would be achieved not only through communication and reading but through efforts to imitate the divine – and the divine was the nature and the world itself. This could in fact be established, he thought, as long as one delves deep into the wisdom of the ancients to find that “this is in fact the true philosophy which echoes most faithfully the voice of the world itself, and is written as it were from the world’s own dictation; being indeed nothing else than the image and reflection of it, which it only repeats and echoes, but adds nothing of its own” (Bacon, 1609, XIII, 101; Zetterberg, 1982). Gersonides also thought, centuries

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earlier, that the preservation of knowledge was as important as its acquisition not purely for the purpose of preservation of culture or learning, but because it echoes faithfully the voice of the divine order. Whilst Maimonides (Moses ben Maimon, 1138–1204), Gersonides’ predecessor and in many ways intellectual guide, saw that one should imitate God by seeking one own’s intellectual perfection, Gersonides’ credo included not only one’s own learning but additionally that quest to help others seek and achieve intellectual perfection (Kellner, 1995, 277). This quest of course has a religious dimension in that the person who teaches others how to achieve true knowledge himself imitates God. But what are the means and what are the pathways that Gersonides (a) followed? and (b) suggested others should follow?

5 Gersonides’ Mathematics, and the Languages Gersonides wrote commentaries on Averroes (Ibn Rushd, 1126–1198), who was an Andalusian scholar and polymaths and wrote on the sciences as well as Islamic jurisprudence. Averroes was a proponent of Aristotelianism and based his work on the commentaries on Aristotle’s works; Gersonides’ own commentaries on Averroes were in fact super-commentaries on Aristotle’s work via Averroes interpretations. He covered all Averroes works on the sciences (Klein-Braslavy, 2011, 181). Question has been often posed whether Gersonides therefore read Arabic or relied on the Hebrew translations of Averroes work (Glaisner, 2002). From the studies that emanated from this interest it was shown that indeed, he could read Arabic, and interestingly for us, that he read some mathematical works in Arabic. Of these, he for example read Euclid’s Elements (Lévy, 1992). This book, the most famous of the mathematical textbooks of all times, was written in the third century BC by one Euclid of Alexandria, encompassing all known mathematical knowledge of the times (most probably, as there are competing theories of his existence, see Itard & Dedron, 1959). Majority of the Greek mathematical works from this period were lost as we know – starting with the fire of the Alexandrian library in 48 BCE, and through its subsequent decline of over the next three hundred years (Lawrence, 2019). In any case, we have very few manuscripts of the Elements which came from antiquity (Heath, 1956) and that were mainly lost to European civilization until the nineteenth century. We know that the Arabic scholars however preserved the Elements, and we also know that there were Hebrew translations of some of Euclid’s work but not of Elements themselves. For example, Maimonides, with whom we met earlier, in his most famous work Guide of the Perplexed (1190), spoke about hyperbola and its properties as described by the Apollonius of Perga (262–190 BCE) in his Conics (exact date unknown). Some short optical treatises were also available in Hebrew, and some writings of Archimedes and Eutocius (Langermann & Simonson, 2000). This reading of Euclid’s Elements put Gersonides in a distinct advantage over his contemporaries, certainly those who lived in his surrounding area or even wider geographical region of Occitania. The book was mainly lost to European scholars

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until 1120 when Abelard of Bath (1080?–1142 or 1152) translated it into Latin, but the first printed copy only appeared in 1482, based on a 1260 edition (Heath, 1956). Gersonides wrote a commentary on Euclid’s Elements in 1320, and a copy of a transcription of this work survives, made by Moses ben David in 1480 in Constantinople and now in the Bavarian State Library. One other of his works we know of are his treatise on trigonometry, written in 1342, one of the first such writings in Europe – original title of this treatise is MilHamot Adaonai, translated to De Sinibus, Chordis et Arcubus later on. In fact, Gersonides is also credited with the invention of the Jacob’s staff, an astronomical instrument. The name of the instrument was given by his Christian contemporaries (Goldstein, 1977). His treatise on harmonic numbers, De Numeris Harmonicis, written in 1343 and immediately translated from Hebrew into Latin, was written by him as a commission for Philippe de Vitry (1291–1361), then the bishop of Meaux. De Vitry was a composer of some standing even in his own time. He wondered whether there was more than four known pars of harmonic numbers whose difference was 1. What are harmonic numbers? Well, there are several different types of harmonic numbers, but the ones Vitry was interested in were the numbers which can be expressed as product of powers of two and three, 2n ∙ 3m. The table with such numbers up to 1000 is given below (Table 1). The known pairs of harmonic numbers with the difference of 1 were known to Vitry: they are 1 and 2, 2 and 3, 3 and 4, and 8 and 9. Gersonides proved that these indeed are the only four pairs of such numbers, i.e. the harmonic number with a difference of 1 between them. The Hebrew original manuscript of his treatise is unfortunately now lost. Table 1 Harmonic numbers given as products of 2n
3n

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There are two other major contributions to mathematics by Gersonides which we will now briefly mention. One is his work on mathematical induction. This is a mathematical technique of proof that was, until the middle of the twentieth century, credited to a nineteenth century English mathematician, Augustus De Morgan (1806–1871). The name is in fact due to De Morgan which was apparently coined by him in 1838 (Cajori, 1918), but there was a research thread that led later scholars in the twentieth century to look further back (Rabinovitch, 1970). This eventually led to the discovery that the origin of the actual proof technique was due to Gersonides – a fact discovered by Hans Freudenthal (1905–1990), German Jewish mathematician and mathematics educator. Freudenthal probably turned to the historical analysis as he had to take a break from his mathematical research during the post WWII era; he was for a while prohibited from working in Netherlands where he settled with his Dutch wife Suus (1908–1986) also a mathematics educator, since he was German by birth. In his paper (1953), Freudenthal reported not only that Gersonides was the first as far as we can see that had used this type of technique, but also that he used it on his work relating to the numbers of permutations and combinations. This leads us to that particular topic in which Gersonides was interested and which was probably his greatest contribution to mathematics but has been buried in his Hebrew manuscripts for many centuries. The question of permutations and combinations is an old one and it had a particular meaning for Jewish scholars. As early as tenth century, rabbi Shabbethai Donnolo (913–c. 982) wrote a commentary on Sefer Yetsirah (often attributed to Abraham himself, but sometimes also to Rabbi Akiva, c. 50–135), or Book of Creation, a famous book of Judaism dealing with creation and often considered to be a mystical text. Donnolo in his commentary wrote lists of all possible permutations of Hebrew letters of a five- and six-letter words. Why would anyone do that? Well, if you can work out how many words you can make of how many letters, you would be able to work out how many things God could have created since he would have to assign a name to each thing, or rather create a thing by naming it. Gersonides showed in his work, Sefer Maaseh Hoshev, first edition of which he completed in 1321, and second in 1322 (Langermann & Simonson, 2000), that for example the number of permutations of a given number n of elements is n! which is n ! = n ∙ (n - 1) ∙ (n - 2). . . ∙ 1 . He also discovered formulae for the number of combinations or permutations of k elements from a set of n elements. We are certain that the circulation of this book was reasonably wide despite the fact it was written in Hebrew (and not translated at the time), and we also know that there was a copy of it in Paris, in possession of the Oratorian order, which was brought there from Constantinople in 1620 by the French Ambassador to the Ottoman Empire, Achille Harlay de Sancy (Katz, 2013, 121). This particular copy must have been available to the Oratorian priests since it was housed in their library, and one such was Oratorian Marin Mersenne (1588–1648) whose circle of mathematicians included Blaise Pascal (1623–62), who later wrote on the subject (Katz, 2013, 12). Pascal, in turn, is known to have laid foundations, with other contemporaries, to the theory of probability in which combinatorics plays a major role. We therefore don’t really, it seems, fully know the story of Gersonides’ contribution to

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mathematics in this respect. Had Mersenne read this work, and further, had he shared Gersonides’ work with Pascal? We simply don’t know. But why was mathematics important for Gersonides and why has he devoted so much of his energy to its study and to discovering its laws?

6 The most Beautiful, the Song of Songs Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field Let us lodge in the villages (7:12) Let us get up early to the vineyards Let us see whether the vine hath budded Whether the vine-blossom be opened And the pomegranates be in flower There I will give thee my love (7:13) (Ben Gerson, 1325, 85).

Gersonides’ work until he was thirty-seven was mainly dedicated to logic, mathematics, and astronomy, but in his maturity (Kellner, 1989) he increasingly dedicated himself to interpretations of the parts of Tanakh (the Hebrew Bible) and the Talmud (ancient Jewish sayings, stories, and teachings). The above quote, which Gersonides gives word for word in his Commentary – Commentary on the Song of Songs, comes from Song of Songs itself. The Song of Songs is sometimes called the Song of Solomon, and is a special part of the Tanakh, unique in the sense that it does not preach the wisdom or righteousness or give instructions of how to lead one’s life, but instead seems to celebrate the more profane manifestations of the human life through desire for contact and intimacy between a loving couple. In modern Judaism this text is read on the Sabbath during the Passover (Pesach, ‫)ַהֶּפַסח ַחג‬, major holiday celebrating the exodus of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. Various general interpretations are often mentioned in relation to it, such as the text being an allegory of the relationships between God and its people, or God and the Church, latter of course being a Christian interpretation (Norris, 2003; Sweeney, 2011). But Gersonides offers an interesting, novel, and quite different interpretation. In his interpretation Gersonides offers a description, a method of interpretation and of acquiring knowledge that would lead one to the understanding of eternal truths and closer to the agent or active intellect. Perhaps one can say that his interest in this method goes back to what we saw that he considered it his duty as well as his journey towards God: that one should also teach others so that they too may learn of the divine order. In this Commentary Gersonides therefore taught what the allegory tells. In fact, one may go as far as suggesting that he saw the Song of Songs itself as a method of this pursuit of learning towards the divinity. The original text itself, consensus has it, does not have a plot, but it does offer a framework. The framework itself has been interpreted in many ways, so what Gersonides does in his Commentary is give a replication of this method by deconstructing its meaning. Here too, Maimonides is his guide, through his own Guide of the Perplexed, but only partially. Maimonides suggests for example, in a completely new way (for his

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own time) in his Guide that the Song of Songs may not after all be about God and the people of Israel, but about a love between God and individual human beings (Kellner, 1998, xv; Halper, 2018). If the meaning of this song is not clearly distinguishable and has to be interpreted, is this not because Solomon so wanted? Maimonides thought so. His stance towards the interpretations of Biblical texts is well known – these texts have two meanings, one external for everyone to be able to read, the public meaning. The other would be hidden, metaphorical, allegorical meaning, and is often given in parables. His Guide is written with the purpose to identify such parables and guide the reader but without being explicit and clear as to what meaning one should deduce (Kellner, 1998, xxvi). Gersonides on the other hand is quite clear, specific, and didactic in his exposition in the Commentary. But for the limitations of the length of this chapter, there is a missing link here that we will now only briefly mention. This missing link relates to what has become known as Maimonidean controversy. In this controversy, the debates between Judaic philosophers and rabbis took place centered around the Maimonides’ writings. The tension to reveal the true meaning of the Torah to the masses or keep them under wraps for the initiated only eventually led to the claims that the philosophical interpretations of the Torah would be given to those who are not ready to hear the truth. The opposition to such practices led to the ban in Barcelona in 1305, which forbade the study of physics and metaphysics to anyone below the age of twenty-five (Silver, 1965). At the time, Gersonides was a young scholar but his work on philosophy would still in theory be subject to such a ban. Whilst one can see the reason for the ban – i.e. the danger of misinterpretation and misuse (professional standards in today’s parlance) – Gersonides stance is pretty clear, and his method is secure and confident that, if the interpretation is given fully, openly, and with clarity, the learning will take place in the righteous manner. Gersonides was, one must remember, a halakhist, dealing with the matters of right and wrong, and employing his version of the diaporematic method.

7 Gersonides’ Method and the Immortality . . . playing music with the hand and other arts... the player does not have a pre-knowledge of the movements of the fingers (required to produce) the tune that he wishes to play. Rather, he imagines the tune and his limbs are moved by this image until the tune is achieved. This way it can happen that the musician plays with his hand while listening to a tune that he had not heard before, and the tune that he plays agrees with the tune to which he listens. These (instances) confirm that the motions of living beings are more wondrous than the motions of non-animated beings, and that it is not legitimate to draw analogies between these and those (Ben Gerson, 1329, V.1.45).

Understanding God and his creation, Gersonides said, was possible. If one is, as demonstrated above, in harmony, and in tune to what one has learnt of the divine order, one continues in that way to recreate the ‘tune’, and perhaps play for the others in hope that they too, would understand. In fact, Gersonides goes as far as to suggest that through this process of learning, and sharing that learning through a clearly

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articulated effort, one can even achieve immortality. This argument is in itself a whole introduction to his Wars, and the whole of the first book of this collection of six is devoted to the immortality of the soul. The book states, we will be forgiven for summarizing it in very short and elementary terms, that an acquired intellect that corresponds with the active, or divine intellect is incorruptible (Gersonides 1329, I, 213): “The acquired intellect is immaterial, and an immaterial substance does not have the conditions requisite for corruption; and whatever lacks these conditions is incorruptible”. The man, therefore, is able to achieve partial god-like immortality through learning. There is more of ‘shocking’ news to come – man is also capable to do things of his own free will. That is the most important thing that Gersonides is probably known for: his contribution to the controversy about the logic he applied to his view of the nature of knowledge and free will. A common question that many philosophers of the times grappled with was an argument that goes something like this: if there is a divine prescience, does an omniscient God (who knows everything) know whether an individual will ever be empowered to make a certain choice? If everything is already known, what is there for the humans to do apart from follow their predetermined destinies? In the third book of his Wars of the Lord, which some branded Wars against the Lord (Manekin, 1991, 11), Gersonides deals with the question of the divine knowledge of particulars. Aristotle for example, in Metaphysics argued that God’s knowledge must only extend to universals, in other words, the knowledge cannot pertain to particulars (Melamed, forthcoming, 3). Additionally, God is unchanging so would have known everything within eternity. To jump slightly (and metaphorically), this would mean that an event cannot turn in any other way than such that God already knows will happen. If this is correct, then you and I have no free will and will not be able to actually make a choice that confirms or demonstrates our free will, but will just follow what has always been predestined (Marenbon, 2016). Should we therefore give up thinking we are making a choice at any point of our lives? Maimonides, like Averroes, argued that God without qualification knows every particular and event, but like Averroes argued that this is different to our understanding (Kellner, 1994). Gersonides thinks hard about this, as is to be expected after everything we said above. And what he came up with, using his diaporematic method on the one hand, and later in the same argument, his mathematical induction, is quite stunning. Let us recreate this (Gersonides 1329, III, 123): The . . . argument maintains that God cannot know generated events, for if He did, He would know them either before their occurrence or only simultaneously with their occurrence. If He knows them before their occurrence, His knowledge would refer to nonexistents. Moreover, if this is indeed the case, either He knows them as they really are, i.e., as contingents, and then it is still possible that the opposite of what He predicted will occur; or He knows definitely which alternative of two contradictory states of affairs will occur, such that the other alternative is not possible. If we say that He knows them as genuine contingents, His foreknowledge of these events would be subject to change when the event in question has occurred; for prior to its occurrence the event could or could not have occurred, whereas after its occurrence this possibility has disappeared. And since the intellect is constituted by its knowledge, God’s essence would be continually subject to change, which is absurd (Gersonides 1329, III, 122).

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So whilst in fact using the proof by contradiction here (and this was not an invention of Gersonides, as it was known and applied already by Euclid and appears in his Elements), Gersonides continues to dismantle the commonly held logic of God’s knowledge of particulars in contradiction to man’s free will to change outcomes. In fact, towards the end of his argument, in Book III, chapter IV of his Wars, he clearly states: According to our theory God knows that a particular event should occur given the ordering of phenomena [in the intelligible order of things], but not that it must absolutely occur; for God recognizes that by virtue of human choice this event might not occur, and this is the sense in which these things are contingent (Gersonides 1329, III, 123).

Not only is this revolutionary, it puts a human intervention on a par with that of the divine. If there is a preferred outcome that fits with the God’s universal plan, how can humans do something else? How can one reconcile these – God’s universal plan and the free will of humans to basically interfere with it? Gersonides uses the trick of using mathematics to prove what otherwise may be confusing: . . .it has been demonstrated that a continuous magnitude as such is divisible indefinitely. But if God is assumed to have knowledge of all particulars, He would have knowledge of all the divisions that can possibly be made of that continuous magnitude. If this were so, a continuous magnitude would have parts that are not capable of further division, i.e. the parts of which God’s knowledge of these parts terminates; otherwise God’s knowledge of his [process of ] division would be deficient. We claim that this argument is not valid. If we were to admit, for example, that with respect to any given body God has knowledge of the nature [i.e. the capacity] for division in the body, it does not follow that the division will end. He knows the nature of this division, i.e., He knows that whatever is divisible can be divided further insofar as it is a quantity. God has no knowledge of an end of division, which by its very nature has no end, for such knowledge would be considered error, not knowledge (Gersonides 1329, III, 123).

This in fact states that sometimes humans will have free will and do something that God did not always think should be done (as He knows a particular event should occur but it doesn’t, and it’s all the fault, or rather, due to the free will of humans). In more modern context of using mathematics to understand divinity, we may now approach this question with that of more modern mathematics. For example, if we have a continuous game being played between God and man, and the results such as those that should happen and those which do happen, could we look at the game theory? Brams (2018) thinks so. In that case, mathematics will still play an important role in trying to understand divinity.

8 Conclusion In this chapter we looked at Gersonides’ work in the context of the translations: and in his work we met with several examples. Firstly, the fact that Gersonides wrote in Hebrew and the fact that his mathematical opus still largely remains untranslated brings us to the conclusion that much work still remains to be done in this area of

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scholarship. Although some starting points have been identified for the willing historians of mathematics and theology (Langermann & Simonson, 2000), there is yet more understanding to come from the study of this fascinating scholar. Considering the other contributions that we have learnt of through the translations of his theological and philosophical works that began in earnest in the late nineteenth century (Kellner, 1979), we are still awaiting to fully learn of, and appreciate, possibly one of his most important contributions to humanity, his mathematical inventions. The mathematical method Gersonides pioneered was crucial and central to his investigations. The way he used mathematics in his theological and philosophical writing is something many have since learnt, as a persuasion tool (Kellner, 1994). A short reminder here may be pertinent, that mathematics itself is often seen as something that needs translation to ordinary language of humans (Lawrence & McCartney, 2015). Although Gersonides puts astronomy and metaphysics as the most important sciences, then physics and then mathematics, the schema of his model of the knowledge acquisition can be only seen in its totality: one cannot miss one of its schematic parts. In fact, as we saw above, in his philosophical and theological work he also relies on mathematics as a way of providing the argument, one that he then proves, beyond any (and not only reasonable) doubt. What he had understood of the divine order by then is what he had elaborately exposed his readers to by using not only philosophical and theological, but mathematical argumentation. For Gersonides this pursuit: to understand and lead others towards such an understanding of the order of things as a manifestation to see God’s divine wisdom, leads to the immortal truths, and this in turn in some way, leads to immortality. This should probably be enough of a motivation for us to translate more of his mathematical opus.

Bibliography Bacon, F. (1609). De sapientia veterum, London. Ben Gerson, L. (1325). Commentary on song of songs (M. Kellner, Trans. (1998)). Yale University Press. Ben Gerson, L. (1329). Wars of the Lord (S. Feldman, Trans. (1987)). The Jewish Publication Society. Berti, E. (Ed.). (1981). Aristotle on science. Antenore. Brams, S. J. (2018). Divine games: Game theory and the undecidability of a superior being. MIT Press. Carlebach, S. (1910). Levi Ben Gerson Als Mathematiker, Berlin: J. Lamm Cajori, F. (1918). Origin of the name mathematical induction. American Mathematical Monthly, 25, 197–201. De Young, G. (1984). The Arabic textual traditions of Euclid’s Elements. Historia Mathematica, 11, 147–160. Freudenthal, H. (1953). Zur Geschichte der vollständigen Induktion. Archives Internationales d’Histoire des Sciences, 6, 17–37.

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Glaisner, R. (2002). Gersonides: A Portrait of a Fourteenth-Century Philosopher-Scientist. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Glasner, R. (2002)a. Gersonides’ knowledge of languages. Aleph, 2, 235–257. Goldstein, B. R. (1977). Levi ben Gerson: On instrumental errors and the transversal scale. Journal for the History of Astronomy, 8, 102–112. Gottlieb, P. (2019). Aristotle on non-contradiction. In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Stanford encyclopedia of philosophy (Spring 2019 ed.) https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/spr2019/entries/aristotlenoncontradiction/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Halper, Y. (2018). The sex life of a metaphysical sceptic: Platonic themes in Gersonides’ commentary on song of songs. In R. Haliva (Ed.), Scepticism and anti-scepticism in mediaeval Jewish philosophy and thought. De Gruyter. Itard, J., & Dedron, P. (1959) Mathématiques et mathématiciens, Paris: Magnard. Heath, T. L. (1956). The thirteen books of Euclid’s elements. Dover Publications. Katz, V. J. (2013). Jewish Combinatorics. In R. Wilson & J. J. Watkins (Eds.), Combinatorics: Ancient and modern. Oxford University Press. Kellner, M. (1979). A bibliographical essay. Studies in Bibliography and Booklore, 12, 13–23. Kellner, M. (1989). “Introduction to the commentary on song of songs composed by the Sage R. Levi ben Gerson: An annotated translation”. In Jacob Neusner, Ed., from ancienct to modern judaism: Essays in honour of marvin fox, Atlanta: Scholars Press, 2, 187–205. Kellner, M. (1994). Politics and perfection – Gersonides vs Maimonides. Jewish Political Studies Review, 6(1-2), 49–81. Kellner, M. (1995). Gersonides on Imitatio Dei and the dissemination of scientific knowledge. Jewish Quarterly Review, 85(3-4), 275–296. Kellner, M. (1998). Translator’s introduction. In L. Ben Gerson (Ed.), Commentary on song of songs. Yale University Press. Klein-Braslavy, S. (2011). Without any doubt – Gersonides on method and knowledge. Brill. Langermann, T. Y., & Simonson, S. (2000). The Hebrew mathematical tradition. In U. D. Ambrosio (Ed.), Mathematics across cultures: The history of non-western mathematics (pp. 167–188). Springer. Lawrence, S. (2019). A new year’s present from a mathematician. CRC Press. Lawrence, S., & McCartney, M. (2015). Mathematicians and their gods: Interactions between mathematics and religious beliefs. Oxford University Press. Lévy, T. (1992). Gersonide, commentateur d’Euclide. In G. Freudenthal (Ed.), Studies on Gersonides: A fourteenth-century Jewish philosopher-scientist (pp. 83–147). Brill. Manekin, C. H. (1990). Logic and science in Gersonides. In S. Knuuttila et al. (Eds.), Knowledge and the sciences in medieval philosophy (pp. 565–573). Helsinki. Manekin, C. (1991). The Logic of Gersonides, Dordrecht: Kluwer. Marenbon, J. (2016). Medieval philosophy, a very short introduction. Oxford University Press. Melamed, Y. (forthcoming). Gersonides and Spinoza on God’s knowledge of universals and particulars. In O. Elior, G. Freudenthal, & D. Wirmer (Eds.), Gersonides through the ages. Norris, R. A. (2003). The song of songs: Interpreted by early Christian and medieval commentators. Eerdmans. Rabinovitch, N. L. (1970). Rabbi Levi Ben Gershon and the origins of mathematical induction. Archive for History of Exact Sciences, 6(3), 237–248. Rudavsky, T. (2020). Gersonides. In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2020 ed.) https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2020/entries/gersonides/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Silver, D. J. (1965). Maimonidean criticism and the Maimonidean controversy 1180–1240. Brill. Sweeney, M. A. (2011). Tanak: A theological and critical introduction to the Jewish Bible. Fortress Press. Maser, Y. (2016). Les rabbins du Sud de la France au Moyen Age et leurs écrits. Les Sages de Provincia. Editions Bakish. Zetterberg, P. J. (1982). Echoes of nature in Salomon’s house. Journal of the History of Ideas, 43(2), 179–193.

The Revival of Alchemy: The Cumulative Creation of a Tradition Ingrid Malm Lindberg

1 Introduction In a recent article, Robin Le Poidevin (2021) refers to the historical switch between the disciplines of alchemy and chemistry as an example of Thomas Kuhn’s theory of scientific paradigm shifts. This, in turn, mirrors a view that for a long time has been commonly held among historians of science: namely, that alchemical practice ultimately was overrun by modern chemistry at the time of the Enlightenment. In this chapter I am going to problematize this perspective by investigating the revival of alchemy that took place at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. This wave was part of a much greater sociocultural phenomenon where individuals, in increasing numbers, started to develop an interest in occult phenomena and Hermetic knowledge. Likewise, the emerging science of radioactivity contributed to the modern fascination for alchemy. At the end of the Victorian era (1901), Frederick Soddy and physicist Ernest Rutherford’s experiments demonstrated that radioactive thorium was able to transform into an inert gas (later shown to be helium). Hence, instead of being indivisible pieces of matter (which was the view of Daltonian chemistry), it seemed to be the case that elements were both divisible and mutable. Consequently, this was unpleasantly similar to the alchemical teaching that all elements could be reduced to a prima materia, and then transmuted into other elements. For some decades, the comparison between radioactivity and alchemy continued to be influential in the public sphere as well as among scientists. Among occult practitioners, in

I. Malm Lindberg (✉) Centre for Multidisciplinary Research on Religion and Society, Department of Theology, Uppsala University, Uppsala, Sweden e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_16

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turn, alchemy began to be considered as a genuinely scientific discipline that, at the same time, had important spiritual implications. By acknowledging the double character of alchemy (involving manipulation of physical compounds as well as having a spiritual aim), my intention is to examine how the “core” of the alchemical tradition has been conceived throughout the years. Depending on what aspects of the tradition that subjects saw as the most genuine, they either approached it as a laboratory practice or as a technique for spiritual transformation. At the same time, we also have examples of how alchemists, during certain historical periods, have been open for a reconsideration of their own positions. One example of such moment is the reformulation of alchemy that took place in London at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth century. This resulted in a reinvention of alchemy in the light of recent scientific discoveries and the crisis of faith that naturalistic science had brought about. In what follows, I am going to examine this phenomenon as an example of a “cumulative creation”1 of past and present, involving reproductive as well as productive aspects.

2 The Tradition of Alchemy: An Overview As the reader soon will become aware, there are numerous ways to tell the history of alchemy. According to some authors, alchemists´ primary concern have always been the manipulation of physical compounds (for example, transforming metals into gold). For instance, in the case of Lawrence Principe and William Newman’s historiographical research (Newman and Principe, 1998; Principe and Newman, 2001), they emphasize that the focus of medieval and Renaissance alchemy was the transformation of material substances. That is, even if alchemical treatises contain many concepts and terms that are drawn from the religious culture of the time, these features were—according to Principe and Newman—irrelevant to the proto-scientific aspects of alchemy. However, in accordance with an opposing view, alchemical procedure has, at all times, been about self-transformation (and only incidentally been involved in laboratory practices). Even so, among those who promote this particular perspective, there are different opinions about what the spirituality of alchemy actually consists of. For example, whereas Mircea Eliade (1962) sees it as being part of religious behaviour, Carl Gustav Jung (1968a, b) rather understands it as psychological developments occurring within the practitioner (“irruptions of the unconscious” which are projected from the alchemists psyche onto the level of matter). On other accounts, it is emphasized that the kind of spirituality that is associated with alchemy is part of Western esotericism2 or an ancient Hermetic tradition.3 Nevertheless, while

The concept of “cumulative creation” comes from Lowenthal (2015, 122). For example, Antoine Faivre (1993). 3 For example, Julius Evola (1995/1931) and Titus Burckhardt (1967). 1 2

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I am aware of these deviating ways of conceiving the history of alchemy, I still consider it necessary to start by sketching the contours of the tradition’s historical development. The name alchemy originates from the Coptic word for Egypt (kēme) as well as the colour black. (Because of the dark-earthed soil of the Nile desert, Egypt was considered to be the “Black Land”). It came into our language from the Greek term chemeia, which was filtered through the Arabic reception of Greco-Egyptian texts and passed into Latin during the Middle Ages. The start of Western alchemy can be traced back to Hellenistic Egypt. The meeting between Greek and Egyptian culture that occurred in Alexandria gave rise to a discipline that combined Egyptian goldsmith’s art, Greek philosophy, and features of different religious and ceremonial traditions.4 Legend says that it was Hermes Trismegistos (a syncretic combination of the Greek god Hermes and the Egyptian god Thoth) who was the founder of alchemical practices. While we now know him to be a purely fictive figure, Hermes Trismegistos was for a long time seen as the author of Tabula Smaragdina (The Emerald Tablet), a text which many Islamic as well as European alchemists have regarded as the foundation of their art.5 According to this work, everything proceeds from the same, unified source and can therefore be transformed into anything. Furthermore, since there is a correspondence between microcosm and macrocosm, they can be turned into each other: “That which is above is like to that which is below, and that which is below is like to that which is above”6 (Haage, 2005, 16–21; Principe, 2013, 9–26; Edmonds, 2019, 270–271). Alchemical work included the search for the philosopher’s stone (that could transform metals), a quest for the panacea (an elixir for life and health and longevity), as well as an artificial process of human life (Homunculus). Among these practices, the most well-known probably is metallic transmutation and gold making (chrysopoeia). It involved reducing the specific nature of a substance to a prima materia and infusing the remaining matter with a new, nobler essence. In this case, the underlying idea was that all things in the universe are formed from only four elements: earth, air, water, and fire or—as Aristotle preferred to see it—the qualities of dry, cold, moist, and hot. Of particular importance was the Aristotelian idea that all things in nature are striving teleologically towards more complete forms. According to Aristotle, the role of human art is either to imitate nature or to “perfect. . . that which nature cannot complete” (Physics 2.8, 199a).7 Hence, it was in this light that many alchemists saw their craft (Haage, 2005, 17–21; Buntz, 2005, 34–38; LaGrandeur, 2013, 48–77; Edmonds, 2019, 276–290). Like other contemporaneous natural philosophical texts, alchemical treatises in the antique reflected the spirit of the times, according to which there was a close

The first available alchemical treatise that we know of is Physika kai Mystika (c. 100 B.C.), and the first historical alchemist we know of is Zozmios of Panopolis, who was active around 300 A.D 5 The earliest version of the Emerald Tablet can be found in pseudo-Apollonius of Tyana’s Sirr al-khalīqa (c. 750–850). 6 “As above, so below” (the modern paraphrase of this statement). 7 Aristotle quoted in Newman, 1989, 428. 4

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interconnection between spiritual and material aspects of reality. While alchemy was involved in the manipulation of physical substances and processes, its practices and theoretical underpinnings were already from the start entrenched with religious concepts and ideas — for example, provided by Neoplatonism, Gnosticism and mystery cults (Edmonds, 2019, 297–313; Haage, 2005, 20, 23–26). However, to acknowledge that such terminology was part of the attitude of a particular period is not the same as asserting that it is consistent with the religious interpretation of alchemy that developed during medieval times, the Renaissance, or the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Starting in the eighth century, alchemical treatises were translated into Arabic and spread to the Muslim world. As a result of this development, alchemy received a more systematic and experimental orientation. During the twelfth and thirteenth century, various European translators8 summarized and explained the newly imported alchemical language in Aristotelian terms. Likewise it became common to justify alchemical practice in theological terms: for example, by describing it with Christian metaphors and symbols (such as the resurrection of Christ). At that point in time, certain objections were raised against the legitimacy of alchemy. According to this critique, alchemists rebelled against God’s creation by changing the essential qualities of matter. However, as a way to meet this objection, alchemical authors started to refer to themselves as “imitators of nature” (appealing to Aristotle’s teleological conception of nature) rather than being “god-like” creators themselves (Haage, 2005, 26–32; Buntz, 2005, 34–41; Newman, 1989; Matus, 2012; Principe, 2013, 27–69; Schummer, 2003, 707–713). While the monastery was the major domicile of alchemy in early medieval times, alchemists were increasingly operating in courtly and medical circles. During the Renaissance, the interest in alchemist practices was fuelled by the rediscovery of ancient texts apparently embodying a lost wisdom. As part of this humanistic movement, Marsilio Ficino’s Latin translation of the Corpus Hermeticum9 was the starting point of an influential reorientation of alchemy. This change of direction was favoured by the Neo-Platonic magic that was popular of the time.10 Another novelty was a greater emphasis on the ways in which alchemy could be useful for medical purposes. Although some already had begun to consider this idea in medieval and Arabic alchemy, it now gained greater prominence via Theophrastus Paracelsus of Hohenheim (1493–1541), whose iatrochemistry turned alchemy to the service of

8 For instance, the Franciscan friar and bishop Albertus Magnus (c.1200–1280) and philosopher Roger Bacon (c.1220–1292). 9 A collection of Hermetic texts that have greatly influenced the Western esoteric tradition—not least, the tradition of alchemy. While it often has been attributed to the legendary figure of Hermes Trismegistus, it is now believed that they probably are written between c. 100 and c. 300. 10 A movement, for instance, represented by Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim (1486–1535) and John Dee (1527–1609). Agrippa is often described as the “archimagus” of the sixteenth century, author of the influential De Occulta philosphia (1533). In the case of Dee, he was court astronomer of Elisabeth I, as well as a devoted practitioner of alchemy, divination and other forms of occultism and Hermetic philosophy.

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medicine. In his idiosyncratic way, Paracelsus encouraged the combination of astrology and magic with practical laboratory alchemy (Coudert, 2005, 42–47; Sparling, 2020; Newman, 2008, 499–510; Szőnyi, 2004). However, in the beginning of the eighteenth century, alchemy and chemistry began to part ways. As a way to refer to the gradual transition from classical alchemy to modern chemistry William R. Newman and Lawrence M. Principe (1998) have suggested using the term “chymistry.” On their account, it refers to the analysis, transformation, and production of material substances that took place before alchemy and chemistry were separated from each other during the Enlightenment. Scholars in this field applied scientific-empirical strategies while simultaneously believing that manipulation of nature’s occult and hidden parts was a critical part of natural philosophy.11 Nevertheless, even if some of the pioneers of scientific experientialism were committed alchemists—for instance, Isaac Newton (1643–1727) and Robert Boyle (1627–1691)—the discipline was increasingly excluded from “genuine science.” As a result, alchemical practice was now seen as “the other” against which modern, rational science defined itself. Even so, there is now a tendency among contemporary scholars to recognize that alchemy holds an important place in the history of science. However, regarding the spiritual aspects of alchemical practice, there is no general agreement on what role they played during different historical eras (Coudert, 2005, 42–47; Principe, 2013, 83–106; Hanegraaff, 2012, 192–207; Forshaw, 2019).

3 The Revival of Alchemy in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Century As the etymological origins of the word “tradition” implies, it refers to a handing over of knowledge and practices. Hence, in order for a tradition to fulfil its proper role, it must pass on a certain authorized content to future generations. However, it is not necessarily the case that what is delivered is a fixed set of beliefs and practices that remains the same independently of the kind of environment it is transferred to. Rather than being static monoliths, conventional frameworks are often dynamic entities that evolve over time. In addition, it is not uncommon that there are different opinions about which aspects of a tradition that are worthy of handing over to the next generation. This is particularly true in situations where there is no general agreement about what the authentic core of a passed down set of beliefs and practices is constituted by. As we have seen, this is a description that rightfully can be applied to the tradition of alchemy. Nonetheless, by having a double character (involving manipulation of physical compounds as well as having a spiritual aim) it enabled nineteenth and twentieth century occultist in Britain to reinvent the phenomenon of

11 For example, Robert Boyle (1627–1691); J.F. Helvetius (1630–1709); Hermann Boerhaave (1668–1738); G. E. Stahl (1659–1734); and Isaac Newton (1643–1727).

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alchemy in ways suitable for the scientific as well as spiritual requirements of their time. In fact, as I will argue, such “interpretative flexibility” is characteristic for the alchemical tradition as a whole. That is, while containing teachings about transformation on a material or spiritual level, it is a sociocultural phenomenon that, in itself, is characterized by a well-developed transformative capacity.

3.1

The Merge Between Science and Occultism

During the Victorian period, science underwent dramatic changes. Besides Charles Darwin’s theories on the origin of species, all branches of science saw major developments and expansions. However, as scientific method took the lead, many people experienced that the impact of Victorian naturalism and scientific materialism was a sense of alienation and isolation. Therefore, in response to the crisis of faith that naturalistic science had brought about, individuals sought other means in their quest for a meaningful reality. Among other things, this resulted in an increased interest in Hermeticism, ritual magic, and other forms of esoteric knowledge. In growing numbers, individuals—primarily from the middle class—were involved in spiritualism and occult societies such as the Theosophical Society and the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Many of these groups claimed descent from Renaissance occultism and older traditions of ceremonial magic.12 At the same time, as pointed out by Alison Butler (2011), it was often the case that these societies relied heavily “on nineteenth-century occult and esoteric developments as well as upon an invented tradition of Western magic” (Butler, 2011, 138). That is, even if they invoked older traditions, Victorian occultists were, to a certain extent, inventing a new and potent magical system. This kind of re-creation occurs, Butler argues, “during times of social transition when old traditions no longer function in a new cultural and intellectual climate” (Butler, 2011, 174). However, even if Victorian occultism can be seen as a response to the scientific materialism of the nineteenth century, it wasn’t, in any way, anti-scientific. By contrast, it was rather the case that scientific naturalism, scientific methodology, and evolutionism worked their way into occultism and influenced the direction in which it later evolved. As explained by Corinna Treitel, All of his players—whether scientists, occultists, journalists, or novelists—belonged to a larger cultural transformation in which a basic consensus about the structure of reality, how best to study it, and its meaning for human society broke down. In this context, the occult became a tool for creatively rethinking and repackaging the world, both scientifically and spiritually (Treitel, 2009, 624).

Hence, instead of abandoning the field of science, some occultists believed that the scientific method ultimately would prove the objective existence of occult

12 Developed, for instance, by Marsilio Ficino (1433–1499), Giovanni Pico della Mirandola (1463–1494), Johannes Reuchlin (1455–1522) and Heinrich Cornelius Agrippa (1486–1535).

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phenomena. This, for instance, applies to the Society for Psychical Research (SPR), which attracted several scientists and scholars of this era. The aim of the society was to use scientific principles to explore psychic phenomena such as mesmerism, spiritualism, telepathy, and clairvoyance. Other occultist referred to themselves as “scientists,” but instead of limiting their research to the exploration of natural laws, they also searched for perennial “higher truths” and the true nature of the human soul. This, for example, was a characteristic feature of the Theosophical Society. On their account, esoteric ways of gaining knowledge were superior to ordinary scientific methodology. For this reason, leading theosophists Annie Besant and Charles Webster Leadbeater formulated the research program of Occult Chemistry. The aim of the experiments that were conducted within this program was to use supernormal vision and clairvoyance to perceive and describe those chemical elements that were hidden from the methods of ordinary science. As a result, Theosophy was able to market itself as an epistemological solution for questions that the empirical science of the time could not answer (Owen, 2004, 1–50; Laqueur, 2006; Morrison, 2007, 11–29, 65–96; Asprem, 2014).

3.2

A Reformulation of Alchemy

Frederick Soddy’s and Ernest Rutherford’s discovery of radioactivity in 1901 would cause a revolution in chemistry. Instead of confirming the Daltonian view that atoms were unbreakable, stable, and eternal entities, their experiments demonstrated that radioactive thorium was able to transform into an inert gas (later shown to be helium). Hence, what these new results seemed to suggest, was that the old alchemical metaphysics—which held that elements were both divisible and mutable—had in some sense been right. However, since alchemy, at least from the Enlightenment, had been under assault for being “unscientific,” Rutherford advised his colleague to tone down the associations to this pseudo-scientific tradition: “For Mike’s sake, Soddy, don’t call it transmutation. They’ll have our heads off as alchemists” (Howorth, 1953, 84). Even so, the comparison between radioactivity and alchemy continued to be influential in the public sphere as well as among scientists and occultists. In the latter group, alchemy began to be considered as a genuinely scientific discipline that, at the same time, had important spiritual implications. Nevertheless, regarding modern occultism, alchemical practices had for a long time been part of its esoteric curricula. Among those interested in alchemical practice were, for example, certain influential figures in the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn—such as William Wynn Westcott, A.E. Waite, W.A. Ayton, William B. Yeats, Isabelle de Steiger and Aleister Crowley. It was also the case that alchemical themes and symbols were essential for the order’s grade system by which initiates were trained in ceremonial magic. In the early to mid-1890s, Golden Dawn alchemists were profoundly influenced by Mary Anne Atwood’s A Suggestive Inquiry into the Hermetic Mystery (1976/1850). According to her spiritual interpretation of alchemy, “[m]an . . . is the true laboratory of the Hermetic art; his life the subject, the grand distillatory, the thing distilling and the

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thing distilled, and Self-Knowledge . . . at the root of all Alchemical tradition” (Atwood, 1976/1850, 153). On her account, these kinds of practices were part of a secret tradition dating back at least to the ancient Greeks. In line with Atwood’s way of reasoning, Golden Dawn initiates typically interpreted chemical transmutation as an allegory for the cultivation of the alchemist’s own highest self. However, alongside this spiritual interpretation, some occultists (for example, W.A. Ayton and the William Wynn Westcott) likewise showed an interest in alchemy as a physical process. In this group, attempts were made to merge spiritual alchemy with certain aspects of modern science. Such an attitude, for instance, characterized Westcott’s approach, according to which alchemy anticipated the discoveries of modern chemistry. In the wake of Soddy and Rutherford’s discovery of radioactivity, this became an increasingly more common attitude among Golden Dawn initiates. As a result, authoritative figures, such as A.E. Waite, now began to move away from the position of seeing alchemy as an entirely spiritual process. Instead, it became more common to embrace the science of radioactivity as a vindication of one’s own occult world view (Caron, 2005, 52–54; Morrison, 2007, 31–49; Principe, 2013, 94–102). As part of this change of attitude, H. Stanley Redgrove—a fellow of the Chemical Society—founded the Alchemical Society in London 1912. The aim of this society was to overcome the usual barriers between scientists and occultists, and to create a forum where these two groups could discuss alchemical practice in a scientifically legitimate way. For this reason, the structure of the Alchemical society was that of a public scientific association rather than of a secret society. Hence, it had open meetings with papers and responses and published various reviews and publications that were of relevance for the merge between scientific and occult modes of reasoning. As noticed by Mark Morrison (2007), this was an initiative that significantly distinguished itself s from Atwood’s spiritual alchemy. That is, instead of seeing science as irrelevant for spirituality, members of the society now “emphasized a world view by which legitimate scientific understandings of nature could be held to have spiritual implications” (Morrison, 2007, 61). However, whereas some members were engaged in alchemy as a laboratory practice, others rather discussed it from a purely theoretical perspective. It was also the case, Morrison points out, that the members never reached a final consensus on how to interpret the phenomenon of alchemy. According to some, it should be seen as a chemical science that — while not holding up the rigor of modern science—still was able to “intuitively grasp certain fundamental facts concerning the universe” (Redgrove, 2013, 2). For others, the language of chemistry was entirely symbolic and should therefore be conceived of as referring to the alchemist’s own spiritual transformation (interpreted in light of either mesmeric or psychological theories). Even so, Morrison argues, the Alchemical Society helped its members to interpret the implications of modern atomic theory. By emphasizing the unity of matter and energy and presenting it as a scientific as well as a spiritual principle, “[a]lchemy allowed the scientists and Hermeticists of the Alchemical Society to re-enchant science by positing the origins of the modern scientific push for unity in ancient Hermetic spirituality” (Morrison, 2007, 63; Morrison, 2007, 31–64; Asprem, 2014, 109–119, 247–260).

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4 A Tension Between Paradigms The revival of alchemy in the nineteenth and twentieth century is an example of a dynamic and multi-layered tradition that is able to “reinvent” itself when the situation so requires. In this section, I analyse this phenomenon in light of two different forms of paradigms: On the one hand, the kind of succeeding paradigms that, according to Thomas Kuhn (1962), generates scientific progression. On the other hand, the Platonic and alchemical paradigms that, for Wouter Hanegraaff (2012), lies at the heart of alchemical practice. In the aforementioned article, Robin Le Poidevin (2021) refers to the succession of the disciplines of alchemy and chemistry as an example of Thomas Kuhn’s theory of revolutionary paradigm shifts. In the case of Le Poidevin, he is primarily interested in Kuhn’s claim that competing paradigms, to some extent, are incommensurable and whether this quality also applies to instances of radical religious change. However, while the topic of alchemy isn’t the focus of Le Poidevin’s paper, I use this example (referring to alchemy and chemistry as competing paradigms) as a starting point for my own discussion. For Kuhn (1962), a paradigm consists of the constellation of beliefs, values, and techniques shared by the members of a given scientific community. As such, paradigms organize scientific work and suggest particular ways of investigating the world. Regarding “normal science,” scientists work according to the established paradigm without questioning it. However, when the existing framework has lost its ability to guide the scientist’s problem solving, it results in a crisis. Then, Kuhn argues, in case a new paradigm proves to be better in resolving these puzzles, a scientific revolution starts. On his account, this is not because science is a cumulative linear process but, rather, because the new paradigm succeeds the old and, for a period, becomes the normal scientific tradition. According to Kuhn, this leads to a situation where people from competing paradigms use key terms differently and, therefore, are unable to understand each other (semantic incommensurability). He refers to it as a lack of “shared lexical structure or taxonomy” between two competing scientific languages. As a result of such a communication breakdown, scientists in rival paradigms perceive the world differently and, according to Kuhn, even inhabit “different worlds.” Consequently, what this perspective implies is that there is no way to tell whether successive theories—even if they employ the same terms—refer to a common set of entities (existing independently of their theoretical framework). Another aspect of incommensurability, as Kuhn sees it, is the absence of universal and objective criteria according to which practitioners can evaluate the relative merits of opposing paradigms (methodological incommensurability). Thus, on Kuhn’s account, paradigm shifts occur when one clearly defined scientific framework succeeds the previously dominant one. Furthermore, in order for them to be considered “incommensurable,” it is required that they entail a logical contradiction that makes them incompatible. For such incompatibility to come about, the competing paradigms must be concerned with the same subject matter. (That is, while investigating the same explanandum they offer different explanans).

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However, as I see it, these two aspects create certain challenges to the idea of a Kuhnian type of paradigm shift between alchemy and modern chemistry. In particular, it brings forth the question whether a spiritual interpretation of alchemy, in fact, focuses on the same subject matter as modern chemistry does? If not, it is counterintuitive to conceive of these paradigms as being incompatible and incommensurable. In case we only understand alchemy as a particular theory about the nature and behaviour of matter—related to a certain pre-scientific form of investigation—the comparison with paradigm shifts is understandable. On this account, the alchemist idea of transformative, material compounds was, at a certain point in time, succeeded by Daltonian chemistry. This resulted, in turn, in two rival paradigms that perceived of physical matter in incompatible ways. Entailed in this shift was also, according to a common understanding, an abandonment of the pre-scientific view that nature was enchanted and impacted by spiritual forces. However, if we, by contrast, have an entirely spiritual understanding of alchemical practice, we do not necessarily see it as being concerned with the same subject matter as chemistry is. Hence, on that account, alchemy and chemistry are not competing paradigms. Nevertheless, it could also be the case—as we have seen in relation to nineteenth and twentieth century alchemy—that a certain scientific theory (i.e., the discovery of radioactivity) is considered to have impact on matters of spiritual concern. Thus, rather than reinforcing the conflict thesis between science and religion, this example illustrates the potential of alchemical discourse to bridge the gap between these two areas of knowledge. In addition, in regard to our collected knowledge about physical matter, it isn’t always the result of a linear progression. For instance, regarding the nineteenth-century revival of alchemy, it was an older understanding of matter that turned out to be more in line with contemporary scientific discoveries. As I see it, this is one of the reasons why Kuhn’s idea of paradigm shifts doesn’t capture the backand-forth movement that is entailed in the tradition of alchemy. In this case, it does not so much involve an irreversible abandonment of a certain interpretation, as it allows practitioners to exist in a continuous dialectic between those perspectives that the tradition has in store. For this reason, instead of merely analysing alchemy in light of Kuhn’s paradigm shifts, I argue that our understanding of it is better served by the types of paradigms suggested by Wouter Hanegraaff (2012, 191–195). According to him, the tradition of alchemy comprises a Platonic and an alchemical paradigm. However, as emphasized by Hanegraaff, these distinctions are not intended to be historical descriptions. Instead, we should see them as analytical instruments by means of which we are able to capture the complex interplay between various elements entailed in the alchemical tradition. Regarding the Platonic paradigm, it is derived from Platonic frameworks and assumptions as well as a concern for ancient wisdom. As Hanegraaff describes it, this paradigm reflects a backward-looking approach that was anchored in the Roman Catholic culture of the Italian Renaissance. Hence, it promotes an approach that is characterized by a top-down and hierarchical mode of thinking “starting from general metaphysical principles and approaching the lower domain of physical

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realities from that perspective” (Hanegraaff, 2012, 193). An essential element of this stance, in turn, is the notion of a downward fall from original bliss and divine unity to a material world characterized by spiritual ignorance. A significantly different mode is reflected by the alchemical paradigm. In this case, Hanegraaff explains, it combines the tradition of Hermeticism with an Aristotelian framework of natural philosophy and innovative Paracelsian concepts. As a result, this framework is primarily concerned with alchemical transmutation and to assign to everything its proper place in the “great chain of being.” Hence, it is characterized by a bottom-up approach that starts with the simple unity of matter and works its way up towards higher metaphysical levels. According to Hanegraaff, this paradigm thus implies an “upward” movement that tries to “describe how an original state of darkness could be the matrix of superior and even divine realities” (Hanegraaff, 2012, 193). Even so, Hanegraaff maintains that one thing that these paradigms have in common is a concern for ancient wisdom. On his account, this is also the case with texts that are presented as “chymistry” and which often are described as either reflecting modern chemistry or proto-scientific alchemy: In sum, I am suggesting here that texts that presented chymistry as concerned with recovering ancient secrets — typically concealed by obscure language, enigmatic symbolism, or other techniques of dissimulation — became perceived as “alchemy.” In contrast, texts that used clear and sober language to speak about experimental science became “chemistry.” Even in the domain of natural science, then, it was still the ancient wisdom narrative and its concern with recovering the forgotten secrets of the past and not, as so often assumed, the perceived irrationality, unscientific attitude, factual incorrectness, or superstitiousness of certain disciplines in the “chymical” study of nature that functioned as the mark of “otherness” by which acceptable discourses were demarcated from unacceptable ones (Hanegraaff, 2012, 207).

As I see it, Hanegraaff’s paradigms make us better equipped to understand the cumulative and evolving nature of the alchemical tradition. In particular, his approach enables us to take into account that alchemy, while containing elements that are steady,13 also keeps on acquiring new dimensions in relation to the context in which it is situated. On my account, this perspective is consistent with a hermeneutic approach. In line with this way of reasoning, I suggest that the alchemical tradition is comparable to a semantically complex and enigmatic text that continuously is subject to translation, interpretation, and reformulation.

5 The Strategy of Hermeneutic Flexibility In order for my comparison to make sense, I am going to refer to the tradition of alchemy as a text from the past that we, as interpreters, try to understand in the present. In this procedure, it is required that we translate it to our present linguistic— as well as wider sociocultural—context. Michael P. DeJonge (2015) refers to this 13

For example, the continuous dialectic between the Platonic and the alchemical paradigm.

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position as “linguistic-historical contextualism.” As an illustration, he mentions Thomas Aquinas’s historical translation of Pseudo- Dionysius’s statement that God is known as unknown. Essential for DeJonge’s account is the concept of “intralingual translation.”14 It denotes the kind of procedure that takes place when we use verbal signs to interpret and explicate other signs in the same language—for instance, in the form of a definition or a commentary. In particular, DeJonge focuses on the type of intralingual translation that is required when a segment of text from a past linguistic-historical context is “transplanted” into a present linguistic context— for example, when an older text is quoted in a newer one.15 However, whereas DeJonge applies this concept on Thomas Aquinas translation of Pseudo-Dionysius, I am going to suggest that this is a hermeneutic strategy that likewise has relevance for our understanding of the phenomenon of alchemy. According to DeJonge, historical translation has a close connection with the concept of tradition: that is, practices, beliefs and texts are handed down over vast periods of time. Nonetheless, in order to maintain these beliefs and practices, it is required that a tradition invests the past with authority for the present. At the same time, DeJonge argues, it is necessary that every generation interprets these features in ways that make them meaningful in their contemporary environment. As an illustration, he refers to the scholastic theological practice to organize various authoritative statements around a shared question (“doxography”). This procedure often involved lifting statements from renowned scholars from their original context and to interpret them in the context of one’s own theology. For instance, in many scholastic articles, an initial question was followed by a series of arguments based on statements from agreed upon authorities. First thereafter, and always in conversation with these authoritative statements, the writer himself answered the question in his own words. This procedure was a way for the medieval scholar to express awareness that his own work rested on “a firm foundation of ancient accomplishment,” DeJonge explains (DeJonge, 2015, 32). As an illustration, DeJonge refers to Thomas Aquinas retrieval of PseudoDionysius’s statement that God is known as unknown. By knowing God as unknown—and only comment on God in negative terms (what God is not)—we are, according to Dionysius, in fact brought closer to God. While Thomas didn’t consent with this view, he starts his argumentation in De Trinitate by paraphrasing Dionysius position (maintaining proper deference to the latter’s authoritative claims). At the same time, he restricts in what sense Gods essence is unknown— and limits it to only concern this life, not the afterlife. For this reason, DeJonge argues, this is a good example of how a statement, through historical transplantation and intralingual translation, is given a new meaning. As I see it, occultists of the nineteenth and twentieth century made use of a similar strategy. In this case, they transported the tradition of alchemy to their own historical context—characterized by dramatic scientific discoveries as well as a crisis in faith

14 15

DeJonge borrows this term from George Steiner (1992). “Historical transplantation.”

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and a sense of alienation. However, even if they invested the past with authority for the future (for instance, by emphasizing alchemy as a continuous esoteric tradition that dated back to ancient times) they adjusted it to meet the existential and intellectual requirements of the time. Therefore, Corinna Treitel (2009) argues, this group of occultists invoked older traditions at the same as they creatively rethought and repackaged the world “both scientifically and spiritually” (Treitel, 2009, 624). For the tradition of alchemy as a whole, this has been an efficient strategy to handle situations where a new cultural and intellectual climate challenges its essential teachings. For example, this was the case when medieval alchemists—in response to the Church’s accusations that they rebelled against God’s creation—started to refer to themselves as “imitators of nature” rather than as “god-like” creators. Other examples are Paracelsus’s innovation of iatrochemistry (which extended the reach of alchemy to the area of medicine) and Mary Anne Atwood’s and C.G. Jung’s spiritual reinterpretation of alchemy in the light of mesmeric or psychological teachings. As noted by Barbara Obrist (2003), flexibility of this kind has always been an essential survival technique for the tradition of alchemy: Indeed, alchemy was unique in continually adopting various cosmological models and philosophical theories for justifying artificial transformation of substances and in abandoning them again as quickly. Theory and practice, especially in its innovative aspect, never complemented one another for any length of time (Obrist, 2003, 160).

According to Obrist, this kind of strategy also lies as a foundation for the relatively late phenomenon of using pictoral representations to describe alchemical processes. That is, whereas documents dating from the eleventh and mid-thirteenth centuries are almost devoid of pictorial elements, later treatises are characterized by a growing number of illustrations that are combined according to various codified pictorial traditions. For example, in the case of the circular form, it symbolized separate things for different cosmological systems: whereas the Platonic and neo-Platonic tradition saw it as an expression of perfection, Aristotelians used it as a reference to cyclical processes within the spherical cosmos. For this reason, Stanislas Klossowski de Rola (1973) writes, alchemical images have a “polyvalent symbolism, and lend themselves therefore to various interpretations... [and] cannot be bound to a single system of thought, any more than it can be reduced to a single symbolical interpretation” (Klossowski de Rola 1973, 9). While not writing explicitly on alchemy, Umberto Eco (1994) makes a similar observation. He points out that hermeneutic flexibility of this kind was a main feature of the Hermetic tradition that was spread from the Renaissance. On his account, this was a strategy that included the belief that “every element of the universe acts over any other through reciprocal action” (Eco, 1994, 19). However, Eco explains, instead of following a linear sequence of cause and effect, these joint influences were considered to be governed by cosmic sympathies and the principle of similitude. As a result, the universe was seen as a network of mutually sympathetic elements where “everything can be seen as similar to everything else” (Eco, 1994, 20) and whose “meaning” therefore is in constant flux.

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Thus such a new symbolism grew up in the Hermetic atmosphere, from Pico della Mirandola and Ficino to Giordano Bruno, from Reuchlin and Robert Fludd to French Symbolism, Yeats, and many contemporary theories: speaking of the unshaped, symbols cannot have a definite meaning (Eco, 1994, 20).

However, while this strategy might be efficient under certain circumstances, there is also a risk that a too far gone “interpretative flexibility” drains the involved symbols on their integrity and value. That is, if a text is considered to have an infinite number of possible and inexhaustible meanings, it is a definite danger that it ends up having no particular meaning at all. In the next, and final, section of this chapter, this is an issue that I will address in my discussion of the revival of alchemy in the nineteenth and twentieth century.

6 Alchemy as a Cumulative Creation of Past and Present By approaching the tradition of alchemy as an interpretatively “open-ended” text, associations could easily be made to Hans-Georg Gadamer’s philosophical hermeneutics. On Gadamer’s (2004/1960) account, the hermeneutic process involves a fusion of horizons. On the one hand, the horizon constituted by one’s particular view of the world (the particular social, historical, cultural, and linguistic starting point from which one’s reality is framed). On the other hand, the horizon of the given text. This means, in turn, that a subject never approaches a text from a neutral viewpoint. By contrast, her interpretation of the text is always influenced by pre-given “structures” that are shaped by the larger context of historically inherited meanings that remain operative. It was in this light that Gadamer saw the concept of “tradition.” According to him, understanding “is to be thought of less as a subjective act than as participating in an event of tradition, a process of transmission in which past and present are constantly mediated” (Gadamer, 2004/1960, 291). Hence, as Gadamer understands this concept, it is to be thought of as a continual and repetitive motion of back-and-forth between the subject’s own experience of the present, the text, and the structural background that the tradition offers. In some cases, this “hermeneutic conversation” enables the subject to uncover and interpret what is implicit in how she already think about the text. At other times, it provides an opportunity for her to interpret it in ways not yet associated with a given text’s tradition. For this reason, the interpretative process is simultaneously reproductive and productive, Gadamer argues. This perspective is also influential for how he considers the “truth” of classical works. On his account, even if a classic is considered to be “timeless,” this doesn’t mean that it is finally interpreted for all future generations. It is rather the case, Gadamer maintains, that the classic possesses “something enduring, of significance that cannot be lost and that is independent of all the circumstances of time — a kind of timeless present that is contemporaneous with every other present” (Gadamer, 2004/1960, 288). In many ways, the situation of the alchemists of the nineteenth and twentieth century resembled a “fusion of horizons.” In order to orient themselves in a time

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characterized by a newly hatched modernity, they created a worldview that was able to merge novel scientific discoveries with the pre-given structures made available by the alchemical tradition. Nevertheless, similar to Gadamer’s description of the interpretative process, this was simultaneously a reproductive and productive procedure. While the tradition of alchemy provided modern occultists with certain structures of ancient origin, they reinterpreted and adjusted them to meet present requirements. In that sense, alchemy as a sociocultural phenomenon is, in itself, characterized by a well-developed transformative capacity (in parallel to its teachings on material and spiritual transformation). Even so, it could still be the case that, for them, these alchemical teaching (in a similar way as classical works) constituted a continuous stream of tradition that allowed something “true to come into being.” However, in this case, we are helped by Gadamer’s own way of understanding the concept of truth. For him, it seems as if the hermeneutical experience of truth is closely related to a successful fusion of horizons—culminating in what the subject experiences as true in relation to her own existence. In this case, then, it is not truth as a matter of “correctness” or an objectively valid interpretation. Nonetheless, as I mentioned in the previous section, in case one recognizes that a text has an infinite number of possible and inexhaustible meanings, there’s a definite danger that it ends up having no particular meaning at all. At the same time, we should also take into account Hanegraaff’s suggestion that the tradition of alchemy involves certain continuous and eternal elements that safeguard that the practitioner stays within the realms of the tradition (for example, the dialectic between the Platonic and the alchemical paradigm). If so, the past becomes—as David Lowenthal (2015) describes it—“the portal to the present, its cumulations culminating in our own time” (Lowenthal, 2015, 126). Hence, in that light, the revival of alchemy serves as a good example of how a tradition, through cumulative creation, reinvents itself to become relevant for future generations. Yet heritage is at the same time always transformed. The most faithful traditionalists cannot avoid innovating, for time’s erosions and additions alter all original structures, outdate all previous meanings. Living in ever new configurations of nature and culture, we must think and act de novo even to survive; change is as inescapable as tradition (Lowenthal, 2015, 148).

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Credition and Complex Networks: Understanding the Structure of Belief as a Way of Facilitating Interreligious Dialogue Sara Lumbreras

1 Introduction. Religions in a Linguistic Pluralism We experience an era of increased interest in religious dialogue, with Pope Francis’ Fratelli Tutti (Francis, 2020) highlighting the importance attributed to the concept of universal brotherhood across religions. The word’s main religions are taking steps towards mutual acceptance and collaboration. Furthermore, religious dialogue gets support from its related disciplines comparative theology and scriptural reasoning (Clooney, 2013, 51–63). According to Clooney, we should see comparative theology as “faith seeking understanding”. Theology of religion attempts to clarify the relationship between Christian faith and other religious traditions from the point of view of how other religions can be understood in light of normative claims of Christian faith. Key themes are salvation and Christ. In contrast to this, comparative theology is a theology of religious learning. It emphasizes an in-depth study of the particularities of other religious traditions. “Comparative theology is not primarily about which religion is the true one, but about learning across religious borders in a way that discloses the truth of my faith, in the light of their faith.” Comparative theology shares with interreligious dialogue a commitment to engage in an open conversation and listen carefully to the religious other. It must, however, go further than just listening: “The comparative theologian must do more than listen to others explain their faith; she must be willing to study their traditions deeply alongside her own, taking both to heart.” Religions arise in a particular cultural context, not only in the sense of a linguistic pluralism but amidst the specific social determinations of each community. In addition, its experience is not only communal but also individual, so it gets filtered S. Lumbreras (✉) Universidad Pontificia Comillas – IIT, Madrid, Spain e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_17

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and modified by the lens of individual experience. The study of how belief evolves and interacts with the information coming from these cultural and individual experiences can make it easier to carry out exercises such as comparative theology and support interreligious dialogue. This new study brings an additional language to the conversation: that of the formal sciences, increasing the complexity of the logics that have been applied to understand, for instance, the dynamics of belief revision (Van Benthem, 2007, 129–155). In this chapter, we will review the Credition model, which is particularly useful in this context, and the possibility of upgrading it to account not only for individual beliefs but also for belief networks and their dynamics. This is realized by a complex-systems account of belief. This perspective has a dual contribution: on the one hand, the Credition model incorporates the emotional component to the process of believing. In addition, the complex-network approach adds the possibility of understanding the structures by which beliefs relate to each other, emerge, and evolve. This chapter presents this perspective and provides directions for future research, which will make it possible to quantify aspects of the believing phenomenon that cannot otherwise be formally assessed. This results in adding a new language to the plurality of the religious dialogue, the one of formal sciences.

2 Credition The research program “Credition”, centered around the University of Gratz but with worldwide participation, has provided an improved framework to understand the phenomenon of believing and belief formation. The main contribution of this research program is the acknowledgement that believing is not a purely rational phenomenon, but rather a dual one, with rational content and an emotional intensity at the same time. The foundational definition of the program is shown below: Credition, the processes of believing, are fundamental brain functions that enable a non-human animal or human being to trust his/her inner probabilistic representation(s). Credition is based on neural processes, including perception and valuation of objects and events in the physical and social environment in secular as well as religious contexts. By predictive coding, credition guides one’s actions and behaviors through reciprocating feedback involving learning (Angel et al., 2017).

Credition is therefore a basic cognitive function, essential to understand human mind and behaviour. As such, it is receiving increasing interest in the literature (Angel et al., 2017). We cannot proceed without beliefs. From this general framework, the task that the study of believing process confronts is to find out models that allow to better represent that rather enigmatic process. The last few years have known different attempts at modelling the believing process. The Creditions model appears as a general platform that allows for many applications. The key aspect of Creditions is that they have a dual nature: creditions have a propositional content which can be expressed rationally and an associated emotion. The propositional content has an associated certainty, and the emotion has an

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intensity that is measured through its mightiness. For instance, it is intuitive to think that religious or political belief, or any belief related to personal identity, will have a stronger emotional component than purely technical beliefs. One especially interesting extension of the Creditions model is the generalization of our understanding of artificially created belief systems, namely from Artificial Intelligence (AI), to human belief systems. In particular, the main outcome of the credition process is a probabilistic model of reality. This is the same as in AI models, as they also build a model of reality based on the available information. Even the characteristic of mightiness can be extended to AI. For instance, we could generalize it to mean the importance given to a given proposition by an external valuation (a human using the system). For instance, the proposition “failure leads to human casualties” could have a stronger mightiness than “failure leads to material damage”.

3 Using Artificial Systems to Improve Our Understanding of Belief AI encompasses techniques such as clustering or pattern recognition. Reinforcement Learning (RL), one of such techniques, is especially interesting. In RL, intelligent agents take actions in an environment to maximize a reward or punish mistakes. The most commonly used algorithms are structured in steps that are metaphorically described as perception (collecting new data), decision (selecting the optimal action), valuation (evaluating the outcome of a decision) or learning (the successive improvements in valuation obtained through repeated cycles of decision and valuation). For instance, RL can learn to play Go through cycles of selecting a move and valuing the possible positions in the game. For this reason, it is interesting to examine AI from the lens of the credition process: understanding how AI works can give us insights to inform our hypothesis about the workings of credition. In parallel, acknowledging that AI should support belief formation helps to design it better and make this support as effective as possible. We remit the reader to Lumbreras, 2022, 1319 for a more detailed account of the synergies between understanding belief and AI. The main point of the Creditions model is that it can account for phenomenon of belief formation and change in the individual setting. Figure 1, taken from Seitz et al., 2022, represents schematically how a RL process can be understood in the context of credition, displaying the different levels of memory that are at play. The inner probabilistic representation (which we refer to as “belief”) is built around the data received (perception) and is also used to value future actions (valuation). This representation is used to select the preferred course of action and predict its outcome. When new data are collected about the outcome (the prediction error), the probabilistic representation is updated through a new valuation in the process of reinforcement learning. It is important to note that, according to this model, the credition process happens in a spontaneous and automatic manner, below the level of awareness.

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Fig. 1 Schematic representation of a RL process in the context of credition

For instance, one particularly interesting insight from the Creditions model and RL is the interpretation of the balance of exploration (which, in this context, we will understand the examination of new decisions or beliefs not tested before) vs. exploitation (the use of the existing belief system to make a decision in an efficient manner). This balance, which is key to the performance of RL algorithms, can be seen as an essential feature of belief formation and update that depends greatly on the psychological characteristics of each individual. In addition, in RL, each new data point is integrated into the probabilistic representation of the world. The specific manner in which this is done can be represented as an error minimization strategy. This model could be tested in experimental settings to improve our current understanding of how beliefs are formed and updated. As mentioned, Fig. 1 shows that the steps before awareness are performed in an automatic, unconscious manner. Only after the introduction of semantic coding (the process which expresses the belief in a verbal manner, therefore raising it to consciousness) reflection can occur. This reflection can result in the updating of beliefs taking into account new information in a conscious way and can only happen in humans and not in the machines (or rather, can only happen in models of the world built by the machines if there is a human interacting directly with the model). It is also important to highlight that both conscious and unconscious belief creation and update must respect logical constraints in the network. This means that beliefs held simultaneously must be consistent to some degree. There are models of belief network dynamics that include this component, although the work is still in its initial stages (Friedkin et al., 2016, 321–326). The complex networks model, which will be presented in the next section, increases the level of detail that can be understood about belief dynamics.

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4 A Model for the Structure of Belief: Complex Networks Several models have been proposed to understand belief. The most relevant one is belief as networks. However, there are some other properties that can be explained by more sophisticated considerations. In particular, a complex networks approach explains and predicts many of the properties of belief. In this chapter, we will present the most important of these properties, which I first introduced in Lumbreras and Oviedo (2020, 92–108), where some of the introductory sections also present in this chapter can be found. As explained, beliefs cannot be understood individually but only as networks, as has been adequately stated in recent literature. They are inextricably related to each other. However, a complex-systems approach provides a more comprehensive perspective than just a network model. What this chapter adds to the Creditions model is that, instead of looking at beliefs individually, they are conceived as a network of elements related to each other in a simultaneity of hierarchies. In addition, the relationships respond to synergistic and anti-synergistic feedback loops, giving the network of creditions the properties of a complex system. A complex system is an entity composed of many parts which interact with each other, and whose behaviour is difficult to predict although the constituents might be simple to define. Examples of complex systems can be found in biology, sociology, and engineering. Complex systems have distinct properties that arise from their internal relationships, such as nonlinearity, emergence, spontaneous order, and adaptation. These properties appear in such a wide variety of fields that they have become the object of independent research, which applies to the system irrespective of its nature. A good introductory text on complexity theory is Mitchell (2009). Their power lies in how general these properties are, and how they help explain very different phenomena. For instance, from a complex-system perspective, the behaviour of a flock of birds trying to advance and be protected while avoiding collisions could be linked to that of a group of firms trying to develop their companies according to established business models while avoiding excessive competition. A complex-systems model of belief helps to understand its dynamics as it links it to general phenomena that appear in other systems irrespective of their nature. I take the outline in Mitchell and Newman (2002, 1–5), for the properties of complex systems and apply it to belief to structure the main features of this model. It should be noted that these properties can be applied to any type of belief network: from the ones that are created by AI when automatically exploring data, to the models of the world created by human beings to navigate their experience in general and to religious belief. The main defining features of religious belief would be its object (which is transcendent) and the fact that they have a deep connection to an individual’s identity, which result in a more intense emotional component.

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5 Orientation Towards a Goal Establishing a goal for a system can be controversial, but when this definition is inspired it can be very useful to understand the dynamics of the system and to draw parallels that can help establish new avenues for study (Villalobos, 2016, 702–703). For instance, it has been theorized that living systems have the goals of maintaining themselves and reproducing (Barrett, 2020, 47–48). Living beings have also been described as dissipative systems—far-from-equilibrium systems that keep a characteristic structure through a constant flow of matter and energy. Defining the goals of a system can be very useful, as it allows to study the functionality of each of their elements and provides cues to understand some of the phenomena that appear in their functioning. Belief networks have several goals that can be established (Frank, 1977, 555). As we will discuss later, these goals include filtering evidence or acting as a basis for values and meaning. These functions are the ones that guide the formation and evolution of belief networks, and we should understand each phenomenon related to belief from this prism. For instance, the function related to guiding action has the final objective of leading to good decisions in terms of their outcomes valued subjectively. Every decision will provide with new data that will be integrated into the belief system. Let us consider the example of a child that gets caught when cheating at one of his tests in elementary school. If he gets punished, he will likely internalize that cheating leads to a bad outcome and hence is not an advantageous behaviour (whether he will learn about the morality of this action belongs to a more complex discussion). Hence, each new experience, each new piece of information will get evaluated in terms of the goals of the belief network and used to upgrade it. This upgrade is related to the property of adaptation, which will be discussed below.

6 Openness Systems can be classified as closed or open depending on whether there is a flow of matter, energy, or information from the exterior. Living systems receive matter and energy from their food intake, and Earth receives energy from the Sun. It is open systems that can evolve complex structures, and that defy the Second Law of thermodynamics. While in closed systems entropy tends to increase – in simpler terms, order decreases. However, open systems do not respond to this law, as Ilya Prigogine, the Nobel Prize, discovered (Prigogine, 2017). In open systems, the energy that flows from the exterior can be expended to an increase order instead of decreasing it. Open systems are dynamic and experience constant change – actually, it is this change that allows them to exist. In the case of beliefs, we could understand that it is energy (coming from thought processes) and information that flow from the exterior. These energy and

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information support the creation of the complex structures of belief networks (Sodian et al., 1991, 753–766; Crocker et al., 1984, 197–226; Rodriguez et al., 2016). The information that is incorporated responds to the different levels of evidence (Evans, 2003, 77–84): the better the quality of the evidence the more probability will be assigned to the propositional content of the belief. Personal experience, for instance, would be integrated more than second-hand accounts. In a scientific context, we would understand that a new fact will be linked to the network of beliefs more easily when it has been backed by a meta-analysis than by a case study report. In an AI context, we would understand that predictions that are backed by more data in the training set will be more trusted than others where significant extrapolations have been performed. In addition, the easiness for an individual to update his or her beliefs depends on character traits and biases (Fryer Jr et al., 2019, 1470–1501). Most evidence can be interpreted in more than one way, or even discarded if it does not match pre-existing belief. The intensification of this process lies behind the phenomenon of polarization. Psychology has studied how to predict belief formation and evolution depending on these specific personal characteristics. Traits such as analytic cognitive style (Pennycook et al., 2012, 335–346), superiority (Toner et al., 2013, 2454–2462) or even parenting styles (Ruffman et al., 1999, 395–411) can influence belief formation and change, and make it easier or more difficult for an individual to accept beliefs that contradict their previous assumptions, or to deviate from their usual behaviour to explore new possibilities that might prove to be more beneficial. These psychological traits appear also, in a slightly different manner, at a cultural level, and different cultures will have different belief update profiles. A key element of this is the weight given to tradition and to consensus: while some societies are eminently individualistic, some others value more the collective and consensus. In the latter cases, individuals will try to conform to the most extended views in their societies even if they contradict their individual experiences. Understanding these dynamics is key for interreligious dialogue, as they determine the relative support given to different ideas.

7 Complexity Although belief networks can be generated from a relatively simple starting set of ideas, but they are not easy to understand or predict. Each of the elements of the network can be individually simple, but their relationships create positive and negative feedback structures, with some beliefs that reinforce or negate each other. This gives origin to more complex structures that cannot be forecasted with accuracy. That is: the evolution of belief is not deterministic. Although one course of action can be more probable, the evolution of the belief network cannot be predicted with accuracy.

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This is true for the individual as well as for the cultural context, and it means that it is only possible to understand the belief network from its history. It is through history that developments can be understood and in the light of history that they can be put in dialogue with other religious traditions.

8 Nonlinear Phenomena Nonlinear systems are the ones where the same stimulus does not lead always to the same response. The main example in this context is that it takes more information (or better evidence) to change beliefs than to confirm them. This confirmation bias has a place in the Credition model: a belief with a very intense emotional component attached to it will be less easily modified. Nonlinear systems have been identified in physics, chemistry, engineering, biology, and economics. One paradigmatic example of nonlinear behaviour is that of the Ising model, which originally is taken from the behaviour of magnets but whose dynamics appear in very different contexts. Two regimes can be identified, a relatively stable state when changes are slow and a “crisis” state when changes can happen rapidly and spread widely (Kaneyoshi et al., 1993, 250). In belief networks, change is generally difficult but, in times of crisis, the change in one belief can spread to a large number of them. This is true for personal and for social beliefs, where the crisis dynamic could be explained as a paradigm shift (Jones, 1977, 253–272). The Credition model together with a complex-networks perspective allows to study these phenomena by exploiting their mathematical properties, shining light onto their mechanics and enhancing understanding.

9 Emergence The emergence of new beliefs is a creative phenomenon which takes from new information and emotions and processes it to create a new element in the network and its links to the existing ones. In addition, new links between existing elements, or a change in the existing order can appear. These processes take place in a multiple level setting, at the individual and the community context at the same time. In addition, although most of the time it happens unconsciously, conscious changes do occur too. Emergence is arguably the most mysterious property of complex systems, and the fact that it appears in belief networks makes their study more difficult as well. One particularly interesting facet of this phenomenon is that, in RL systems, all existing and possibly new beliefs must – in principle – correspond to a predetermined structure and use a predetermined set of elements. For instance, the belief “Dogs are mammals” can emerge from data about dogs and the properties of mammals (in exactly the same way that it could be inferred through data and logic). However, the experience of

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human beings is rooted in the material word and the experience of the senses, so completely new concepts might appear and be immediately ready for their incorporation into new beliefs. For instance, a person might fall in love for the first time and, while the concept of romantic love was missing from the belief network before, it would be available immediately after, to form beliefs such as “I would be happiest if my love interest would reciprocate me.”

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Self-Organization

Beliefs self-organize in consistent and related spheres of influence. Beliefs that have a similar content will be closer in an overall network structure. In addition, beliefs will spontaneously order themselves in a hierarchical structure, which mimics the structure of concepts in our own minds (Kurzweil, 2012). For instance, beliefs about modesty will be grouped in a cluster about morality. Some structures are more stable than others, mainly because of the inner consistency of beliefs. Consistent belief systems have been described by some as “attractors”, states towards which a system tends to evolve (Goertzel, 1995, 123–134). These attractors, which in physical terms would be described as “minimum energy systems” would be characterized by a low level of tension. This tension can have two components: one of them is inconsistency, which in psychological terms can be understood as cognitive dissonance. The second one is complexity: more complex belief networks have more tension than parsimonious ones. Let us imagine a system that has evolved to explain the available data with a relatively convoluted set of beliefs. An easy, illustrative case might be the epicycle system that evolved to explain the apparent trajectories of the visible planets in a geocentric system, based on circles that were followed over the paths of other larger circles around Earth. The epicycle system conformed to the evidence but was relatively complex. Kepler’s model provided a simpler alternative but contradicted the belief that Earth was the centre of the universe. Depending on the intensity (mightiness, according to the Credition model) of this belief, the epicycle model will be superior to the heliocentric one or vice-versa.

11

Adaptation

Belief systems adapt to better fulfil their objectives, such as explaining the world or providing guides for action. The belief network will be updated to better fulfil these functions. These changes, as explained above, have strong dependencies on environmental, personal, and social factors (Rodriguez et al., 2016). The perspective of adaptation can be very helpful to explain and anticipate the changes in belief systems, and to understand the reasons behind various phenomena linked to belief formation and change. In principle, it is possible to express the goals

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of the belief network in quantitative terms, and to assess to which extent each possible change contributes to these goals. The Credition model allows to evaluate how each belief improves the fitness of the network with respect of its goals and to understand its more sensible course of evolution.

12

Understanding Belief for Better Religious Dialogue: Directions for Future Research

This chapter has reviewed the Credition model upgrading it to account for the relationships between individual beliefs through the application of the complex network paradigm. This perspective has two main contributions: on the one hand, the Credition model incorporates the emotional component to the process of believing. In addition, the complex-network approach enables to understand the structures by which beliefs relate to each other, emerge, and evolve. This adds a new language to the plurality of the religious dialogue, the one of formal sciences. The Credition framework is already being applied to understand phenomena as vastly different as microbiome health and religious worldviews (Berg & Sensen, 2017, 443–450; Mitropoulou, 2017, 363–374). It is possible to analyse virtually any context in terms of the most important beliefs and their associated certainty and mightiness. It is also possible to quantify their correlation, that is, how likely it is that holders of one belief will also hold another depending on not only mightiness and certainty, but also on personal or cultural traits. All this can be expressed in the shape of a network. Much work remains to be done in this line. These beliefs do not need to be restricted to a religious context. It is indeed very interesting to analyse the interrelation of religious and nonreligious belief. For instance, the interaction between religious belief and scientific ones is key for understanding not only the relationship between Science and Religion but also to increase understanding across faiths. In addition, religious beliefs can also be studied from the perspective of how these beliefs lead to attitudes and behaviours, and how each of the elements increases the fitness of the system with respect to its goals of explaining the world or serving as a guide for action. The dynamic approach, assisted by the RL metaphor, can shed light into the processes of belief formation and update. If it is possible to build a model of these processes and parametrize it suitably, it will be possible to compare belief dynamics in different cultures or for individuals with different personality traits or cognitive styles. The model could be applied to improve the understanding of how religious belief emerges and evolves in children. The quantification of network goals allows to study how each new belief serves its purpose.

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Another particularly interesting case of belief dynamics is that of belief crises, which may happen both at the individual and the collective level. Mathematical models can help understand how phenomena such as belief flips, or polarization happen. All these are merely some examples of the research questions that could be answered from the Credition and complex systems perspective. They can improve our understanding of the cognitive and emotional dynamics of religious belief. Solving each of these questions will be like taking a step to exploit the tools of the formal sciences to improve religious dialogue and understanding.

References Angel, H.-F., et al. (Eds.). (2017). Processes of believing: The acquisition, maintenance, and change in creditions. Springer. Barrett, N. F. (2020). Dissipative systems and living bodies. Adaptive Behavior, 28(1), 47–48. Berg, G., & Sensen, M. (2017). Decision-making and credition under a microbial perspective. In H.-F. Angel et al. (Eds.), Processes of believing: The acquisition, maintenance, and change in creditions (pp. 443–450). Springer. Clooney, F. X. (2013). Comparative theology and inter-religious dialogue. In C. Cornille (Ed.), The Wiley-Blackwell companion to inter-religious dialogue (pp. 51–63). Blackwell. Crocker, J., Fiske, S. T., & Taylor, S. E. (1984). Schematic bases of belief change. Attitudinal Judgment, 197–226. Evans, D. (2003). Hierarchy of evidence: A framework for ranking evidence evaluating healthcare interventions. Journal of Clinical Nursing, 12(1), 77–84. Francis. (2020). Fratelli tutti. Edizioni Dehoniane. Frank, J. D. (1977). Nature and functions of belief systems: Humanism and transcendental religion. American Psychologist, 32(7), 555. Friedkin, N. E., et al. (2016). Network science on belief system dynamics under logic constraints. Science, 354(6310), 321–326. Fryer, R. G., Jr., Harms, P., & Jackson, M. O. (2019). Updating beliefs when evidence is open to interpretation: Implications for bias and polarization. Journal of the European Economic Association, 17(5), 1470–1501. Goertzel, B. (1995). Belief systems as attractors. In R. Robertson & A. Combs (Eds.), Chaos theory in psychology and the life sciences (pp. 123–134). Psychology Press. Jones, K. (1977). Some epistemological considerations of paradigm shifts: Basic steps towards a formulated model of alternation. The Sociological Review, 25(2), 253–272. Kaneyoshi, T., Jaščur, M., & Fittipaldi, I. P. (1993). Transvers Ising model with arbitrary spin. Physical Review, 48(1), 250. Kurzweil, R. (2012). How to create a mind: The secret of human thought revealed. Penguin. Lumbreras, S. (2022). The synergies between understanding belief formation and artificial intelligence. Frontiers in Psychology, 1319. Lumbreras, S., & Oviedo, L. (2020). Belief networks as complex systems. LIMINA-Grazer Theologische Perspektiven, 3(2), 92–108. Mitchell, M. (2009). Complexity: A guided tour. Oxford University Press. Mitchell, M., & Newman, M. (2002). Complex systems theory and evolution. In M. Pagel (Ed.), Encyclopedia of evolution (pp. 1–5). Oxford University Press. Mitropoulou, V. (2017). Understanding young People’s worldview: A practical example of how to work with the model of credition. In H.-F. Angel et al. (Eds.), Processes of believing: The acquisition, maintenance, and change in creditions (pp. 363–374). Springer.

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Pennycook, G., et al. (2012). Analytic cognitive style predicts religious and paranormal belief. Cognition, 123(3), 335–346. Prigogine, I. (2017). Non-equilibrium statistical mechanics. Courier Dover Publications. Rodriguez, N., Bollen, J., & Ahn, Y. Y. (2016). Collective dynamics of belief evolution under cognitive coherence and social conformity. PLoS One, 11(11). Ruffman, T., Perner, J., & Parkin, L. (1999). How parenting style affects false belief understanding. Social Development, 8(3), 395–411. Seitz, R., Paulotzian, R., & Angel, H.-F. (2022). Bridging the gap between believing and memory function. European Journal of Psychology. In Press. Sodian, B., Zaitchik, D., & Carey, S. (1991). Young children’s differentiation of hypothetical beliefs from evidence. Child Development, 62(4), 753–766. Toner, K., et al. (2013). Feeling superior is a bipartisan issue: Extremity (not direction) of political views predicts perceived belief superiority. Psychological Science, 24(12), 2454–2462. Van Benthem, J. (2007). Dynamic logic for belief revision. Journal of Applied Non-Classical Logics, 17(2), 129–155. Villalobos, M. (2016). Nonequilibrium thermodynamic stability: The apparent teleology of living beings. Paper presented at ALIFE 2016, the Fifteenth International Conference on the Synthesis and Simulation of Living Systems.

Human Dignity After the Human Zachary R. Calo

1 Introduction This article employs the concept of human dignity to assess ethical debates about technology and the human future. In particular, it considers divergent accounts of human dignity adopted by theorists of posthumanity and by religious (primarily Christian) thinkers to critically engage posthumanity. The aim is not to adopt a normative position on the posthuman project, either its feasibility or desirability, but rather to critically diagnose the anthropological vision animating it. At base, the posthuman project is most concerned not with what is technologically feasible but what is ethically warranted in order to advance human goods and human flourishing. Assessing posthumanism from the perspective of human dignity reveals the contested accounts of the person implicated in these debates and in late modern culture more generally. The meaning of transhumanism and posthumanism is subject to debate and confusion. According to one account, “transhumanism can be seen as a stance that affirms the radical transformation of human’s biological capacities and social conditions by means of technologies” (Ranisch & Sorgner, 2014, 7–8). The World Transhumanist Association has similarly defined transhumanism as, “The intellectual and cultural movement that affirms the possibility and desirability of fundamentally improving the human condition through applied reason, especially by developing and making widely available technologies to eliminate aging and to greatly enhance human intellectual, physical, and psychological capacities” Z. R. Calo (✉) Hamad bin Khalifa University College of Law – Qatar, Doha, Qatar University of Notre Dame Australia, Sydney, Australia Tashkent State University of Law, Tashkent, Uzbekistan e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_18

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(Bostrom, 2014, 1). The end point of these enhancements is the posthuman condition, which might include an evolutionarily new species or disembodied forms of being. According to this formulation, transhumanism and posthumanism are connected such that transhumanism is the process by which the posthuman is realized. These distinctions aside, this essay will utilize the language of transhumanism and posthumanism to encompass a diverse range of ideas, aims, and technological endeavors ranging from synthetic biology, prosthetics, and genetic engineering, to more fantastical visions of the human future including radical life extension and digital immortality. In a broad sense, the project might be understood to include activities that one commentator characterizes in terms of repair, enhancement, and overcoming nature. All three of these categories involve utilizing technology to change the character of the body, whether that be in the form of providing artificial limbs (repair), genetic manipulation or implantation of chips into the human brain (enhancement), or radical visions of downloading human memory in order to transcend biological nature and the limits of homo sapiens life itself (overcoming) (Jackelén, 2002). While recognizing, as Hava Tirosh-Samuelson observes, that “Transhumanism is not monolithic but a cluster of several currents,” there nevertheless are common anthropological themes that inform the project (Tirosh-Samuelson, 2018, 201–202). Broadly speaking, these involve the merging of technology and humanity in ways that not only advance human capabilities but seek to push beyond the human. According to the Transhumanist Declaration of the World Transhumanist Association, “Humanity will be radically changed by technology in the future. We foresee the feasibility of redesigning the human condition, including such parameters as the inevitability of aging, limitations on human and artificial intellects, unchosen psychology, suffering, and our confinement to the planet earth.”1 In its most ambitious forms, posthumanism offers a salvific vision for resolving the greatest challenges facing the earth and the human condition. Of particular concern is its vision for overcoming the bounds of human nature so that human beings evolve from a biological inheritance to a machine-based future – from homo sapiens to techno sapiens. It is this line of thought that reveals most clearly the anthropological assumptions at work.

2 Varieties of Dignity The anthropology of posthumanism stands in deep tension with many religious accounts of the human person. This is not to intimate that is incoherent to advance a religious account of posthumanism, but such an account will very likely push

“The Transhumanist Declaration,” Section 1, at https://itp.uni-frankfurt.de/~gros/Mind2010/ transhumanDeclaration.pdf

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against inherited patterns of theological anthropology and look quite different than its secular counterparts. For the most part, in these traditions of thought can be identified two, perhaps irreconcilable, accounts of dignity that inform two divergent accounts of human flourishing. There are points of convergence, and certain religious thinkers are pursuing a constructive conversation that is considered more fully below. Yet these potential points of overlap arise in spite of fundamentally different dignitary worldviews.

2.1

Posthuman Dignity

For many advocates of using technological interventions to radically transform human nature, the reworking of humanity is understood as dignity enhancing. Posthuman dignity is a term most often associated with the work of Nick Bostrom, who has argued that making persons more intelligent, more self-controlled, more immune from debilitation or disease, more liberated from the drudgeries of labor, and even freed from the grip of death will make them more dignified. Bostrom writes that “it is possible that through enhancement we could become better able to appreciate and secure many forms of dignity that are overlooked or missing under current conditions. I also suggest that in a posthuman world, dignity as a quality could grow in importance as an organizing moral/aesthetic idea” (Bostrom, 2018). Technological enhancement, in Bostrom’s account, offers the promise of a more dignified existence. Human nature as bequeathed by the vicissitudes of evolution is a barrier to the realization of dignity that should be conquered and refashioned into a more dignified form. As Bostrom puts it, “Transhumanists view human nature as a work-in-progress, a half-baked beginning that we can learn to remold in desirable ways” (Bostrom, 2003, 4). The path to dignity thus goes through, or perhaps around, the limits of nature. Human life, in this sense, is enhanced by improving and perhaps eventually even overcoming the human. Being less bound to our nature is to invite the possibility of becoming more dignified. In this framing, human dignity is a project to be pursued for the sake of liberating humanity from the limits of its humanness. As framed in posthumanist thought, dignity is not a stable and given characteristic of human nature. That is to say, dignity is not an ontological status. It is made rather than bestowed. It is not a static state but an ongoing process, indeed a process without end (More, 2013, 14). Dignity is future oriented and thus, as one commentator concludes, renders “current humanity a fleeting phenomenon with no particular, intrinsic dignity” (Conley, 2017). It would be overstated to propose that most posthumanists view humanity in its current form as possessing no dignity, but this dignity is nevertheless incomplete. There is a moral imperative to make humanity more dignified, meaning that posthumanism is best understood as an ethical rather than technical undertaking. It is what Bostrom terms a “worldview that has a value component” (Bostrom, 2001). Technological initiatives to improve humanity follow

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from this more basic normative understanding of what constitutes human flourishing and dignity.

2.2

Bioconservative Dignity

Bostrom’s position contrasts with that of the so-called bioconservatives. In Bostrom’s assessment, bioconservatives tend “to deny posthuman dignity and view posthumanity as a threat to human dignity” (Bostrom, 2005, 213). While posthumanist thought sees enhancement as “fundamentally life-giving” and conducive to a more dignified existence, bioconservatives view it as a violation of the intrinsic dignity of human nature. A basic fault lines exists between “those who favor increased human understanding and control over of nature, and others who look at such projects as impious, hubristic, or impermissibly defiant of the given order of things” (Blackford, 2013, 423) For bioconservatives, dignity is a principle that limits what should be done to the body. There are essential features of our humanness, bound up in the limits of nature, that must be respected even when technology would allow transcending them. Disavowing the opportunity to exert such power over nature, history, and human destiny allows us to preserve essential aspects of what it means to be human. Leon Kass is a leading bioconservative who has issued warnings about the dignitarian threat of emerging biotechnologies. In a particularly blunt passage, he asserts that, “As we become more and more immersed in a world of biotechnology we increasingly sense that we neglect human dignity at our peril, especially in light of gathering powers to intervene in human bodies and minds in ways that will affect our very humanity, likely threatening things that everyone, whatever their view of human dignity, holds dear” (Kass, 2008, 298). What grounds Kass’s concern is an understanding of human nature as inviolable and normative. There is a givenness to the human inheritance that makes moral claims upon us. Changing the essential qualities of our personhood is an affront to the dignity intrinsic to humans. The limits that define our nature – including the ultimate limitations of suffering and death – are essential to our humanness. To respect human dignity is to respect these limits. They are not to be overcome but taken as a site of moral reflection about what it means to live well as limited creatures of a certain sort. What emerges then is the idea that those features of human nature that might seem at first glance to be most undignified – deficiency, debilitation, death – are in fact essential to grasping how to live with dignity. The bioconservative position is not strictly speaking a religious one, although it tends to be significantly informed by the resources of theological anthropology. There is a widespread perception that the division between those who see dignity in enhancing the human and those that see dignity in preserving the human can be drawn along religious lines. A reason for this view is that religious perspectives have played a dominant role in uphold belief in a static and inviolable theory of human nature. “Nearly all the opponents” of the posthuman project, Ronald Cole-Turner

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notes, “are banking on traditional religious institutions to. . .stand in the way of science and technology and to defend the human status quo as fixed and final” (ColeTurner, 2015, 150). Even when comparable positions are defended on a secular basis, the notion that human nature possesses intrinsic normativity that should not be violated emerges largely out of religious formulations. Theological perspectives continue to inspire some of the most intensive and even dismissive critiques of posthumanism. For Brandon Gallaher, “Transhumanism is Satanic,” by which he means it “is characterized by self-worship or the selfdeification of humanity.” In so doing, it inverts the salvation narrative of Christianity. No longer does salvation come through participation in the divinity of Christ but through a “sort of sham human auto-divinisation” (Gallaher, 2019, 201). The irony of such auto-divinisation, according to thinkers like Gallaher, is that by aiming to turn humans into gods, posthumanism does not elevate dignity but rather destroys it. Instead of remaking persons in the image of the gods, the posthuman project refashions humanity after its own image. David Hart adopts a similarly aggressive posture in describing transhumanism and Christianity as defined by “an irreconcilable hostility between two religions, two metaphysics, two worlds – at the last, two gods.” Like Gallaher, Hart focuses on the impulse within transhumanism to seize the divine prerogative. Transhumanism expands “modern humanity’s Baconian mastery over cosmic nature. . .to encompass human nature as well – granting us absolute power over the flesh and what is born from it.” In so doing, Hart accuses transhumanist philosophy of defying the dignity of persons. The “notion of an absolute dignity indwelling in every person – this Christian invention of discovery or convention – is now slowly fading from our consciences and will be replaced by something more ‘realistic’ (which is to say, something more nihilistic)” (Hart, 2005, 73). Without respect for absolute dignity, the person becomes a mere object of will to be manipulated and refashioned.

3 Being Human These divergent accounts of dignity are not mere abstractions but express themselves in divergent understanding of what it means to be human and to live out a dignified existence. Three such aspects of human experience are considered below: embodiment, risk, and relationality.

3.1

Embodiment

What respect is due to the body? Does embodiment matter? For much transhumanist thought the body is neither essential nor essentially good. It might be that, even in an imagined technological future, humans will remain tethered in some way to bodies. The line, though, between human and cyborg is

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blurring and so too is the experience of embodiment. Sex dolls, social media, and virtual reality all point towards new ways of being human and of experiencing embodiment – and disembodiment. We already live in a world defined by what Francesca Ferrando terms “alternative embodiments.” Thus while posthumanists offer differing perspectives on whether posthumans will need bodies, there is general agreement that we are in the midst of “a paradigm shift in the ontological and epistemological perception of the human body” (Ferrando, 2014, 220). The body is no longer conceived of a site of fixed dignity but of infinite possibility. The body is an object of manipulation and will. It is something to be improved upon through the intervention of human creativity. There is an unavoidable gnostic quality to transhumanism. Mind is what is essential, and mind can be dissociated from body. We are thinking beings not embodied beings. The body therefore has no ultimate bearing on our identity as persons. As Ray Kurzweil wrote in 2005, “We will continue to have human bodies, but they will become morphable projections of our intelligence. . .Ultimately software-based humans will be vastly extended beyond the severe limitations of humans as we know them today” (Kurzweil, 2005, 324–325). For Kurzweil, moving beyond physical embodiment is a way to eliminate suffering and misery. It is a way to move beyond the limitations that bodies impose. Human life is enhanced by overcoming the body, with salvation ultimately found through the mind being downloaded onto a supercomputer. To become less human in this sense is to become more dignified. Christian thinkers likewise frame they body as a site of transformation and possibility in which human destiny lies beyond the givenness of the human. The Christian vision, however, is not one of disembodiment – of moving beyond the body – but of the body remade. Bodies will be transformed but not destroyed. Embodiment remains constitutive of what it is means to be human and to become a new human. In Christian thought, embodied nature is transformed through an act of grace, while for transhumanists it is through an act of human conquest. There remains a sense of the open human future but one that maintains a distinction between creature and Creator. The body is not an object of will but a gift to be received. It is important not to gloss over the diverse and complex history of Christen thought about the relationship between body, mind, and soul, yet the case remains that Christian thought retains an investment in embodiment that creates an unavoidable tension with posthumanist thought. As Ted Peters puts it, “We are more than our minds, more than our brains, more than our souls” (Peters, 2005, 393). We also are bodies and the embodied character of persons remains essential to reflecting on the relationship between anthropology and technology.

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Risk

Posthumanist and religious thought also adopt different postures towards what it means to live in a world with inherent risks – risk of rejection, risk of ignorance, risk of a contingent future, risk of death. The posthuman project aims to exert a form of mastery over body, mind, environment, and experience that will mitigate the possibility of risk. Transhumanism is about “improving” life through “perpetual progress, with the ultimate aim of achieve a kind of perfectibility (More, 2013, 5). This impulse finds its purest expression in the attitude of posthumanism towards death. Human life is beset with limitations and uncertainties, no more so than because of the ever-present reality of personal extinction. By radically extending life, and ultimately defeating death, the fundamental existential risk to humanity can be defeated. Technological improvements provide the means to undermine evolutionary chaos and direct the human future. By taking command of the future in this most ultimate sense, by acquiring control over death itself, sovereignty is seized from the gods. Humanity is made dignified through an arrogation of authority over life and death. Max More, detailing what he terms the “transhumanist philosophy,” argues that it is a misconception to say that transhumanists seek to eliminate the risk endemic to human life. He writes that “Transhumanists seek not utopia, but perpetual progress. . . .if the transhumanist project is successful, we may no longer suffer some of the miseries that have always plagued human existence. But this is not a reason to expect life to be free of risks, dangers, conflict, and struggle” (More, 2013, 14). This demurral nevertheless appears to be at odds with the animating impulses of the posthumanist project. At base, the project aims to realize control over the self and the vicissitudes of life, whether that be in terms of biological capabilities, gender and sexuality, experiences of pleasure or happiness, or death. The transhuman self is to be increasingly freed from the limitations – we might better say vulnerabilities – that are indissociable from human nature and experience. Perhaps this will not bring about a life entirely free of uncertainty, risk, danger, conflict and struggle, but such a freedom is sought and desired. Even if not seeking to eliminate risk altogether, the posture posthumanism adopts towards human vulnerabilities reveals a significant divide with many theological viewpoints. David Hart, for instance, describes posthumanism as seeking “Baconian mastery over cosmic nature. . .granting us absolute power over the flesh and what is born from it, banishing all fortuity and uncertainty from the future of the race.” This idea that posthumanism is driven by the impulse to master nature and self is a theme that critics frequently advance. Gallaher, for instance, describes posthumanism as seeking “dominion of the human race over the universe” (Gallaher, 2019, 30). By achieving such dominion, the very conditions that make us dependent creatures can be overcome. In other words, the human can be controlled by going beyond the human. Framed in such terms, posthumanism aims to achieve nothing less than a technological eschaton in which of the contingencies of human life are mastered (Macaskill, 2019, 156–157).

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This critical religious perspective not only rests on a claim about the hubris of technology but, even more so, on a claim about the nature of a dignified human existence. It is argued that insofar as posthumanism envisages a form of human perfection in a world without risk, it destroys what is most essentially human. The quest to bring human nature under mastery with the aim of limiting vulnerability, it is argued, paradoxically brings about a kind of unfreedom. Hans Jonas remarks that, “Technological mastered nature now again includes man who (up to now) had, in technology, set himself against it as its master” (Jonas 1985, cited in Bostrom, 2005). The master will become mastered, and without risk there is no freedom. Only from a certain posture of vulnerability is it possible to experience our essential humanness. In fact, it might be said that in this vulnerability lies something essential to the experience of dignity.

3.3

Relationality

Relationality refers to the capacity to be in relationship – that is, to encounter others, the natural world, God. But pushed further, relationality also concerns the ways in which persons express and experience freedom with and through others. Not only is the capacity to love and be loved essential to human experience, the relationality to which it gives rise is one of the messiest and fraught aspects of being human. In this respect, relationality is connected with risk, for being bound up with another entails a cessation of control. To encounter and become beholden to another means that one is no longer fully in command of oneself (Williams, 2002, 309–321). For certain thinkers, the technological transformation of the self creates new and enhanced capacities for relationality. It has been argued that there is nothing about enhanced humans as such that would inhibit their ability to be in relationship. Ruud ter Meulen, for instance, proposes that “Enhanced human beings should be able to connect with other human beings. . .[and] also should be able to develop human relationships that are essential for the recognition of their individuality and dignity.” In fact, Meulen goes further in writing that, “I can even imagine that enhancement technologies can promote and improve dignity by supporting dialogue and human understanding” (Meulen, 2010, 70). Along similar lines, others have argued that “cognitive enhancement might augment those capacities crucial for the relevant relationships – e.g., increased empathy, concern for others, or cooperative capabilities” (Sandler & Basl, 2010, 66). According to such arguments, the relational aspect of human dignity is enhanced – not diminished or eliminated – by pushing beyond the boundaries of our inherited humanity. It is not clear what relationality would existentially mean for an enhanced human, nor is not clear whether and in what sense an enhanced human would need to be in-relation. All the same, these thinkers have defended the possibility of transhuman relationality, and even proposed that such persons might be better able to experience it. The concept posthuman relationality exists, however, in some necessary tension with the atomistic anthropology of posthumanism. The individual qua individual is

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the basic unit of meaning within this philosophy. More to the point, dignity and flourishing exist only in relation to the self. There is no necessary recourse to relation with another as a condition of dignity. Indeed, the telos of the posthuman project is to envision the self turned in on the self. Posthumanism is a radical species of “expressive individualism,” a concept originally coined by the American sociologist Robert Bellah and recently appropriated by Carter Snead in his work on public bioethics. As Snead summarizes the anthropology of expressive individualism: “In its pristine form, expressive individualism takes the individual, atomized self to be the fundamental unit of human reality” (Snead, 2020, 86). There is perhaps no more pristine instantiation of expressive individualism than posthumanism. Russell Blackford, for example, describes transhumanism as a philosophy of “self-transformation” and “self-overcoming” (Blackford, 2013). This characterization posits the self as both subject and object. There is no necessary other. The self is made, and made dignified, by overcoming itself and its own limits. Against the backdrop of such an anthropology, the feasibility and meaningfulness of relationality are called into question. Whereas posthuman thought connects selfhood with a turning inward, religious thought has tended to emphasize the connection between selfhood and a turning outward. This entails a turning outward both to other persons and ultimately to God. Ronald Cole-Turner, in an essay on Christianity and transhumanism, notes that Christians are “called. . .to lose our lives in relationship with God” (Cole-Turner, 2015, 160). It is by losing the self in the otherness of God that one becomes an authentic self. Ted Peters thus concludes that “Christian anthropology has an investment in the viability of the person-in-relationship model of the human reality” (Peters, 2005, 394). The self, it might be said, is achieved through relationship – through being in-communion. To have and to exhibit dignity necessarily then includes the capacity to be in relationship. There are two different notions of creaturehood at work in posthumanism and Christianity. For posthuman thought, the self seeks a totalizing autonomy – independence from the limits of creatureliness, including the necessity of others. Yet, many religious responses stress the idea that we are dependent creatures – created by God and always dependent on God, no matter how much nature can be mastered (Burdett & Lorrimar, 2019, 253). This dependency, in turn, is an invitation to enter in relation to Godself. Salvation is achieved not through escaping nature but through its fulfillment. The dignity of humanity is found through overcome alienation and participating in the inner relationality of the divine trinity.

4 Common Ground? Much of the debate between and transhumanism and religion has unfolded on binary terms. Their divergent anthropologies, captured in dueling notions of dignity, reveal the chasm that separates. Given this division, is there any space in which these two anthropologies, these two dignities, might engage in a constructive exchange about

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the human future? Will religiously-informed perspectives remain largely on the outside able only to offer a largely oppositional perspective? One obstacle to greater engagement is the marginalized position of religion within transhuman conversations. Max More notes that while “it is possible in principle for a transhumanist to hold some religious beliefs. . . .the vast majority of transhumanists do not identify with any religion” (More, 2013, 8). That this is the case should not be surprising given the transhumanism’s animating philosophical and anthropological norms. Nick Bostrom explicitly defines transhumanism “as an outgrowth of secular humanism and the Enlightenment.” It is, in this sense, defined in some measure against religious worldviews. Religion, moreover, is thought to be a retrograde barrier to achieving human enhancement because it remains wed to a static and inviolable account of human nature. Perhaps the anthropological divide is too great, and these traditions of inquiry will remain only strangers. Nevertheless, there is interesting theological work being pursued that aims to foster a dialogue that goes beyond yes and no. The most interesting point of contact begins with the premise that transhumanism and Christianity both share a notion of being as becoming. That is, both advance a moral story of humanity transformed, of nature and body as sites of future possibility. The most basic point of intersection concerns the transformation and even perfection of the body. In this respect, Christianity as much as posthumanism offers a vision of humanity as moving beyond the human. The Christian concept of deification, for instance, posits human nature as realizing its final end through participation in the divine life. For both transhumanism and Christianity, human destiny lies beyond the natural. Bodies will be transformed. One should not then see Christianity as advancing a merely static view of human nature. Against the idea that Christianity is invested in the normativity of nature as such is a different understanding that Kathryn Tanner describes as “plasticity” (Tanner, 2010, 364). In theological terms, this plasticity has as its telos transformation through participation in God. As such, framing religious perspectives as uncritically conservative ignores the more complex ways in which theological thought can imagine the meaning, significance, and future of the body. The fact remains that, in Christian theology, nature is transcended through an act of grace while in transhumanism this occurs “in a naturalistic way without the need for divine intervention” (Blackford, 2013, 427). Is this an insuperable divide or a starting point for engaging difference and possibility? It could be said that the shortcoming of transhumanism is not that it imagines a transformed humanity foreign to the Christian imagination, but that it does not go far enough in imagining what this transformation entails (Cole-Turner, 2015, 5). Secular transhumanism envisions a human future remade within the bounds of nature alone. As Ted Peters therefore puts it, transhumanism can offer no eschatological fulfillment even though “a posthuman entity” might nevertheless participate in this fulfillment. From such a perspective, Christian thought can offer a critical narration of the posthuman project that does not reject everything technologically envisaged as Satanic, to reference Gallagher’s term. It instead can generate an alternative account of the moral meaning of technology in relation to the body and the human future. Technology can be an

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instrument of transcendence but, as Brian Patrick Green observes, its ends must also be assessed in relation to holiness (Green, 2018, 226). Power and holiness are to be pursued in tandem. Technology, that is, cannot be a mechanism only for transcending the human situation but must also draw the human towards its proper ends. The challenge is that transhumanists “want to be like God, but in the wrong way” (Green, 2018, 226). Religious thought can aid in moral reflection about devising “technologies of, and for, holiness” (Green, 2018, 227). Only then might we be better able to think fully about the dignitary implications of transhuman proposals. These various lines of inquiry hardly achieve a rapprochement but do offer points of engagement. Deep anthropological and dignitary divides remain. These differences aside, there exist possibilities for mutually constructive engagement about the person that take as a starting point the human yearning to transcend the givenness of our nature and our situation. If we can get to this place of understanding, there might at least be potential for a more fruitful exchange about the aims of technology as they relate to human nature, human flourishing, and human dignity.

References Blackford, R. (2013). The great transition: Ideas and anxieties. In M. More & N. Vita-More (Eds.), The transhumanist reader: Classical and contemporary essays on the science, technology, and philosophy of the human future (pp. 421–429). Malden (MA). Bostrom, N. (2001). Transhumanist values. https://www.nickbostrom.com/tra/values.html. Accessed 19 Apr 2023. Bostrom, N. (2003). Transhumanist values. In F. Adams (Ed.), Ethical issues for the 21st century (pp. 3–14). Philosophical Documentation Center Press. Bostrom, N. (2005). In defense of posthuman dignity. Bioethics, 19(3), 202–214. Bostrom, N. (2014). Introduction – The transhumanist FAQ: A general introduction. In C. Mercer & D. F. Maher (Eds.), Transhumanism and the body: The world religions speak (pp. 1–17). Palgrave Macmillan. Bostrom, N. (2018). Dignity and enhancement. https://www.nickbostrom.com/ethics/dignityenhancement.pdf. Accessed 19 Apr 2023. Burdett, M., & Lorrimar, V. (2019). Creatures bound for glory: Biotechnical enhancement and visions of human flourishing. Studies in Christian Ethics, 32(2), 241–253. Cole-Turner, R. (2015). Going beyond the human: Christians and other transhumanists. Theology and Science, 13(2), 150–161. Conley, J. J. (2017). Who’s afraid of transhumanism? (We all should be). America Magazine (September 5) https://www.americamagazine.org/politics-society/2017/09/05/whos-afraidtranshumanism-we-all-should-be. Accessed 19 Apr 2023. Ferrando, F. (2014). The body. In S. L. Sorgner & R. Ranisch (Eds.), Post- and transhumanism: An introduction (pp. 216–226). Peter Lang. Gallaher, B. (2019). Godman vs Mangodhood: An eastern orthodox response. Studies in Christian Ethics, 32(2), 200–215. Green, B. P. (2018). The technology of holiness: A response to Hava Tirosh-Samuelson. Theology and Science, 16(2), 223–228.

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Hart, D. B. (2005). The anti-theology of the body. The New Atlantis, 9, 65–73. https://repository. library.georgetown.edu/bitstream/handle/10822/559351/human_dignity_and_bioethics.pdf? sequence=1&isAllowed=y. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Jackelén, A. (2002). The image of god as techno sapiens. Zygon, 37(2), 289–302. Kass, L. (2008). Defending human dignity. In Human dignity and bioethics: Essays commissioned by the President’s council on bioethics (pp. 297–331). U.S. Independent Agencies and Commissions. Kurzweil, R. (2005). The singularity is near: When humans transcend biology. Palgrave Macmillan. Macaskill, G. (2019). Playing god or participating in god? What considerations might the new testament bring to the ethics of the biotechnological future? Studies in Christian Ethics, 32(2), 152–164. Meulen, R. ter. (2010). Dignity, posthumanism, and the community of values. The American Journal of Bioethics, 10(7), 69–70. More, M. (2013). The philosophy of transhumanism. In M. More & N. Vita-More (Eds.), The transhumanist reader: Classical and contemporary essays on the science, technology, and philosophy of the human future (pp. 3–17). Wiley-Blackwell. Peters, T. (2005). The soul of transhumanism. Dialog: A Journal of Theology, 44(4), 381–395. Ranisch, R., & Sorgner, S. L. (2014). Introducing post- and transhumanism. In S. L. Sorgner & R. Ranisch (Eds.), Post- and transhumanism: An introduction (pp. 7–27). Peter Lang. Sandler, R., & Basl, J. (2010). Transhumanism, human dignity, and moral status. The American Journal of Bioethics, 10(7), 63–66. Snead, C. (2020). What it means to be human: The case for the body in public bioethics. Harvard University Press. Tanner, K. (2010). God without nature. In D. Albertson & C. King (Eds.), Without nature?: A new condition for theology (pp. 363–376). Fordham University Press. Tirosh-Samuelson, H. (2018). In pursuit of perfection: The misguided transhumanist vision. Theology and Science, 16(2), 201–202. Williams, R. (2002). The body’s grace. In E. F. Rogers Jr. (Ed.), Theology and sexuality: Classic and contemporary readings (pp. 309–321). Blackwell.

Part V

Formal Languages Dealing with Religious Concepts

A Simplified Variant of Gödel’s Ontological Argument Christoph Benzmüller

1 Introduction Gödel’s (1970) ontological argument has attracted significant, albeit controversial, interest among philosophers, logicians and theologians (Sobel, 2004). In this chapter I present a simplified variant of Gödel’s argument that was developed in interaction with the proof assistant system Isabelle/HOL (Nipkow et al., 2002), which is based on classical higher-order logic (Benzmüller & Andrews, 2019). My personal interest in Gödel’s argument has been primarily of logical nature. In particular, this interest encompasses the challenge of automating and applying reasoning in quantified modal logics using an universal meta-logical reasoning approach (Benzmüller, 2019) in which (quantified) non-classical logics are semantically embedded in classical higher-order logic. The simplified ontological argument presented below is a side result of this research, which began with a computer encoding of Gödel’s argument so that it became amenable to formal analysis and computer-assisted theory simplification experiments; cf. Benzmüller (2020) for more technical details on the most recent series of experiments. The simplified argument selected for presentation in this chapter has, I believe, the potential to further stimulate the philosophical and theological debate on Gödel’s argument, since the simplifications achieved are indeed quite far-reaching:

C. Benzmüller (✉) Otto-Friedrich-Universität Bamberg, Bamberg, Germany Department of Mathematics and Computer Science, Freie Universität Berlin, Berlin, Germany e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_19

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• Only minimal assumptions about the modal logic used are required. The simplified variant presented is indeed valid in the comparatively weak modal logics K or KT, which only use uncontroversial reasoning principles.1 • Gödel’s argument introduces the comparably complex predicates of essence (Ess:) and necessary existence (NE), where the latter is based on the former. These terms are avoided altogether in the simplified version presented here. • Above all, a controversial side effect of Gödel’s argument, the so-called modal collapse, is avoided. Modal collapse (MC), formally notated as 8s (s → □ s), expresses that “what holds, holds necessarily”, which can also be interpreted as “there are no contingent truths” and “everything is determined”. The observation that Gödel’s argument implies modal collapse has already been made by Sobel (1987), and Kovač (2012) argues that modal collapse may even have been intended by Gödel. Indeed, the study of modal collapse has been the catalyst for much recent research on the ontological argument. For example, variants of Gödel’s argument that avoid modal collapse have been presented by Anderson (1990), Anderson and Gettings (1996), and Fitting (2002), among others, cf. also the formal verification and comparison of these works by Benzmüller and Fuenmayor (2020). In the following, however, it is shown that modal collapse can in fact be avoided by much simpler means. What I thus present in the remainder is a simple, generalised divine theory, derived from Gödel’s argument, that does not entail modal collapse. Since Gödel’s (1970) argument was shown to be inconsistent (Benzmüller & Woltzenlogel Paleo, 2016), the actual starting point for the exploration of the simplified ontological argument has been Scott’s variant (1972), which is consistent. The terminology and notation used in what follows therefore also remains close to Scott’s. Only one single uninterpreted constant symbol P is used in the argument. This symbol denotes “positive properties”, and its meaning is restricted by the postulated axioms, as discussed below. Moreover, the following definitions (or shorthand notations) were introduced by Gödel, respectively Scott:

1

Some background on modal logic (see also Garson, 2018, and the references therein): The modal operators □ and ◇ are employed, in the given context, to capture the alethic modalities “necessarily holds” and “possibly holds”, and often the modal logic S5 is used for this. However, logic S5 comes with some rather strong reasoning principles, that could, and have been, be taken as basis for criticism on Gödel’s argument. Base modal logic K is comparably uncontroversial, since it only adds the following principles to classical logic: (i) If s is a theorem of K, then so is □s, and (ii) the distribution axiom □(s → t) → (□s → □ t) (if s implies t holds necessarily, then the necessity of s implies the necessity of t). Modal logic KT additionally provides the T axiom: □s → s (if s holds necessarily, then s), respectively its dual s → ◇ s (if s, then s is possible). Modal logics can be given a possible world semantics, so that □s can be read as: for all possible worlds v, which are reachable from a given current world w, we have that s holds in v. And its dual, ◇s, thus means: there exists a possible world v, reachable from the current world w, so that s holds in v.

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• An entity x is God-like if it possesses all positive properties. GðxÞ  8ϕ ðPðϕÞ → ϕðxÞÞ • A property ϕ is an essence (Ess:) of an entity x if, and only if, (i) ϕ holds for x and (ii) ϕ necessarily entails every property ψ of x (i.e., the property is necessarily minimal). ϕ Ess:x  ϕðxÞ ^ 8ψ ðψ ðxÞ → □8y ðϕðyÞ → ψ ðyÞÞÞ Deviating from Gödel, Scott added here the requirement that ϕ must hold for x. Scott found it natural to add this clause, not knowing that it fixed the inconsistency in Gödel’s theory, which was discovered by an automated theorem prover (Benzmüller & Woltzenlogel Paleo, 2016). Gödel’s (1970) scriptum avoids this conjunct, although it occurred in some of his earlier notes. • A further shorthand notation, NEðxÞ, termed necessary existence, was introduced by Gödel. NEðxÞ expresses that x necessarily exists if all of its essential properties are necessarily exemplified. NEðxÞ  8ϕ ðϕ Ess:x → □∃x ϕðxÞÞ The axioms of Scott’s (1972) theory, which constrain the meaning of constant symbol P, and thus also of definition G, are now as follows: AXIOM 1 Either a property or its negation is positive, but not both.2 8ϕ ðPðØϕÞ $ ØPðϕÞÞ AXIOM 2 A property is positive if it is necessarily entailed by a positive property. 8ϕ8ψ ððPðϕÞ ^ ð□8x ðϕðxÞ → ψ ðxÞÞÞÞ → Pðψ ÞÞ AXIOM 3 Being Godlike is a positive property.3 PðGÞ

Øϕ is shorthand for λx Ø ϕ(x). Alternatively, we may postulate A3’: The conjunction of any collection of positive properties is positive. Formally, 8Z:ðPosZ → 8XðXuZ → PXÞÞ, where Pos Z stands for 8XðZX → PXÞ and X uZ is shorthand for 8u:ðXu $ ð8Y:ZY → YuÞÞ. 2 3

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AXIOM 4 Any positive property is necessarily positive (in Scott’s words: being a positive property is logical, hence, necessary). 8ϕ ðPðϕÞ → □PðϕÞÞ AXIOM 5 Necessary existence (NE) is a positive property. PðNEÞ From this theory the following theorems and corollaries follow; cf. Scott (1972) and Benzmüller and Woltzenlogel Paleo (2014, 2016) for further details. Note that the proofs are valid already in (extensional) modal logic KB, which extends base modal logic K with AXIOM B: 8ϕ (ϕ → □◇ϕ), or in words, if ϕ then ϕ is necessarily possible. THEOREM 1 Positive properties are possibly exemplified. 8ϕðPðϕÞ → ◊∃x ϕðxÞÞ

Follows from AXIOM 1 and AXIOM 2. CORO Possibly there exists a God-like being. ◊∃x GðxÞ

Follows from THEOREM 1 and AXIOM 3. THEOREM 2 Being God-like is an essence of any God-like being. 8x GðxÞ → G Ess:x Follows from AXIOM 1 and AXIOM 4 using the definitions of Ess: and G. THEOREM 3 Necessarily, there exists a God-like being. □∃x GðxÞ Follows from AXIOM 5, CORO, THEOREM 2, AXIOM B using the definitions of G and NE.

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THEOREM 4 There exists a God-like being. ∃x GðxÞ

Follows from THEOREM 3 together with CORO and AXIOM B. All claims have been verified with the higher-order proof assistant system Isabelle/ HOL (Nipkow et al., 2002) and the sources of these verification experiments are presented in Fig. 2 in the Appendix. This verification work utilised the universal meta-logical reasoning approach (Benzmüller, 2019) in order to obtain a ready-touse “implementation” of higher-order modal logic in Isabelle/HOL’s classical higher-order logic. In these experiments only possibilist quantifiers were initially applied and later the results were confirmed for a modified logical setting in which first-order actualist quantifiers for individuals were used, and otherwise possibilist quantifiers. It is also relevant to note that, in agreement with Gödel and Scott, in this chapter only intensions of (positive) properties are considered, in contrast to Fitting (2002), who studied the use of extensions of properties in the context of the ontological argument.

2 Simplified Variant Scott’s (1972) theory from above has interesting further corollaries, besides modal collapse MC and monotheism (cf. Benzmüller & Woltzenlogel Paleo, 2014, 2016),4 and such corollaries can be explored using automated theorem proving technology. In particular, the following two statements are implied. CORO 1 Self-difference is not a positive property. ØPðλx ðx ≠ xÞÞ Since the setting in this chapter is extensional, we alternatively get that the empty property, λx⊥, is not a positive property. ØPðλx⊥Þ

4 Monotheism results are of course dependent on the assumed notion of identity. This aspect should be further explored in future work.

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Both statements follow from AXIOM 1 and AXIOM 2. This is easy to see, because if λx (x ≠ x) (respectively, λx⊥) was positive, then, by AXIOM 2, also its complement λx (x = x) (respectively, λx⊤) to be so, which contradicts AXIOM 1. Thus, only λx (x = x) and λx⊤ can be and indeed are positive, but not their complements. CORO 2 A property is positive if it is entailed by a positive property. 8ϕ8ψ ððPðϕÞ ^ ð8x ðϕðxÞ → ψ ðxÞÞÞÞ → Pðψ ÞÞ This follows from AXIOM 1 and THEOREM 4 using the definition of G. Alternatively, the statement can be proved using AXIOM 1, AXIOM B and modal collapse MC. The above observations are core motivation for our simplified variant of Gödel’s argument as presented next; see Benzmüller (2020) for further experiments and explanations on the exploration on this and further simplified variants. Axioms of the Simplified Ontological Argument CORO 1 Self-difference is not a positive property. ØPðλx ðx ≠ xÞÞ (Alternative: The empty property λx⊥ is not a positive property.) CORO 2 A property entailed by a positive property is positive. 8ϕ8ψ ððPðϕÞ ^ ð8x ðϕðxÞ → ψ ðxÞÞÞÞ → Pðψ ÞÞ AXIOM 3 Being Godlike is a positive property. PðGÞ As before, an entity x is defined to be God-like if it possesses all positive properties: GðxÞ  8ϕ ðPðϕÞ → ϕðxÞÞ

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From the above axioms of the simplified theory the following successive argumentation steps can be derived in base modal logic K: LEMMA 1 The existence of a non-exemplified positive property implies that self-difference (or, alternatively, the empty property) is a positive property. ð∃ϕ ðPðϕÞ ^ Ø∃x ϕðxÞÞÞ → Pðλx ðx ≠ xÞÞ This follows from CORO 2, since such a ϕ would entail λx (x ≠ x). LEMMA 2 A non-exemplified positive property does not exist. Ø∃ϕ ðPðϕÞ ^ Ø∃x ϕðxÞÞ Follows from CORO 1 and the contrapositive of LEMMA 1. LEMMA 3 Positive properties are exemplified. 8ϕ ðPðϕÞ → ∃x ϕðxÞÞ This is just a reformulation of LEMMA 2. THEOREM 3′ There exists a God-like being. ∃x GðxÞ Follows from AXIOM 3 and LEMMA 3. THEOREM 3 Necessarily, there exists a God-like being. □∃x GðxÞ From THEOREM 3′ by necessitation. The model finder nitpick (Blanchette & Nipkow, 2010) available in Isabelle/HOL can be employed to verify the consistency of this simple divine theory. The smallest satisfying model returned by the model finder consists of one possible world with one God-like entity, and with self-difference, resp. the empty property, not being a positive property. However, the model finder also tells us that it is impossible to prove CORO: ◊∃xGðxÞ, expressing that the existence of a God-like being is

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possible. The simplest countermodel consists of a single possible world from which no other world is reachable, so that CORO, i.e., ◊∃xGðxÞ, obviously cannot hold for this world, regardless of the truth of THEOREM 3′: ∃xGðxÞ in it. However, the simple transition from the basic modal logic K to the logic KT eliminates this defect. To reach logic KT, AXIOM T: 8s (□s → s) is postulated, that is, a property holds if it necessarily holds. This postulate appears uncontroversial. AXIOM T is equivalent to AXIOM T’: 8s (s → ◇s), which expresses that a property that holds also possibly holds. Within modal logic KT we can thus obviously prove CORO from THEOREM 3′ with the help of AXIOM T’. As an alternative to the above derivation of THEOREM 3, we can also proceed in logic KT analogously to the argument given in the introduction. THEOREM 1 Positive properties are possibly exemplified. 8ϕðPðϕÞ → ◊∃x ϕðxÞÞ Follows from CORO 1, CORO 2 and AXIOM T’. CORO Possibly there exists a God-like being. ◊∃x GðxÞ Follows from THEOREM 1 and AXIOM 3. THEOREM 2 The possible existence of a God-like being implies its necessary existence. ◊∃xGðxÞ → □∃xGðxÞ Follows from AXIOM 3, CORO 1 and CORO 2. THEOREM 3 Necessarily, there exists a God-like being. □∃x GðxÞ Follows from CORO and THEOREM2. THEOREM 3′ There exists a God-like being. ∃x GðxÞ Follows from THEOREM 3 with AXIOM T.

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Interestingly, the above simplified divine theory avoids modal collapse. This is confirmed by the model finder nitpick, which reports a countermodel consisting of two possible worlds with one God-like entity.5 The above statements were all formally verified with Isabelle/HOL. As with Scott’s variant, only possibilist quantifiers were used initially, and later the results were confirmed also for a modified logical setting in which first-order actualist quantifiers for individuals were used, and possibilist quantifiers otherwise. The Isabelle/HOL sources of the conducted verification studies are presented in Figs. 1, 2, 3 and 4 in the Appendix. In the related exploratory studies (Benzmüller, 2020), a suitably adapted notion of a modal ultrafilter was additionally used to support the comparative analysis of different variants of Gödel’s ontological argument, including those proposed by Anderson and Gettings (1996) and Fitting (2002), which avoid modal collapse. These experiments are a good demonstration of the maturity that modern theorem proving systems have reached. These systems are ready to fruitfully support the exploration of metaphysical theories. The development of Gödel’s ontological argument has recently been addressed by Kanckos and Lethen (2019). They discovered previously unknown variants of the argument in Gödel’s Nachlass, whose relation to the presented simplified variants should be further investigated in future work. The version No. 2 they reported has meanwhile been formalised and verified in Isabelle/HOL, similar to the work presented above. This version No. 2 avoids the notions of essence and necessary existence and associated definitions/axioms, just as our simplified version does. However, this version, in many respects, also differs from ours, and it assumes the higher-order modal logic S5. Further variants whose relation to the presented simplified argument should be studied in further work include Christian (1989), Gustafsson (2019), and Świetorzecka and Łyczak (2020). In future work, I would also like to further deepen ongoing studies of Fitting’s (2002) proposal, which focuses on extensions rather than intensions of (positive) properties.

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In this countermodel, the two possible worlds i1 and i2 are both reachable from i2, but only world i1 can be reached from i1. Moreover, there is a property ϕ, which holds for the (single) God-like entity e in world i2 but not in i1. Apparently, in world i2, modal collapse 8s (s → □ s) is not validated, since (ϕ e) holds in i2 but not in i1, which is reachable from i2. The positive properties in this countermodel are as follows : ϕ is positive only in world i2, while property ϕ′, which holds for e in i1 but not in i2, is positive only in i1. λx ⊤ is a positive property in both possible worlds, and λx ⊥ in none of them.

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3 Discussion Whether the simplified variant of Gödel’s ontological argument presented in this chapter actually increases or decreases the argument’s appeal and persuasiveness is a question I would like to pass on to philosophy and theology. As a logician, I see my role primarily as providing useful input and clarity to promote informed debate. I have shown how a significantly simplified version of Gödel’s ontological variant can be explored and verified in interaction with modern theorem proving technology. Most importantly, this simplified variant avoids modal collapse and some further issues, which have triggered criticism on Gödel’s argument in the past. Future work could investigate the extent to which such theory simplification studies could even be fully automated. The resulting rational reconstructions of argument variants would be very useful in gaining more intuition and understanding of the theory in question, in this case a theistic theory, which in turn could lead to its demystification and also to the identification of flawed discussions in the existing literature. Acknowledgements I thank Andrea Vestrucci and the anonymous reviewers for valuable comments that helped improve this chapter.

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Appendix: Sources of Conducted Experiments

Fig. 1 The universal meta-logical reasoning approach at work: exemplary shallow semantic embedding of modal higher-order logic K in classical higher-order logic

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Fig. 2 Verification of Scott’s variant of Gödel’s ontological argument in modal higher-order logic KB, using first-order and higher-order possibilistic quantifiers; the theory HOML from Fig. 1 is imported

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Fig. 3 Simplified ontological argument in modal logic K, respectively KT, using possibilist firstorder and higher-order quantifiers

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Fig. 4 Simplified ontological argument in modal logic K, respectively KT, using actualist firstorder quantifiers and possibilist higher-order quantifier

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References Anderson, C. A. (1990). Some emendations of Gödel’s ontological proof. Faith and Philosophy, 7(3), 291–303. Anderson, C. A., & Gettings, M. (1996). Gödel’s ontological proof revisited. In P. Hajek (Ed.), Gödel ‘96: Logical foundations of mathematics, computer science, and physics: Lecture notes in logic 6 (pp. 167–172). Cambridge University Press. Benzmüller, C. (2019). Universal (meta-)logical reasoning: Recent successes. Science of Computer Programming, 172, 48–62. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.scico.2018.10.008 Benzmüller, C. (2020). A (simplified) supreme being necessarily exists, says the computer: Computationally explored variants of Gödel’s ontological argument. In Proceedings of the 17th international conference on principles of knowledge representation and reasoning (pp. 779–789). https://doi.org/10.24963/kr.2020/80 Benzmüller, C., & Andrews, P. (2019). Church’s type theory. In E. N. Zalta & U. Nodelman (Eds.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of philosophy (Winter 2022 ed.) https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/ win2022/entries/type-theory-church/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Benzmüller, C., & Fuenmayor, D. (2020). Computer-supported analysis of positive properties, ultrafilters and modal collapse in variants of Gödel’s ontological argument. Bulletin of the Section of Logic, 49(2), 127–148. https://doi.org/10.18778/0138-0680.2020.08 Benzmüller, C., & Woltzenlogel Paleo, B. (2014). Automating Gödel’s ontological proof of God’s existence with higher-order automated theorem provers. In T. Schaub, G. Friedrich, & B. O’Sullivan (Eds.), European Conference on Artificial Intelligence (ECAI 2014) (Frontiers in artificial intelligence and applications) (Vol. 263, pp. 93–98). IOS Press. https://doi.org/10. 3233/978-1-61499-419-0-93 Benzmüller, C., & Woltzenlogel Paleo, B. (2016). The inconsistency in Gödel’s ontological argument: A success story for AI in metaphysics. In S. Kambhampati (Ed.), Proceedings of the international joint conferences on artificial intelligence organization 2016 (Vol. 1–3, pp. 936–942). AAAI Press. Blanchette, J. C., & Nipkow, T. (2010). Nitpick: A counterexample generator for higher-order logic based on a relational model finder. In M. Kaufmann & L. C. Paulson (Eds.), Interactive theorem proving—ITP 2010 (LNCS) (pp. 131–146). Springer. Christian, C. (1989). Gödels Version des Ontologischen Gottesbeweises. Sitzungsberichte Der Österreichischen Akademie Der Wissenschaften, 198, 1–26. Fitting, M. (2002). Types, tableaus, and Gödel’s god. Kluwer. Garson, J. (2018). Modal logic. In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of philosophy (Fall 2018 ed.). https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2018/entries/logic-modal/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023. Gödel, K. (1970). Appendix A. Notes in Kurt Gödel’s Hand. In J. H. Sobel (Ed.), Logic and theism: Arguments for and against beliefs in god (pp. 144–145). Cambridge University Press. Gustafsson, J. E. (2019). A patch to the possibility part of Gödel’s ontological proof. Analysis, 80(2), 229–240. https://doi.org/10.1093/analys/anz024 Kanckos, A., & Lethen, T. (2019). The development of Gödel’s ontological proof. The Review of Symbolic Logic, 14(4), 1011–1049. https://doi.org/10.1017/S1755020319000479 Kovač, S. (2012). Modal collapse in Gödel’s ontological proof. In M. Szatkowski (Ed.), Ontological proofs today (p. 323). Ontos Verlag. Nipkow, T., Lawrence, C. P., & Markus, W. (2002). Isabelle/HOL—A proof assistant for higherorder logic (LNCS). Springer. Scott, D. S. (1972). Appendix B: Notes in Dana Scott’s Hand. In I. J. H. Sobel (Ed.), Logic and theism: Arguments for and against beliefs in god (pp. 145–146). Cambridge University Press. Sobel, J. H. (1987). Gödel’s ontological proof. In J. Jarvis Tomson (Ed.), On being and saying. Essays for Richard Cartwright (pp. 241–261). MIT Press.

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Sobel, J. H. (2004). Logic and theism: Arguments for and against beliefs in god. Cambridge University Press. Świetorzecka, K., & Łyczak, M. (2020). An even more Leibnizian version of Gödel’s ontological argument. In R. S. Silvestre et al. (Eds.), Beyond faith and rationality (pp. 93–104). Springer. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-43535-6_6

Religion Plurality and the Logic of the Concept of God Ricardo Sousa Silvestre

1 Introduction The concept of God is one of the main subject matters of metaphysical philosophy of religion. While arguments for and against the existence of GOD are concerned with whether there is an entity that falls under the concept of God, or whether it is probable (or more probable than not) that there is such entity, the analysis of the concept of God deals with its characterization and coherence.1 But there are issues related to the concept of God that seem to be of a different, higher order. For most part, contemporary philosophy of religion assumes a monotheistic view of God; it presupposes what might be termed the assumption of monotheism: (AM) There is at most one entity that falls under the concept of God. A stronger, extensional version of AM can be stated as follows: (EAM) There is at most one GOD; otherwise said, the number of extensions of the word “GOD” is at most one.2 Another assumption that permeates much of the discourse about God in metaphysical philosophy of religion is the singularity assumption: (SA) There is a unique concept of God.

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To distinguish between the concept of God and the eventual object that falls under it, I refer to the latter using capital letters. Thus, while “God” means the (or a) concept of God, “GOD” means the entity which supposedly falls under the (or a) concept of God (although most of the time I will use the complex expression “concept of God”). 2 Although EAM entails AM, the converse is not true. R. S. Silvestre (✉) Federal University of Campina Grande, Campina Grande, Brazil e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_20

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SA follows from a standard interpretation of the definitive article “the” in the expression “the concept of God”. AM and, as a matter of fact, every positive statement containing the expression “the concept of God” presuppose SA. SA seems to conflict with the pragmatics or social dimension, so to speak, of the concept of God. Every monotheistic religious tradition—and sometimes every school within traditions—seems to have its own concept of God. According to orthodox Christianity, GOD is a trinitarian entity.3 Islam, on the other hand, emphasizes that GOD is strictly singular (tawḥīd), unique (wāḥid) and inherently One (aḥad) (Esposito, 1998, 88). The so-called “Hindu bible”, the Bhagavad-gītā, while holding that GOD (who is identified with the speaker of the text, Kṛṣṇa) is one,4 claims that He is identical with everything (Resnick, 1995, 7–9, 13–17). There is plurality even within traditions. When dealing with the problem of the Trinity, for example, Christian scholars have proposed different and many times conflicting concepts of God (Tuggy, 2006). Similarly, philosophers have proposed and defended different concepts of God. There is considerable variety even within what philosophers labeled classical (and neo-classical) theism, pantheism, panentheism, process theism, and open theism. Thus, the claim below seems to be true: (PG) There is a plurality of concepts of God. As expected, PG contradicts SA. It also conflicts with EAM. A concept might be instantiated, by which I mean that there might be some entity that falls under it. Since PG claims the existence of several concepts of God, it is possible that more than one of these concepts are instantiated. In the case this possibility is actualized, there would be more than one GOD, which goes against EAM.5 I call this the unicity of extension problem. This problem might be solved by distinguishing between the concept of God and conceptions of God. Graham Oppy (2014, 1) for example, claims that “While I think that there is just one concept of God, I hold that there are many different conceptions of God.” In his turn, Eberhard Herrmann (2008, 65) says that “there can be only one complete description of God, only one concept of God, or only one definition of God.” Unfortunately, the distinction Herrmann makes between concept and conception is anything but clear. All he says is that “Whereas conceptions are our understandings, concepts, to put it cautiously, are something else” (Herrmann, 2008, 63), going on to explain some different approaches to concepts. Oppy offers a clearer

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This appears very clearly, for example, in the Athanasian Creed. Out of its 44 theses, three of them state as follows: (1) “We worship GOD in Trinity and Trinity in Unity. . . Neither confounding the persons nor dividing the substance.”; (2) “So the Father is GOD, the Son is GOD, and the Holy Spirit is GOD.”; (3) “And yet they are not three GODS, but one GOD.” 4 He is the great Lord of all the worlds (5.29), the Supreme Divine Person (10.12), the God of the gods (10.14) and their origin (10.12, 11.38); no one is equal to or greater than Him (11.38). See Resnick (1995). 5 See that PG does not necessarily conflict with AM. It might be that each one of these concepts of God has at most one instance.

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account. He takes the following reference-fixing description to be the concept of God: to be God is to be the one and only god, where to be a god is to be a superhuman being or entity who has and exercises power over the natural world and is not, in turn, under the power of any higher ranking or more powerful category of beings (Oppy, 2014, 1). A conception of God is any way people might conceive God. According to Oppy, despite the enormous disagreement among defenders of different conceptions of God, all of them agree (or should agree) that God is the one and only god (Oppy, 2014, 14). The problem with this account is, first, that there seems to be ‘conceptions of God’ that conflict with Oppy’s view of the concept of God as the one and only God. For example, while a deist GOD might not exercise power over the natural world, in some Vedānta traditions GOD is not conceived as a “superhuman being” in any sense of the term. Second, it seems safe to say that most views about concepts would see Oppy’s conceptions of God as concepts. Thus, in the lack of a satisfactory distinction between concept and conception, it seems reasonable to follow what seems to be the standard in contemporary philosophy of religion and take the words “concept” and “conception” as synonymous. So, the unicity of extension problem remains. Moreover, PG has also some problems of its own. Is there a best or most defensible concept of God? Or is there a homogeneity in terms of philosophical legitimacy among all concepts of God? Is it possible to take a neutral stance on these issues (as perhaps a genuinely plural approach would require)? I call this the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem. Perhaps more important than that, how to guarantee that all these so-called concepts of God are in fact concepts of God? In other words, if these concepts are so different, in many cases incompatible with each other, what sense is there in the claim that they are concepts-of-the-same-thing? What bonds them all as concepts of God? This is the problem of conceptual unity. It seems clear to me that a solution to these problems must deal with the representation and nature of the concept of God. As such, they cannot be tackled without resorting to something very close to a theory of concepts. That is why they are higher-order issues. From a general viewpoint, a theory of concepts aims at saying what a concept is; or in other words, filling in the X in the schema below: (T) Concepts are X. Many kinds of structures have been proposed to play the role of X: definitions, prototypes, sets of exemplars, theory-like structures of some sort, perceptual ‘proxytypes’, etc. (Murphy, 2002; Margolis & Laurence, 2019). Regardless of the chosen structure, by saying what a concept is, a theory of concepts also says how concepts are to be characterized or represented. It therefore also fills in the X in the schema below: (R) Concepts are to be represented as X. Although theories of concepts usually aim at T, they can be also thought of as aiming at R. When a theory aims at R, I say it is a representational theory of concepts, or an

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R-theory of concepts for short; if it aims at T, I call it is a T-theory of concepts. T and R can also be thought of as applying to specific types of concepts or individual concepts. Applied to God, for example, T and R would look as follows: (TG) The concept of God is X. (RG) The concept of God is to be represented as X. If a theory does not aim at T or R, but at special versions of it, then I say it is a special theory of concepts (as opposed to a general theory of concepts). A theory focused on RG would be a special R-theory of concepts, or an R-theory of the concept of God. Most, if not all, theories of concepts are general T-theories of concepts. But theories of concepts are important not only for higher-order issues. Any talk whatsoever about concepts presupposes ways to represent them. The received view in philosophy on how to represent concepts seems to be what is now called the classical theory of concepts. Rooted in ideas of philosophers like Plato, Aristotle and Locke,6 the classical theory takes definitions as the appropriate way to characterize concepts. According to this view, the concept of bachelor would be characterized through a list of necessary and conjointly sufficient property conditions: a bachelor is an (1) unmarried (2) male (3) adult (4) human being. If an entity a possesses all properties, then it falls under the concept of bachelor (the conditions are sufficient); and for a to be a bachelor, it must possess all properties (the conditions are necessary). The X in T and R would thus be something like this: definitions based on lists of property conditions; an object falls under the concept if and only if it possesses all properties of the list. When dealing with the concept of God, philosophers of religion rely on something very close to the classical theory of concepts. The analysis of the concept of God, for example, centers around divine great-making properties such as omniscience, omnipotence, wholly goodness, eternity, etc. Although there have been attempts to present the concept of God in such a way that these properties follow from a general definition—that is one of the aspects generally stressed by perfect being theologians, for example—, the concept of God is mostly characterized through a list of properties that GOD is supposed to possess. The same happens with arguments for and against the existence of GOD. Arguments from evil, for example, need God to be characterized as a being who possesses (at least) these three properties: omniscience, omnipotence and wholly goodness. Since the 1950s, and especially from 1970 onward, the classical theory has been under strong attack. Most scholars today believe that the many problems raised against the classical theory of concepts undermine its tenability (Rosch, 1978; Smith & Medin, 1981, 26–51; Laurence & Margolis, 1999, 8–27; Murphy, 2002, 11–24). It turns out that some of these problems are fatal to the project of definitionally 6

Locke seems to assume something very close to the classical theory when he gives an account of the concept of sun, for example: “[T]he Idea of the Sun, what is it, but an aggregate of those several simple Ideas, Bright, Hot, Roundish, having a constant regular motion, at a certain distance from us, and, perhaps, some other” (Locke, 1690/1975, 298–299). Plato’s use of what might be seen as the basic tenets of the classical theory can be found in the Euthyphro and Aristotle’s in the Categories.

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characterizing the concept of God (Silvestre, 2022). Moreover, since the classical theory assumes a general version of SA according to which for any category that can be conceptually represented there is a unique concept of that category (Weiskopf, 2009, 150), it cannot deal with PG nor with the higher-order issues that arise from it.7 The goal of this chapter is to propose a R-theory of the concept of God able to deal with the above mentioned higher-order issues. For this end, I outline a hybrid special theory of concepts called the theory of ideal concepts. The theory is special because it deals exclusively with what I call ideal concepts; it is hybrid because, in addition to definitions, it uses another structure in the characterization of X in T and R: ideals. I then argue that when aimed at RG and added to a pluralistic view of concepts, this theory solves the unicity of extension problem and the problem of conceptual unity. This is done in Sects. 2 and 3. In Sect. 4 I show how this theory can be formalized within a possible worlds framework. In addition to uncovering some important features of the theory, this formalization allows me to show how it solves the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem.8

2 A Theory of Ideal Concepts One of the most powerful criticisms against the classical view of concepts was made in the 1970s by Eleanor Rosch (1975, 1978). Rosch’s criticisms also provided the basis for several early alternatives to the classical view under the rubric of prototype theory. According to prototype theorists, most concepts are complex representations whose structure encodes a statistical analysis of the properties their members tend to have—a list of properties that are found to greater or lesser degrees in the category, for example. From a representational viewpoint, a prototype can then be seen as a list of statistically significant properties. Many readers, however, have interpreted Rosch’s early writings as suggesting that a concept is characterized by a single prototype or best exemplar of the category (Murphy, 2002, 41). According to this idea, the category of dogs is represented by a single dog that best embodies the attributes normally found in dogs. A prototype in this case would be this special exemplar of the category. From the point of view of T and R, the basis of the structure kind X would then be a singular individual. Something similar happens with another alternative to the classical view, first proposed by Douglas Medin and Marguerite Schaffer (1978) in the late 1970s: exemplar theory. According to exemplar theory, the concept of dog is neither a definition nor a list of properties found to greater or lesser degrees in dogs, but (the psychological representation of) a specific set of exemplars of dogs, the dogs that

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See Silvestre (2022) for a comprehensive account of the problems with the classical theory applied to the concept of God. 8 While Sects. 2 and 3 rely on Silvestre (2022), Sect. 4 partially relies on Silvestre (2021).

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had the strongest effect on someone’s memory, for example (Murphy, 2002, 49). Here also the basis of X is a singular individual. Notice that in these two approaches—prototype theory and exemplar theory— there is no longer a list of conditions whose satisfaction would be sufficient to classify something as an instance of a concept. How then, we might ask, do these theories work in relation to conceptual categorization? The keyword here is “similarity”. The fact that a single entity is similar enough to the prototype (or set of exemplars) entitles one to classify it as belonging to the category at hand. A particular object is classified as a chair if it is similar enough to the chair prototype (or chair exemplars, in the case of exemplar theory). But not all similarity-based processing involves prototypes or sets of exemplars. Barsalou (1985) showed that many concepts are organized around similarity to ideals. An ideal is an exemplar that has the best characteristics of a category (Weiskopf, 2009, 152–153): the ideal diet, the ideal husband, the ideal trip, the ideal job, etc. While prototypes represent statistically significant properties, ideals involve superlatively desirable (or ideal) properties for a category. As a result, they are not statistically prominent; in many cases, they are properties that are relevant to what we might call the purpose of the category (which is often culturally determined) (Lakoff, 1987, 76). The view that an ideal is an exemplar of a category cannot be underestimated. It implies that the ideal diet, for example, is an exemplar of the diet category in the same way as a vegan diet and a diet for high-performance athletes are. An ideal is a particular instance of a concept, in the case the category can be conceptually represented, of course. Although the term “ideal” is used with other meanings, this is a meaning that is clearly found in the relevant literature.9 Although ideals are individual exemplars of a category, they are not ordinary exemplars. In general, ideals are not found in the concrete world (Weiskopf, 2009, 152). The ideal diet for example has probably zero calories, although no real diet has zero calories (the prototypical diet certainly has more than zero calories) (Weiskopf, 2009, 152). Most likely, no real, concrete husband has all the attributes, to the right degree, of the ideal husband: perfect provider, perfectly faithful, strong, respectful, attractive, sensitive, understandable, empathic, and so on. This point is crucial. First, because it implies the existence of exemplars of categories that do not exist in the concrete world (the ideal diet, the ideal husband, the ideal job, etc.). Second because it suggests that, like sets, propositions, the number 2 and Dante’s Inferno, ideals are abstract objects. Third because it indicates that the reason why ideals are not found in the concrete world: ideals embody a view

George Lakoff, for example, writes as follows (1987, 6): “Many categories are understood in terms of abstract ideal cases—which may be neither typical nor stereotypical. [. . .] Naomi Quinn (personal communication) has observed, based on extensive research on American conceptions of marriage, that there are many kinds of ideal models for a marriage: successful marriages, good marriages, strong marriages, and so on. Successful marriages are those where the goals of the spouses are fulfilled. Good marriages are those where both partners find the marriage beneficial. Strong marriages are those likely to last.” The emphasis is mine. 9

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too perfect or excellent of things we find in the world. Among all the members of the category of husbands, there is a special one—the ideal husband—that possesses the best characteristics of that category, which are those resulting from a process of perfecting the relevant properties of the actual exemplars of the category. It is important to remark that the expression “ideal husband” is ambiguous. It might refer to an abstract object, the ideal member of the category of husbands, but also to a concept, the concept of ideal husband, and the corresponding category. I call this this kind of concept an ideal concept. The concept of God is an ideal concept. Thus, while “ideal concept” refers to a specific type of concept, “ideal” refers to an abstract object, a special, idealized member of a category. Ideal concepts are abstract concepts. Take the concept of God, for example. Like the concepts of ideal gas and perfect circle, the concept of God is an idealization in the sense of a view too perfect or excellent of things we find in the world; so perfect that it cannot exist in the world. Even if God as a whole cannot be seen in this idealized, maximally perfect way, some aspects of it certainly can. Most divine properties, for example, can be seen as idealizations in this sense. Omnipotence, omniscience, wholly goodness, eternity and simplicity can all be seen as maximally perfect views of properties we find in the world. Because of that, there cannot be concrete entities—in the sense of having a spatiotemporal location—that instantiate them. It is this abstraction based on an idealization in the sense of maximal perfection that I have in mind when I say that ideal concepts are abstract. I call it idealization-maximal-perfection (IMP) abstractedness; God, I claim, is an IMP abstract concept, or an ideal concept, for short. Ideals are abstract objects in the same sense of abstractedness. The kind of possibility present in the claim that there cannot be concrete instances of abstract concepts depends on the concept at stake. For example, in the case of the concept of prime number, we might say that it is metaphysically impossible that there exist concrete instances of it in the world. But the fact that there cannot be an ideal gas in the world seems to follow from the laws of nature that operate in our world; it is a kind of physical possibility. This is in fact a consequence of the IMP abstractedness of the concept of ideal gas. Since it maximally perfects something we find in the physical world, it goes beyond physical possibility. As far as the concept of God is concerned, it is certainly not absurd to follow the first path and say that it is metaphysically impossible that there exists a concrete instance of it. However, since I am favoring this IMP abstractedness, it is enough for me to understand the claim that there cannot be a concrete instance of the concept of God in the weaker sense of physical possibility. A further remark about abstractedness is in order. I have so far applied the word “abstract” both to concepts and objects. Given what I said above, the connection between abstract concepts and abstract objects seems obvious: if an object x falls under an abstract concept, then x is abstract. This is not the path I will follow here. First because the connection I have made between abstract concepts and the objects that fall under them was in terms of non-concreteness, not abstractedness: I argued that that there cannot be concrete instances of abstract concepts. Second because I will follow what David Lewis (1986, 83) calls the negative path and take abstract

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objects simply as objects that are causally ineffective. (As I have said, concrete objects are objects that have a spatiotemporal location, which involves causal effectiveness.) Since a non-abstract object is one that is causally effective, non-abstractedness and concreteness are not equivalent: non-abstract non-concrete objects, that is, causally effective objects without spaciotemporal location are logically possible.10 This is of course needed if we want to cope with the idea that GOD, although non-concrete, can interact causally with the world. Given all this, one might wonder: can the category of ideal husbands, for example, have nonabstract members? Considering the IMP abstractedness of both ideals and ideal concepts, might some actual husband be an ideal husband? The answer is yes. Let us call h the abstract object, ideal member of the category of husbands, and x a (ordinary) member of the category of husbands. Following the categorization process behind prototype theory and exemplar theory, it seems reasonable to say that x is a member of the category of ideal husbands if and only if x is similar to h.11 Therefore, depending on the criterion of similarity at stake, an actual husband x can be seen as an ideal husband. Building upon this suggestion, as well as upon the idea behind exemplar theory and the initial interpretation of prototype theory I mentioned at the beginning of this section, I propose what I call the theory of ideal concepts. The expression has a double meaning. It is a theory of ideal concepts in the sense that it aims to deal with ideal concepts; it is therefore a special theory of concepts, since it applies only to a specific kind of concept. But it is also a theory of ideal concepts in the sense that it aims to follow the aforementioned idea behind exemplar theory and the initial interpretation of prototype theory and take ideals, that is, specific exemplars of a category, as the basis of the X in T and R. Seen as a T-theory, the theory of ideal concepts claims that the X in T and R is these abstract objects we call ideals.

10 Commenting on this view of abstract objects, Gideon Rosen (2020) writes as follows: “It is widely maintained that causation, strictly speaking, is a relation among events or states of affairs. If we say that the rock—an object—caused the window to break, what we mean is that some event or state (or fact or condition) involving the rock caused the break. If the rock itself is a cause, it is a cause in some derivative sense. But this derivative sense has proved elusive. The rock’s hitting the window is an event in which the rock ‘participates’ in a certain way, and it is because the rock participates in events in this way that we credit the rock itself with causal efficacy. But what is it for an object to participate in an event? Suppose John is thinking about the Pythagorean Theorem and you ask him to say what’s on his mind. His response is an event—the utterance of a sentence; and one of its causes is the event of John’s thinking about the theorem. Does the Pythagorean Theorem ‘participate’ in this event? There is surely some sense in which it does. The event consists in John’s coming to stand in a certain relation to the theorem, just as the rock’s hitting the window consists in the rock’s coming to stand in a certain relation to the glass. But we do not credit the Pythagorean Theorem with causal efficacy simply because it participates in this sense in an event which is a cause. The challenge is therefore to characterize the distinctive manner of ‘participation in the causal order’ that distinguishes the concrete entities. This problem has received relatively little attention. There is no reason to believe that it cannot be solved. But in the absence of a solution, this standard version of the Way of Negation must be reckoned a work in progress.” 11 See that m is a member of both categories.

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As mentioned, alike to prototype theory and exemplar theory, here categorization is grounded on some similarity-based process. Suppose c is the ideal that characterizes concept C. Whether an object x is an instance of C depends on how similar x is to c. But similarity between objects is assessed through the properties they possess. To find out whether x is similar to c we need a description of both x and c containing the properties they possess. The theory of ideal concepts therefore needs a list with the properties associated with the concept (in this case the abstract object c). See however that this does not bring us back to the classical view. First because here the concept is not a definition, but an ideal. Second because the similarity-based process does not need to see the properties of c as necessary and sufficient conditions for category membership. Suppose that the concept of ideal husband is based on h, the ideal, abstract exemplar of the category of husband. Whether a concrete husband x belongs to the category of ideal husbands depends on how much x is similar to h. But x may be similar to h even if it does not have some of the properties of h: it may be that x is not faithful in thoughts, for example. x can be similar to h even if it does not have any of h’s properties: x can be a great provider, but not a perfect provider; he can be very sensitive, but not perfectly sensitive, etc. In fact, since h is an ideal, the properties it possess, with their proper degrees, will never be instantiated in the concrete world. Nevertheless, this list with the properties that c possesses is still a kind of definition (now applied to c itself, and not to the instances of C). And since the concept of C is to be characterized as the ideal c, this definition is something that a full account of C cannot avoid. Although from the viewpoint of a T-theory the concept is the ideal c, in terms of an intelligible representational structure, which is required by an R-theory, a definition is needed. Therefore, in the R-theory of ideal concepts the X of R is best seen as a pair , where c is an ideal and Δc is a list with the definitional properties of c. It is therefore a hybrid approach composed by two kinds of structures, definitions and ideals. I call Δc the D-concept of C (D standing for definitional) and c the I-concept of C (I standing for ideal). This R-theory of ideal concepts is pluralistic. As any other object, the ideal c might be described in different, sometimes conflicting ways. There might be several Δc’s, with different lists of property conditions. C might then be represented as different pairs: , , , and so on. While there is only one I-concept of C, that is, one ideal c, there might be several D-concepts of C.

3 An Idealistic R-Theory of the Concept of God Let us now see how this pluralistic R-theory of ideal concepts might be applied to the concept of God. First of all, besides meaning an ideal concept and the possible (unique) instance of this concept (that is to say, GOD), the word “God” also means an ideal, an abstract object. Let us call this abstract object g. In the same way that the ideal husband is an (abstract) exemplar of the category of husbands, g might be seen, for example, as the ideal exemplar of the category of beings: it has, in a maximally

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idealized way, desirable properties found in the members of this category, which guarantee g an ultimate value for believers. In this pluralistic R-theory of ideal concepts applied to God, which I call the idealistic R-theory of the concept of God, g plays the role of the I-concept of God. The list of properties which g supposedly possesses—Δg—plays the role of the D-concept of God. But as we have seen, different philosophers, traditions, and schools within traditions, disagree about which properties g possesses. Therefore, there are several D-concepts of God. The question of what those desirable properties possessed by g (in a maximally idealized way) are is answered by specific D-concepts of God. For example, while possessing intellect and will are in the list of properties of the concept of God linked to most monotheistic views, they are not in the list of a pantheistic concept of God (assuming that pantheism can be included in the class of monotheistic views on GOD). A more fundamental issue comes from the following objection. Most exemplars of beings we know possess the properties of corporeality and complexity. These properties obviously conflict with incorporeality and simplicity, which are often attributed to GOD. Therefore, it seems false that God is an exemplar of the category of beings. In reply to this, I would say that the result of maximally perfecting a property P might be something quite different from P; it might even be something incompatible with P. For example, considering the perishable nature of material bodies, the result of maximally perfecting the property of corporeality might be its very opposite, that is to say, incorporeality, which of course does not exclude that God has an imperishable non-material body. Now, how this theory stands in relation to SA—the claim that there is a unique concept of God—and PG—the claim that there is a plurality of concepts of God? There are two perspectives that we can look from to answer this question. Looking from the perspective of the ideal g, the theory accepts SA and rejects PG. There is only one ideal g; since the concept of God might be understood in terms of g, there is a unique concept of God. But looking from the perspective of Δg, the theory allows for a plurality of ways of defining g. g is one, but there might be different, conflicting attempts to characterize it in terms of the properties it supposedly possesses. Therefore, there might be different Δg’s and consequently different D-concepts of God. From this perspective, the theory is pluralistic: it rejects SA and, consequently, accepts PG. Putting it in terms of D-concept and I-concept, while the following versions of PG and SA are true: (PGD)There is a plurality of D-concepts of God. (SAGI)There is such a thing as the unique I-concept of God. the ones below are false: (PGI)There is a plurality of I-concepts of God. (SAGD) There is such a thing as the unique D-concept of God. The fact that these different Δg’s are attempts to characterize the same object—the ideal g—guarantees that they are all concepts of the same thing, namely God. In other words, g bonds all Δg’s together as concepts of God. Thus, the problem of

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conceptual unity is solved. But since there is only one concept of God—recall that despite the name (D-concept), Δg is an attempt to characterize this ideal g, which from the perspective of an idealistic T-theory of the concept of God, is the actual concept of God—there will be at most one instance of the concept of God. Thus, the unicity of extension problem is solved. See that a situation where two different non-abstract objects x’ and x” satisfy the conditions of Δ’g and Δ”g, respectively, does not threaten my solution to the unicity of extension problem. The fact that the several Δg’s are attempts to characterize this one object g allows us to talk about the successful attempt to characterize the concept of God, or the proper, correct or best D-concept of God. If objects x’ and x” are different, then either Δ’g, Δ”g or none of them is the correct D-concept of God. There are some important remarks to be made about this idealistic R-theory of the concept of God. The first one concerns the functioning of its similarity-based categorization process. It can be thought of in at least two different ways: in a strong way, according to which for a non-abstract object x to be similar to g it must have all g’s properties (with the exception of the property of abstractedness, of course), in the proper degree, or in a weaker way, according to which x might be similar to g even if it does not possess all g’s properties. While the first case produces an orthodox theistic view according to which g’s properties function as necessary and sufficient conditions for instantiation, the second results in a heterodox approach (albeit more traditional, from the perspective of prototype and exemplar theories) with some interesting consequences. Suppose that g is omniscient, omnipotent, wholly good and has created the world. Suppose in addition that x is a non-abstract object who we know (through compelling arguments, for example) has created the world. It seems reasonable to conclude from that that x has an astonishing amount of power and knowledge, and perhaps some degree of benevolence. It thus makes sense to say that x is similar to g, similar enough for it to be taken as an (or the) instance of the concept of God. If we agree on this, we will have to concede that an argument that arrives at the conclusion that x exists is to be considered a successful argument for the existence of God, even though x does not possess all divine properties. Despite all the problems that design arguments have, at least one of the criticisms made against them, that the argument does not arrive at the God of religion, would lose much of its strength. This seem to be an interesting application of this approach. Of course, as in prototype theory and exemplar theory, the challenge is to provide a satisfactory characterization of similarity. The second and third remarks concern some ontological issues related to the theory of ideal concepts. As an ideal exemplar of a category (the category of beings, for example), g exists. It exists in the same way that abstract objects such as sets, propositions and the number 2 do. On the other hand, we do not know whether GOD exists, that is, whether there is an instance of the concept of God. But if there is, it exists in a different way, as a non-abstract, causally efficacious object. Notice that this does not imply that GOD is concrete. As I am using the term, a concrete object is one that has spaciotemporal location; a non-abstract object is one that is causally efficacious. And as I have pointed out earlier, the latter does not entail the former:

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non-abstract non-concrete objects, that is, causally efficacious objects without spaciotemporal location are logically possible. At this point one might object to the number of non-concrete entities postulated by this theory of ideal concepts. Besides postulating the existence of a platonic realm containing the abstract objects I am calling ideals, it also postulates the existence of non-concrete causally efficacious objects which might be the instances of these abstract concepts. Although I believe that a tenable philosophical defense against such criticism can be built up, I will not try to do that here. The reason for that it that an R-theory of ideal concepts, which is my focus, is not threatened by such objection as much as a T-theory is. As a representational theory, and this is the fourth remark, all this idealistic R-theory of the concept of God postulates is that concepts be represented as objects. This is not new. In his logical attempt to integrate Leibniz’s metaphysics of individual concepts and logic of concepts, Edward Zalta (2000) represents concepts as abstract objects. Although Zalta does not claim to be following a mere representational approach—he seems to defend the claim that, for Leibniz, concepts are in fact abstract objects—, his logic of concepts (in the contemporary sense of the term “logic”) and, as matter of fact, any logic of concepts, is more than anything a theory of representation (as well as a theory of inference). Sketching how my R-theory of the concept of God would look like when expanded into a logical theory can thus help me to highlight its representational feature, as well as to uncover some additional important features, such as how it deals with the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem. This is what I plan to do in the following section.

4 A Possible Worlds Approach to the Concept of God A logical approach to this idealistic R-theory of the concept of God can be constructed within a simple modal, possible worlds framework. To be more specific, it can be constructed within a version of the so-called the Simplest Quantified Modal Logic (SQML).12 To make the presentation less technical, I will show here only the semantic side of this approach, which is the side that deals with possible worlds.13 When building a semantic theory, the domain of objects is usually the first thing to consider. From what has been said so far, it seems obvious that our domain of objects D has two kinds of objects: abstract objects on one hand, and non-abstract, causally efficacious objects on the other. Some of those abstract objects might be ideals, and some of these ideals might be I-concepts. From the point of view of the logical language, abstract objects are represented in the same way as any other

12

See Linsky and Zalta (1994) and Menzel (2018). What Hughes and Cresswell (1968, 141–169) call the modal lower predicate calculus is usually seen as a version of SQML. 13 See Silvestre (2021) for a full account – semantic as well as proof-theoretical – of this logical theory.

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object: through variables and constants. In particular, there is a constant g to represent the ideal God (the abstract object which is our I-concept of God). Since our semantic theory is a modal one, there is a set W of maximally complete states of affairs called possible worlds. Let w be a possible world belonging to W. For each object o belonging to D, w says whether or not o possesses property P, for every property P that can be expressed within the language. w is therefore a complete characterization of o (which might differ from the characterization given by a different possible world w’). As far as the object referred to by g is concerned, w is also a complete semantical characterization of God. It is therefore a (complete) semantic representation of a D-concept of God. (While there is only one I-concept of God, one abstract object which is referred to by the constant g, there is a multiplicity of worlds, and therefore a multiplicity of D-concepts of God.) But more than that. Supposing the language is rich enough, w contains a complete theological description of reality, from the properties possessed by GOD to the origin of the universe and the ethical principles human beings are supposed to follow. w therefore represents a (complete) theological worldview. Besides being a possible world, w is therefore also a theological world. But there are some constraints that our modal framework should meet. First, constants should denote the same object in all possible worlds. They should be rigid designators. Only then can we guarantee that g refers to the same object in all worlds. Second, the domain D should be constant across worlds. In particular, the objects of D must exist in all possible worlds, otherwise there could be a world w in which the ideal God does not exist. Third, the set of possible worlds W should not be the same as the set of all logically possible worlds; our semantics should be a K-semantics.14 The idea is that W represents the pertinent theological aspects of the social reality we live in; thus, it should not represent all logically possible theological worldviews and concepts of God, but only those to which we attach some social, philosophical or religious relevance. The SQML is semantically characterized by these three constraints: rigid designator, constant domain and K-semantics. But there are some specificities within the SQML. First, unlike some formulations of SQML (Linsky & Zalta, 1994; Menzel, 2018), our set of worlds W does not contain a distinguished member meant to represent the actual world. The reason for that has to do with the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem and will be explained in a while. Second, I will deal exclusively with reflexive and symmetric frames.15 I explain and justify this below. Following the standard modal logic notation, a frame F is a pair where W is a set of possible worlds and R is an accessibility relation between worlds. In SQML, a model is a quadruple , where is a frame F, D is a non-empty domain of objects to be used in connection with all worlds (it is a

14

See Schurz (2002). There is a third frame feature, which is pseudo-universality. Since the reason why I need pseudouniversal frames goes beyond the issues dealt with in this chapter, I will not explain it. For more on this, see Silvestre (2021). 15

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constant domain) and V is a pair of valuation functions such that VC maps each constant symbol to an object of the domain D, and VP maps each n-ary predicate symbol and world w2W to a n-tuple drawn from D. While the extension of constants is the same for all worlds—they are rigid designators—, the extension of predicates changes from world to world. A frame F = is reflexive when for every world w2W, wRw. It is symmetric when, for every w,w’2W, if wRw’ then w’Rw. How are we to understand the accessibility relation R? Well, there is a sense in which a theological worldview can be said to accept another theological worldview. For example, a Lutheran worldview would accept most protestant worldviews, and perhaps even most Christian worldviews. It could even be said to accept a Jewish worldview (although not perhaps a monist Vedanta worldview). Even though these worldviews do not picture God in the exact same way as the Lutheran worldview, they are such that an ideally rational Lutheran would accept that God could be like depicted by them. It is a kind of conceptual acceptance that has to do with religious tolerance. To accept a theological world w does not mean to accept it, partially or as a whole, as true; instead, it means to accept that God could be like depicted by w. This notion of theological-conceptual acceptance between worlds can be understood in terms of similarity: if w accepts w’, then from a theological viewpoint, specially from the viewpoint of the concepts of God involved, w is similar to w’. It is this similarity-based relation of theological acceptance that I want to capture with the accessibility relation R. wRw’ will thus be read as: w theologically accepts w’. As a similarity relation, R is reflexive and symmetric: for every w,w’2W, wRw and if wRw’ then w’Rw. But it is not transitive: it might be that wRw’ and w’Rw” but not wRw”. Now, what is the problem with having a distinguished world meant to represent the actual world? As I said, this has to do with the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem. As I mentioned in the previous section, since I am taking the concept of God as an abstract object and allowing it to be characterized through properties (this is what D-concepts of God do), at least in principle there is legitimacy in talking about the best D-concept of God, or the correct D-concept of God. The best D-concept of God is the one which properly describes the object referred to by g. So, my answer to the question of whether there is a best concept of God is, provisorily, yes. There is a heterogeneity in the existing D-concepts of God in the sense that, at the very least, one of them might be the best D-concept of God, or the correct D-concept of God. But this is only half the story. While my approach accepts that there might be a best D-concept of God, it is silent as to which of the existing D-concepts of God is the best one. Putting it in semantic terms, there is no distinguishing theological world which might be said to be the semantical counterpart of the best D-concept of God; there is no distinguished world meant to represent the actual world. (If one of the theological worlds w were chosen as the actual world, its corresponding D-concept of God would naturally be taken as the actual or correct D-concept of God.)

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But I want to adopt an even more neutral approach regarding the homogeneity/ heterogeneity problem. At least epistemologically, I want to take all concepts of God on an equal footing. In other words, I want to endorse the following principle: (AAC)We do not know what concept of God is the correct one. This is what I call the conceptual agnostic assumption. There is of course another, more standard agnostic assumption: (AAE)We do not know whether GOD exists. I call this the extensional agnostic assumption. In a sense, both AAC and AAE are general desiderata of a genuine pluralistic approach. While AAC takes all concepts of God on an equal footing, AAC allows for atheistic and agnostic worldviews. Here one might object that AAE cannot be satisfied in my modal approach. It seems that any theological world and theological worldview include the assumption that GOD exists. A Christian worldview seems to include the assumption that there is an entity that falls under the Christian concept of God, for example. As I have said, a theological world w might be seen as a complete theological worldview. Therefore, the Christian theological world w obviously includes the assumption that GOD exists. In other words, there is a nonabstract object o2D such that o is an instance of g. In order to address this, I first point out that not every theological world is theistic. A theological worldview is a worldview that includes a view on God. As such, it might be either positive or negative regarding GOD’s existence. This implies that there are atheistic worldviews and atheistic worlds. Even an atheistic worldview includes a specific concept of God. The difference is that an atheistic worldview denies that there is an object that falls under its specific concept of God. A theological world w is an atheistic world when there is no object o in w that is an instance of g (as characterized in w). Second, if we are to have an extended atheistic worldview according to which there is no object that falls under any concept of God, we could see it not as a single theological world w, but as a set of theological worlds, or a model M = in which, for all w2W, there is no object o that is an instance of g in w. But if M is such that W contains both theistic and atheistic worlds, then M is agnostic. This, plus the fact that M does not choose one of W’s theological worlds to be the real world, makes M silent about the existence of GOD, as well as about which D-concept of God is the correct one. In this case, M satisfies both AAC and AAE. Since our set of worlds W is supposed to contain a plurality of views on God, which include both theistic and atheistic views, a general model M provides a neutral response to the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem.

5 Conclusion In this chapter I addressed some higher-order issues involving the concept of God: the problem of conceptual unity, the unity of extension problem and the homogeneity/heterogeneity problem. My proposal to solve these problems involved a hybrid

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special theory of concepts, called the theory of ideal concepts. I argued that when added to a pluralistic view of concepts, this theory answers the problem of conceptual unity and the unity of extension problem. And when formalized within a possible worlds framework, it provides a neutral response to the homogeneity/ heterogeneity problem.

References Barsalou, L. W. (1985). Ideals, central tendency, and frequency of instantiation as determinants of graded structure in categories. Journal of Experimental Psychology, 11, 629–664. Esposito, J. (1998). The straight path. Oxford University Press. Herrmann, E. (2008). On the distinction between the concept of God and conceptions of God. International Journal for Philosophy of Religion, 64, 63–73. Hughes, G. E., & Cresswell, M. J. (1968). An introduction to modal logic. Methuen and Co. Lakoff, G. (1987). Cognitive models and prototype theory. In U. Neisser (Ed.), Concepts and conceptual development (pp. 63–100). Cambridge University Press. Laurence, S., & Margolis, E. (1999). Concepts and cognitive science. In E. Margolis & S. Laurence (Eds.), Concepts: Core readings (pp. 3–81). MIT Press. Lewis, D. (1986). On the plurality of worlds. Basil Blackwell. Linsky, B., & Zalta, E. N. (1994). In defense of the simplest quantified modal logic. In J. Tomberlin (Ed.), Philosophical perspectives 8: Logic and language (pp. 431–458). Ridgeview. Locke, J. (1690/1975). An essay concerning human understanding. Oxford University Press. Margolis, E., & Laurence, S. (2019). In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), Concepts (Summer 2019 ed.). The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2019/entries/ concepts/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Medin, D., & Schaffer, M. (1978). Context theory of classification learning. Psychological Review, 85, 207–238. Menzel, C. (2018). In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Simplest Quantified Modal Logic (SQML), supplement to Actualism (Summer 2018 ed.). The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://plato. stanford.edu/archives/sum2018/entries/actualism/SQML.html. Accessed 19 Apr 2023 Murphy, G. (2002). The big book of concepts. MIT Press. Oppy, G. (2014). Describing Gods: An investigation of divine attributes. Cambridge University Press. Resnick, H. (1995). Kṛṣṇa in the Bhagavad-gītā: A beginning ontology from the Gauḍīya perspective. Journal of Vaishnava Studies, 3, 5–32. Rosch, E. (1975). Cognitive representations of semantic categories. Journal of Experimental Psychology, 104, 192–233. Rosch, E. (1978). Principles of categorization. In E. Rosch & B. B. Lloyd (Eds.), Cognition and categorization (pp. 27–48). Erlbaum. Schurz, G. (2002). Alethic modal logics and semantics. In D. Jacquette (Ed.), A companion to philosophical logic (pp. 442–477). Blackwell. Silvestre, R. (2021). A formal-logical approach to the concept of God. Manuscrito, 44, 224–260. Silvestre, R. (2022). On the representation of the concept of God. Philosophia, 50, 731–755. Smith, E., & Medin, D. (1981). Categories and concepts. Harvard University Press. Tuggy, D. (2006). In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), Trinity (Winter 2016 ed.). The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy. https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/win2016/entries/trinity/. Accessed April 19, 2023 Weiskopf, D. (2009). The plurality of concepts. Synthese, 169, 145–173. Zalta, E. N. (2000). A (Leibnizian) theory of concepts. Logical Analysis and History of Philosophy, 3, 137–183.

Two in One. What the Logic of Christology Can Teach Us Franca d’Agostini

1 Introduction The “Fundamental Problem” of “Conciliar Christology” (Pawl, 2014) is the problem of what is implied (logically, metaphysically, and epistemically) by Christ’s being bi-natured: both human and divine, entirely and jointly one thing and the other (Cross, 2011; Pawl, 2014, 2016, 2020). JC Beall has tackled the problem (Beall, 2019a, 2021a), defending the plausibility of a paraconsistent Christology: Christ as a case of non-explosive true contradiction. In Beall’s view, modern developments of non-classical logic, especially the paracomplete-paraconsistent logic called FDE, can give important contributions to philosophical Christology, first of all showing that for contemporary logic contradictions in some sense can be true, and hence can be rationally accepted as such. In what follows I move in the opposite direction, claiming that Christology could also offer some interesting insights for the modern conceptions of paraconsistency, and more specifically for a dialetheic (i.e. truth-oriented) idea of inconsistencies. I accept Beall’s account, that Christ’s nature, as it has been described in the tradition, instantiates one of the rare cases of true contradiction. But I note that Christ’s joined divinity and humanity do not fit exactly the conception of ‘true contradiction’ postulated by Beall (and by dialetheists and gluttists in general), and it tells us something about the reality and conceivability of inconsistencies in general. The focus will be on the notion of ‘two natures, one person’, as it is stressed in the (pseudo) Athanasian creed: non duo tamen, sed unus est Christus. Unus autem non conversione divinitatis in carnem, sed assumptione humanitatis in Deum. Unus omnino, non confusione substantiae, sed unitate personae. The case is generalized,

F. d’Agostini (✉) University of Milan, Milan, Italy e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_21

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suggesting that two in one is the structure of any sort of contradictory fact, so that a truthmaker for any ‘p and not p’ (if we admit there is a fact of this sort) is to be (intended as) one fact making a conjunction of contradictories true. This view has some interesting consequences, in logic as well as in metaphysics and epistemology. In particular, it offers an answer to a challenge originally advanced by Armstrong (2004, 108): if we want to accept the idea of contradictory states as truthmakers for gluts, i.e. we postulate that there is some fact or situation or state (of affairs) which makes ‘p and not p’ true, ‘should it be said that the two truthmakers [for ‘p’ and for ‘not p’] are identical, or merely overlap, or are disjoint?.’ The idea of Christ’s being two in one may suggest us that the truthmaker is only one. A true contradiction, metaphysically intended, is only one fact, able to make the conjunction of contradictories true, just like we have only one person, Christ, simultaneously having the two natures of divinity and humanity (see hereafter: Sect. 3.3). The idea of two natures (properties) in one person, implying the inseparability of putatively incompatible terms, is the doctrinal point canonically defended against monophysism. The contribution that Christology may advance for the contemporary theories of inconsistencies so concerns the conjunction problem: given the truth of some ‘p and not p’, how do we interpret the ‘and’ joining the contradictories? In the current philosophy of inconsistency three different positions can be isolated: standard dialetheism, non-adjunctivism and what has been labelled conjunctive paraconsistency (Ripley, 2015; Barrio & Da Ré, 2018; d’Agostini, 2021a, b). For standard dialetheism a true contradiction (a dialetheia) is a true conjunction of contradictories and a true proposition whose negation is true, hence ‘p and not p’ is true and the conjuncts are true too. For non-adjunctivism, a true proposition is a situation or a case in which ‘p’ is true and ‘not p’ is true too, but their conjunction is untrue. Conjunctivism is dual to non-adjunctivism: some ‘p and not p’ might be true, but you can never have that ‘p’ is true and ‘not p’ is true too. In this account we can see that the logic of conciliar Christology, in the effort of countering monophysism, may correspond to the third position. In the conjunctive approach, contradictions are acceptable, but only in their conjunctive form, so, given some true ‘p and not p’, we cannot infer from this that ‘p’ or ‘not p’ are separately true. In the same way, it is established that Christ’s divinity (D) and his humanity (H) are joined but in no way separable. Christ is D and H but not separately one thing and the other. In the version of conjunctivism that I am favouring (based on Beall & Ficara, 2014, 2023), the primary justification is metaphysical. If we are willing to accept that there are truthmakers for contradictions then we ought to admit that the two conjuncts of any true ‘p and not p’ cannot be said separately true. The truthmaker of the conjunction in this case is not a truthmaker for the conjuncts. The logical and metaphysical consequences are extremely interesting and can be supported from different points of view.1 In relevance logic, fusion works as a “binding operator”, so

Beall and Ficara (2014) have given the first semantics for conjunctivism so intended; d’Agostini (2021a) expands their proposal and explores the pre-logical consequences; d’Agostini and Ficara (2022) have furtherly developed the hypothesis in the analysis of the Liar paradox.

1

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that given p and not p, that p alone does not follow (Mares 2004, 2012). In ‘exact’ truthmaker semantics (Fine & Jago, 2017; Jago, 2018), the truthmaker for a conjunction is not necessary a truthmaker for its conjuncts (as first noted by RodriguezPereyra, 2006, 2009). Beall (2019a, 2021a) does not specifically develop this point (his concern is different), but in my view, the significant given is that the Christological “unity of the opposites”, as applied to any sort of acceptable (non-explosive) contradiction, may offer new profitable insights for the analysis of inconsistencies. In the following section, I introduce the theory of conjunctive paraconsistency, and I justify the theory by appealing to a specific (traditional, pre-analytic) conception of truth. While for standard dialetheists (and glut-theorists in general), a true contradiction is a true and false proposition, for conjunctivists the truth of Christ is ‘simple truth’, it has the realism and categoricalness of traditional truth, which means it implies reference to an actual world of truthmakers, as well as the exclusion of falsity (at least one of the two features being dropped by dialetheists and non-adjunctivists: see Sect. 2.3). What is distinctive and especially interesting of conjunctivism is that it can admit true contradictions while preserving the traditional conception of truth. In the third section I briefly read a part of the Athanasian Creed, especially focusing on Christ’s being perfectly human and perfectly God, but inseparably one thing and the other. The hypothesis is that the dominance of God, whereby we speak of the assumptio humanitatis, is especially clarifying for understanding the joint subsistence of incompatibles occurring in case of contradictory truthmakers.

2 What Is Conjunctive Paraconsistency? The paradox of Christology can be expressed in the form of a dilemma (Anderson, 2007, 61–62): if we accept the orthodox conception, we ought to acknowledge that Christ’s being instantiates a contradiction; if we want to reject the contradiction, we should modify the orthodoxy. The effort of rational theology has always been addressed to solve the dilemma. Anderson (2007, 107–151) gives an exhaustive list of the options. The solution he proposes is that the paradox is rationally believable as such, but the contradiction is apparent and hence untrue.2 Beall’s view is more challenging: to accept the Christological paradox means to accept that the resulting contradiction is true: the logic of (orthodox) Christology is a paraconsistent (glutty) logic. To the extent that what is logically acceptable must be considered rational, the consequence is that it is rational to accept the contradiction: the canonical idea that both humanity and non-humanity are instantiated in Jesus’s person is justified. For Beall a true contradiction is a true proposition whose negation

2

The task of Christological theories to a certain extent is to dispel the appearance, and Anderson proposes the idea that once we specify the terms involved, we do not have any contradiction (Anderson 2007: Ch. 6).

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is true, so it is a true and false proposition (or sentence, assertion, statement, or any other truthbearer). This account is usual for dialetheists and glut theorists in general, while it is what the conjunctive view (in the version I propose) does not accept.

2.1

What Is a True Contradiction?

The notion of ‘contradiction’ is controversial. Grim (2004) has listed 124 characterizations, in rough esteem. I keep here to an elementary conception, distinguishing the metaphysical and the logical (or formal) perspective.3 Metaphysically speaking, a contradiction (C) is the joined subsistence of incompatibles. We have Jointness (J) and Incompatibility (I), so a ‘real’ C is a JI-situation (a JI-state of affairs or fact). As I-items (propositions, states, events) are what cannot jointly subsist, a C is a contradictory object: it is what it cannot be. This is the ontological contradiction that any metaphysics of inconsistencies should face and solve.4 Normally, when we face a C, we say that the terms are not really J, or that they seem to be I, but they are not. The C is apparent, and this is what Anderson states in case of the paradoxes of Christianity. In fact there are so many ways of modifying the JI-picture that one may think that actually, there are no metaphysical C (which is what semantic dialetheists, like Beall, believe). Logically speaking, a C is the conjunction of a proposition (or any other truthbearer), and its negation, to be expressed by: (*) φ and not φ. The connection between (*) and the JI-situation can be explained out by saying that ‘and’ stands for J (jointness), ‘not’ for I (incompatibility), and, if we want to admit a proposition of the form (*) as true, we ought to concede, for a minimal plausible sense of the predicate T (true), that there must be a truthmaker, there must be

3

In the discussion about Beall’s proposal, Uckelman (2019, 515) contends that Beall does not give an explicit definition of ‘C’ in general, what he says only regards logical contradictions, contradictions in logic. Beall replies by specifying that a ‘contradictory sentence’ is not only !A (a sentence of the form ‘A and not A’) but also a sentence which “with (possibly no) other true sentences, entails ! A” (Beall, 2019a, 568). This is clearly another ‘logical’ account, in some sense. But sometimes we use ‘a contradiction’ also for intending a contradictory fact, and – as I hope it will be clear in a moment – a fact working as a truthmaker for !A, rather: a fact which is correctly described by (or rather: whose best description is) ‘A and not A’. 4 In Karl Barth’s illuminating account: “the statement that Jesus Christ is the One who is of divine and human essence dares to unite that which by definition cannot be united.” (quoted by Anderson, 2007, 103). Is the Doctrine really entitled to ‘dare’ this, so countering logic and ordinary language in general? This is the capital question. But note that it is the same problem we have when we deal with a metaphysically sensitive notion of contradiction.

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something – some fact or state or situation – in the (actual) world which makes φ true.5 And this fact must be a JI-situation. Now the subsistence of some JI-fact is to be admitted, uncontroversially. (What sort of fact – whether material or spiritual, hard or soft, semantic of metaphysic, actual or merely possible – may remain unspecified.)6 The acceptance of some Thφ and not φi postulates the existence of a truthmaker (TM) for (*). If we admit that Jesus (λ) is both D and H, then we admit that there must be (and there must have been in history) an individual who instantiates both properties. To the extent that D implies not H, then the situation is correctly described by ThHλ and not Hλi.

2.2

The Conjunction Problem

In accepting JI-facts whose true state description has the (*) form, we basically have three logic-metaphysical problems: we ought to specify what we mean by not (are the items really incompatible?), what we mean by and (are they really joint?), and what we mean by true (can we accept that they really subsist as such?7). The first and the last problem have been studied by dialetheists; the second, the role of conjunction in contradictions (as noted by Varzi, 2004), has not been so much considered, but is the crucial point, for our concern, as it regards the inseparable unity of Christ’s opposite properties. As mentioned in Sect. 1, the three positions are standard dialetheism, non-adjunctivism and conjunctivism.8 They all can be seen as accepting the dialetheic thesis:

5

Here and hereafter, I adopt the following notation: when I speak of facts (truthmakers), I use the propositional names p, q, etc., non-Italic, without quotation marks; when I mention propositions, I use inverted commas (‘p’, ‘q’, etc.) or Italic ( p, q, etc.); when I speak of truthbearers I use angle brackets (hpi is true); capital letters for properties (P) and small letters for objects (a). So that I will have, for instance, that ‘p’ or ‘Pa’ is a state description of the fact p or Pa, and hpi or hPai are true. Normally, for propositional variables I use Greek letters, φ, ψ, etc. 6 I am clearly overshadowing here the distinction between semantic and metaphysic dialetheism. For a clarifying account, with reference to theistic paradoxes, see Cotnoir 2018. In fact, I think it is difficult to avoid metaphysical considerations in doing logic, especially when we deal with the specific challenge to traditional metaphysics represented by contradictions as JI states. The notion of ‘prelogical’ that I am using (similar to Hanna’s conception of protologic – see Hanna 2009) is typically addressed to capture this logic-metaphysic level of analysis, which is required, I think, when we advance alethic considerations (see Sects. 3.2 and 4). 7 Here I am postulating that ‘T’ implies subsistence and acceptance (with exclusion of the opposite): a position which will be clarified later (2.3). 8 A slightly more detailed account is to be found in d’Agostini (2021a).

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Dial: there are true contradictions But they differ in how the ‘and’ is considered. For standard dialetheism, the conjunction behaves normally, so the classical Conjunction Thesis CT: hp and not pi is T iff hpi is T and hqi is T also holds: a true C, a dialetheia, is a true proposition whose negation is true and a true conjunction of contradictories. So Dial is interpreted as meaning: Dial1: there is some true conjunction of contradictories (some hp and not pi is true) As well as Dial2: there is some true proposition whose negation is true (some hpi is true, and hnot pi is true too) Clearly, if CT holds, and hence the conjunction works in the expected way, then Dial1 and Dial2 are mutually implying. In particular, since ‘falsity’ is classically intended as the truth of negation, Dial2 means that there is some true-and-false proposition: both truth and falsity are to be ascribed to ‘p’. This is the basic idea of true contradictions (gluts) in contemporary literature, and Beall adopts it admitting that having Hλ and not Hλ, we have that hHλi is true-and-false.9 The other two positions differ in rejecting one of the two consequences. They concede that Dial is acceptable, but Dial1 or Dial2 do not hold, one or the other direction of the CT fails. Non-adjunctivism (Non-Adj) accepts Dial2 but rejects Dial1: there can be true proposition whose negation is true, but there cannot be any true conjunction of contradictories. Conjunctivism (Conj) is dual, it accepts Dial1 but not Dial2: there can be true conjunctions of contradictory propositions, but there is no true proposition whose negation is true. Dialetheism is a well-developed line of thought, Non-Adj has also a certain authoritative presence in the current debate, Conj is less frequented nowadays, but there are reasons to think that it was not unknown in the philosophical tradition. Hegel has been one of the most well-known supporters (see Beall & Ficara, 2014, 2023; Ficara, 2021; d’Agostini & Ficara 2021), and the tradition of Christology can also be read in the line of a similar view, as I here try to suggest.10 The basic account of Non-Adj (how it is intended here) can be so summarized Non-Adj1: for some ‘p’, hpi and hnot pi are both true Non-Adj2: no proposition of the form ‘p and not p’ is true What grounds these two theses is a fairly usual observation: that sometimes ‘p’ holds categorically for a certain point of view, and ‘not p’ equally holds, but for another view. Non-Adj is especially plausible in discussive contexts (the first proposal has The double truth actually informs Beall’s definition of C as “a sentence of the form it is true that p and it is false that p” (Beall, 2019a, b, 567). 10 Hegel has been one of the most well-known supporters (see Beall & Ficara, 2014 and Ficara, 2021). 9

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been advanced by Jaśkowski’s discussive logic: Jaśkowski, 1948, 1999): X and Y discuss, they respectively defend ‘p’ and ‘not p’, and they seem both right, but clearly, there is no ‘p and not p’ for the contenders: ‘p’ is true according to X’s storyperspective-world, and ‘not p’ according to Y.11 The first natural objection is that non-adjunctive contradictions are not ‘contradictions’, as they do not satisfy the Aristotelian Condition, whereby the two propositions must be true ‘at the same time and in the same respect’. One may say that they actually are contradictions in the sense of two mutually exclusive propositions which are held to be simultaneously true, though in distinct sectors or worlds or stories, so at least the ‘at the same time’ condition is satisfied. A second objection is that Non-Adj fails in satisfying the realistic commitment we normally relate to metaphysical (non-transparent) truth12: there is no real JI-situation, there is no contradictory truthmaker. One may contend that there are two truthmakers, two facts, separately making ‘p’ and ‘not p’ true, which is also accepted by standard dialetheism.13 A third objection is that ‘p’ and ‘not p’, non-adjunctively considered, are not ‘simply true’, they are ‘true according to a story’, or ‘true in a world’ (possibly true), ‘true from a certain perspective’, etc. In this sense, the correct representation of (*)-propositions in non-adjunctive form would be Ts1 hPai and Ts2hØPai or if you prefer: ThPs1ai and ThØPs2ai In the former what is relativized is T (true according to the story 1 and according to the story 2) in the latter, the predicate P (P according to one story or according to another). Clearly these are not C, there is no joint subsistence. In the Christological version of this account, we will have that Christ instantiates a non-adjunctive contradiction, just because he is H in one respect and not H in another, which is similar to qua-solutions, Christ is immutable, immortal, impeccable qua D, he is mutable, mortal and possibly also peccable as H. But thus (as Beall notes in 2019a, 62), how is it that Jesus has been, ultimately, only one person? And ultimately, how

11 If we maintain the idea of ‘real’ contradiction, we may adopt Brandom-Rescher semantics (Rescher and Brandom 1980), saying that C may occur ‘distributively but not conjunctively’, so the fact p might subsist in one world, and not p in another, and we see both propositions are true, but there is no world in which hp and not pi obtains: the rule of Adjunction (or &Introduction) fails. 12 Beall’s transparent truth (Beall, 2009; 2021b) is the operator which corresponds to the T-schema Thφi iff φ. His position is dualistic in principle: it postulates that logical truth differs from extralogical truth 13 Graham Priest has never answered the question posed by Armstrong (2004, 108), but there are reasons to believe he defends the idea of two truthmakers, if not else, because in his system “being true and false is not a third truth value. It is the possession of two truth values”, there is an overlapping of truth and falsity, correlated to the intersection of the extension and anti-extension of the predicate (Priest, 2019, 140).

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is it that X and Y discuss, if not because what they are speaking about is only one subject: one fact, which is intended to make their respective assertions true? The basic idea of Conj is that propositions of the (*) kind are correct (true) state descriptions of actually occurring JI situations, but given Pa and not Pa we cannot infer separately Pa nor can we assert not Pa. So intended, Conj consists of two claims: Conj1: there are true state descriptions of the form hp and not pi Conj2: each conjunct of a true hp and not pi, separately taken, is untrue Clearly, in assuming Conj2, Conj parts company from standard dialetheism: there is no dialetheia, if we intend it as a true-and-false proposition. In admitting Conj1, the Aristotelian Condition is satisfied, and the TM requirement too, there are JI-facts whose true state description is (*). The combination Conj1 + Conj2 implies that a C is a true conjunction of untrue conjuncts, and it may appear weird at first. But not any ‘and’ in natural language perfectly satisfies CT (Schein, 2017). And as mentioned, in metaphysics and in truthmaker semantics (Rodriguez-Pereira, 2006 and 2009, later developed by Jago 2018) the left-to-right direction of CT does not always work: a TM for ‘p and q’ is not necessary a TM for ‘p’ (or ‘q’). As to standard dialetheism, in admitting both Dial1 and Dial2 it assumes the contradiction in all its metaphysically disturbing, and yet logically plausible, aspects. For dialetheists conjunction and negation behave in the usual way. ‘Not’ changes the truth value, ‘and’ perfectly satisfies CT.14 Non-Adj and Conj instead reject the standard conception of conjunction, ruled by unrestricted application of CT. Not only that, standard dialetheism can perfectly accept the alethic connection between JI-situations and (*)-propositions, with all its logical consequences. TM realism seems to be perfectly in the line of dialetheism. However, just in virtue of this general preservation of the main logical features, dialetheism is also committed to accept that Dial3: a true contradiction is a true and false proposition If Pa and not Pa is true, and “if conjunction behaves normally” (Priest, 2006, 79) then each, Pa and not Pa, are true and false, and hence their conjunction is true and false too. This is perfectly consequent but is definitely disturbing. Not by chance dialetheism has been frequently discussed namely for Dial3: if Pa and not Pa is true it is also false, and as Simplification works, then a dialetheist who defends the idea that Pa and not Pa is true must accept that what she says is false (Priest et al., 2023). Besides that, dialetheism itself cannot be truly defined as the thesis that some contradiction is true, because such a definition is also false (Field, 2005, 24–27).

14

As to truth, dialetheists preserve logical truth as ruled by the transparency of the T-schema (see Beall, 2019b), and this is one of the benefits of the theory, because normally people who want to solve paradoxes should renounce the unrestricted action of the schema (Field, 2008). But they do not preserve ‘truth’ traditionally intended as marked by the exclusion of falsity– a notion that, I think, is grounding for logic (see Sect. 2.3.1 hereafter).

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More interestingly (for our concern), in Dial3 we can see the meta-contradiction already noted by referring to the JI-situation: a true contradiction is not only the joined subsistence of incompatible facts or properties, but a state which is and is not what it is; it does and does not subsist as such. Dialetheism does not solve this specific contradiction: the conflict (between J and I) which makes of a C an ontologically contradictory object.

2.3

Truth Is the Problem, Truth Is the Solution

An interesting and crucial point of Beall’s theory is that the “full truth” of Christ’s nature “requires falsehood”. In general, to accept contradictions for Beall (and for gluttists in general) means to accept that some Pa is true and false, so pragmatically, it means that we ought to accept falsity. There are reasons to believe that the strongest reason for rejecting contradictions is related to Dial2. What we do not want when we do not want contradictions, is the idea of a single sentence, a single proposition or state description, which is held true but is also held false. In practice, as conjunctivists suggest, we can possibly accept some cases of true contradictions, but what is hardly acceptable is that the truth of Pa might not imply the rejection of not Pa. What we do not want when we do not want contradictions is to renounce alethic exclusion, the idea that truth excludes falsity, so that: AE: if hφi is T then hnot φi must be untrue15 The alethic constraint expressed by AE is a capital feature of traditional truth. Dialetheists and glut-theorists in general obviously drop the unrestricted action of AE, while the distinctive feature of conjunctivism is that they can accept AE, unrestrictedly, for any possible true proposition. In this respect the truth of the Christological contradiction, and of some (very few) other exceptional cases, seems acceptable. It could be the simple truth of traditional theology, which is, basically, the old Platonic-Aristotelian truth as a-letheia, which means, basically, ‘non-concealment’: it postulates that something is or can be concealed, and the conceptual function ‘T’ intends to remove the concealment, excluding falsity or untruth. This idea is clearly captured by AE; and actually, if we are interested in truth as aletheia, it is because we risk accepting falsity, for error or deceit. In saying that a proposition is T we mean that we have de-veiled reality, and hence rejected the opposite.

15 Clearly, if we keep to the logical realism expressed by the T-schema, there is no constraint related to exclusion: we only have that if hpi is true then p, and if p then Thpi. So Beall, accepting the fundamental transparency of truth is led to favour the idea that the exclusion constraint is not really compelling and can be dropped.

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2.3.1

F. d’Agostini

The Conception of Truth

Two simple features of the ancient concept are to be assumed. First, we need the alethic realism postulated by truthmaker theory: if Pa is T, then there must be something, independent of Pa, which makes it T (Alston, 1996). We can call this, as it is usual sometimes, the Independence Thesis (IT). Second, we need AE: if Pa is T then not Pa must be untrue and is to be excluded. Let’s call this the Exclusion Thesis (ET). The conception of T that justifies the conjunctive view is so simply ruled by the two theses: IT: for any proposition ‘φ’, if hφi is true, then there is or there have been some fact in the actual world which makes it true (TM maximalism) Note that the alethic constraint is a consequence of IT: if we accept that φ is true in the IT sense, then we admit that there is a fact φ, and we cannot accept that there is not a fact of this sort (see Sect. 2.1), hence we have the Exclusion Thesis: ET: for any ‘φ’, if hφi is true, its negation must be false (AE maximalism). One may have doubt about both theses, and both have been discussed, but it is easy to acknowledge that what the tradition tells us about the ancient concept (possibly the most ancient concept of philosophy as science or discipline) is basically a combination of IT and ET.16 And there are reasons to believe that specifically a similar IT+ET conception inspired the reflection of fathers and doctors in Christianity. Now the question is: if we accept that Hλ and not Hλ is true, are we still able to preserve these two features of T? Non-Adj, in accepting the dualism of views, stories or worlds, fails in respecting the realistic commitment, it cannot admit that the contradiction is made T by a JI fact that really occurs or has occurred in the actual world: IT is not preserved. Dialetheists, or gluttists in general, can admit IT, but in accepting true and false propositions should drop ET, so their view must be that, as Pa is T and not Pa is T too, then both are true and false, and their conjunction is true and false as well (Dial 3). Besides that, the separate truth of Pa and not Pa will be incomplete, and thus won’t be objective and categorical. The ultimate reason of the ET is namely that when we speak of T we cannot be satisfied by the incompleteness of only one ‘part’ of the story, especially when the other part disproves what we say. Conj can keep both features without problem. An actually occurring fact of JI nature makes Pa and not Pa T, but the exclusionary property of T is preserved, as both Pa and not Pa are untrue. Pa and not Pa is ‘just true’, and its negation is false. With respect to Non-Adj, Conj has the merit of preserving the universality and categoricalness of the judgement: if we say that Hλ and not Hλ is true, we do not mean that it is partly, or relatively, or possibly T. And with respect to standard dialetheism and gluttism in general, it is able to preserve the practical and logical commitment of our T-ascriptions: the idea that if we say that Hλ is true alone, we

16

More details about this conception of truth are in d’Agostini (2021b), 520–525.

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commit ourselves to reject the opposite, so that if Hλ and not Hλ is true, we cannot accept Hλ or not Hλ separately.

2.3.2

The Holiday of Negation

If we accept some (*) proposition as true, we ought to say that ‘not’ does not mark exclusion any longer. As Beall (2006) suggests, in true contradictions negation is “on holiday”, it loses the property of excluding the opposite. What is mostly interesting of Conj is that the function of exclusion is preserved, but only for truth: the exclusionary features of negation are preserved as well, but only for falsity, i.e. negation accompanied by truth: not Pa as such does not exclude Pa (the C is true), but still, if hnot Pai is true, then hPai must be untrue. Now this position appears rather plausible if we reflect on how and in which cases JI (the jointness of incompatibles) is metaphysically justified. What sort of object is an object which instantiates both properties P and not P so that Pa and not Pa becomes true? As we can see in Priest (1995), and later in Priest (2014) (see also Priest 2003, 2019), similar objects are (instantiations of) limits, or borders: limits of thought, of being, of language. The notion of limit is the notion that best captures the possibility of true C, metaphysically and empirically intended, so the truthmaker is the border of a fact (or event or object), and hence the border of a property: what distinguishes the extension of P from its anti-extension, which we name not P. In our common language we mark property limits by negation, and if we acknowledge this, we have a theory of properties which endorses the conjunctivist idea of JI-situations in terms of the revealed ‘compatibility of incompatibles’. This is especially clear in case of vagueness and related soritical paradoxes. Vagueness is typically the property of predicates that do not have sharp borders (bald, tall, etc.), so in case of borderline predication we have a contradiction: the borderline tall man is to be said both tall and not tall, the borderline bald man is bald and he’s not. This condition can be generalized,17 because, for any property we encounter in our empirical life, we cannot a priori exclude borderline cases, hybrids, and hence JI-situations. How do we behave with limits (contradictions at the borders)? There is a variety of positions, but basically, we can say that limits are facts, and the limit-borderboundary between P and not P can be intended as a single fact, on occasion making Pa and not Pa true for some object a, and some property P. And this is why we can say that there is only one truthmaker: the object having both properties. What we know of it, is that the conjunction of (putative) incompatibles is the best description we can give of the borderline fact. In the same way, we can accept that Jesus’ life, in exposing the relationship between H and D in form of their unity, descriptively

17

Recent accounts about the generalization of vagueness are Priest (2003, 2019), Varzi (2003).

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instantiates the contact between H and D. It was the life of someone who made the divine limits of humanity visible (see Sect. 3.2 below).

3 What the Athanasian Creed Teaches Us I do not enter the debate about the acceptability of Ch-contradiction, I do not have Christological competence enough for treating this subject correctly. I only explore what Christology can tell us about the conjunctive view. To this aim, I will focus on the so-called ‘Athanasian Creed’. Intuitively, the idea that the ‘true contradiction’ of the Incarnation is ‘conjunctive’, so the two natures are alethically (and hence both logically and metaphysically) inseparable, is perfectly in the line of the canonical rejection of monophysism, which is what the Creed exemplarily declares. I will expand on this intuition. The Creed is a very simple synthesis of conciliar theology. The first part develops the trinitarian doctrine. The second part focuses on the Christological problem. We are interested in the second part, and especially in the ontological section, in which the author grounds (explains and justifies) the theory of ‘two in one’, i.e. how it is that Dominus noster Iesus Christus, Dei Filius, Deus [pariter] et homo est. The author illustrates Jesus’ nature with a series of declaratory statements, then he explains how the unity of D and H is to be intended. The declaratory part presents the two-in-one doctrine. It includes the following four claims: 1. Deus [est] ex substantia Patris ante saecula genitus: et homo est ex substantia matris in saeculo natus. 2. Perfectus Deus, perfectus homo: ex anima rationali et humana carne subsistens. 3. Aequalis Patri secundum divinitatem: minor Patre secundum humanitatem. 4. Qui licet Deus sit et homo, non duo tamen, sed unus est Christus. The subsequent part gives us some suggestions about the kind of unity we can postulate between the contradictory predicates. We have now three claims: 1. Unus autem non conversione divinitatis in carnem, sed assumptione humanitatis in Deum. 2. Unus omnino, non confusione substantiae, sed unitate personae. 3. Sicut anima rationalis et caro unus est homo: ita Deus et homo unus est Christus. I will consider these seven points now, to see what they can tell us about the possibility of true contradictions, and specifically about the conjunction of what can never be joined.

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Two in One

(1) Deus [est] ex substantia Patris ante saecula genitus: et homo est ex substantia matris in saeculo natus. What the Biblical history says is that Jesus Christ was the Son of God and the son of a carnal mother: from this we have the duality of substances. He was made of the substance of God and of mother’s substance, divine and carnal.18 We see that the first explicit contradiction is related to the locution ante saecula – in saecula: before history, in history. The dualism implies the series of incompatibilities highlighted by Cross and Pawl, because Dλ ) λ is eternal, immortal, immutable Hλ ) λ is temporal, mortal, mutable19 There is no contradiction, at first: the author underlies that eternity and temporality come from different substances, and the same language reveals that the causal mechanisms are different. Dλ as eternal is genitus Hλ as historical entity is natus Notably, genitus involves an action, the action of God. Natus instead is a state, the historical state or fact of Jesus’ birth (his Coming).20 The distinction can support qua-theories, and qua-theories can be read as non-adjunctive conceptions (see Sect. 2.2). As we have seen the non-adjunctive treatment of JI-situations cannot be said ‘dialetheist’ strictly speaking, as non-adjunctive C are not effective contradictions (there’s no real jointness), and if they are (in some sense), they cannot be said true. But if we – like the Creed requires – admit that a D + H individuality has appeared in our history, then we cannot be satisfied by the fundamentally anti-realist, and surreptitiously anti-metaphysical tendency of non-adjunctivism, as it is in no way

18

The Incarnation process how it is here presented indirectly involves a crucial passage of the trinitarian theory. Christ is ante saecula genitus, so the eternity of generation may imply a priority with respect to the Holy Spirit. The hint recalls the so-called problem of Filioque, grounding from the Great East-West Schism (many centuries after St. Athanasius). The consequent idea is that the Holy Spirt proceeds from the Father and Son, so it is temporally subordinated, while the Son is co-eternal (as also stated in St. Paul, Col. 1, 15–20). Theologically, the ‘procession’ of the Spirit may have some impact on the logic of Incarnation, but we cannot develop this point here. 19 It is important to remember that the Fundamental Problem of Christology (in Cross’s and Pawl’s account) is not the simple contradiction Hλ and not Hλ, but what is implied, metaphysically, by the acceptance of the contradiction. And what is implied, as it seems, is a metaphysical explosion, which is significantly different from the logical explosion postulated by the Pseudo-Scotus argument. Pawl’s compatibilist solution in this respect is close to the conjunctive view (see Sect. 4 hereafter). 20 One may find here the symptom of a gender-oriented framework. There is no action of the mother, or if there is, it is negligible. This is a question that falls outside the scope of this paper. Rather it is obvious that the author wants to confirm the Trinitarian doctrine he just exposed.

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apt to explain the effective historical jointness of the properties. H and not H in Christ are joined as such, and not according to principles, languages, stories. Jesus’s properties do not belong to two worlds, he is – has been – a D + H individual here and now, in one and the same life. Altogether, what we get from (1) is that in Ch-contradiction two properties that we believe incompatible reveal to be extraordinarily joint (one might say they are compatible, without contradiction, as Pawl 2014 suggests). How the compatibility is grounded is explained by the second point, which also clarifies the completeness and ‘perfection’ of the properties (2) Perfectus Deus, perfectus homo: ex anima rationali et humana carne subsistens. Christ is not ‘incomplete’ or ‘diminished’ God, nor is he incomplete human. He is perfectus Deus and perfectus homo. Since the two properties are perfect, entirely instantiated, they are correctly described by the predicates ‘D’ and ‘H’. The state description in terms of ‘Dλ and Hλ’ is correct (true), because Jesus (λ) is both and completely D and H (Conj1). The perfection of the properties and their joined ascription to the same individual implies the impossibility of eliminating one or the other: Jesus is not only D nor is he only H (Conj2). The heresy is separate ascription, and thus we have a complete accordance between the conjunctive conception of paraconsistency and the logic of Christology. In the language presented in Sect. 2 if the contradictory state description is true, then the Christological contradiction is non-simplifiable. The right-to-left direction of CT fails. (3) Aequalis Patri secundum divinitatem: minor Patre secundum humanitatem The contradiction aequalis /minor recalls the dualisms genitus/natus, ante saecula/in saeculum, and suggests new ideas about the Ch-contradiction. It clarifies that Jesus’ life manifests or exhibits unequivocally the difference and relationship between H and D. As we have seen (Sect. 2.3.2), the conflict of properties can be interpreted as the object falling in the limit-border of one and the other property. In the same way, we can accept that Jesus’ life, in exposing the relationship between H and D in form of their unity, descriptively instantiates the contact between H and D. So Christ’s being equal to- and different from- the Father, his temporality and eternity, mutability and immutability, etc. can be seen as the natural effect of Jesus’ being located at the border of time, where eternity encounters history. If we accept the conjunctivist view, then we can say that the limit instantiated by Jesus’s life and nature is correctly (truthfully) described in terms of true contradiction. Jesus is and has been Hλ and not Hλ. But namely for this reason, we cannot say that either one of the two conjuncts is true. We have two in one. The fourth claim is the crucial declaration: that Christ is Deus et homo, but one, not two. (4) Qui licet Deus sit et homo, non duo tamen, sed unus est Christus

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Christ is only one person endowed with opposite properties. For a contemporary anthropology it is not implausible. In psychoanalysis and in other psychophilosophical visions it is usual to think that one people can love, in their unconscious life, what they consciously reject and despises. Clearly the non-adjunctive solution is adaptable, but it is hard to apply these considerations in the ontological domain, when constitutive properties of the kind of D and H, and the contradictory consequences, are involved. What we should inquire now is how the mechanism whereby D and H are joined in one person works, and how this jointness is grounded. The second part of the ontological section is what specifies this point.

3.2

The Assumptio Humanitatis

(5) Unus autem non conversione divinitatis in carnem, sed assumptione humanitatis in Deum The author here advances an enlightening distinction between assumptio and conversio, which is an important specification as the distinction regards the unifying process and not the nature of the properties. D and H are joined not in virtue of some turning of D into H, but – so we can translate – for a sort of inclusion of H within D. Jesus’ Coming, his historical passage from the spiritual eternity of God to the carnality of humans, is not an ontological ‘transfer’, but an integration of the latter within the former: the somehow embracement of H by D. Both properties remain what they are. Humanity does not diminish nor it changes the plenitude of God. The passage is crucial because if we ask how the unity is generated, we see that in virtue of the assumptio there is a natural dominance of God, which we can read as meaning that the affirmative property is ontologically dominant. This was already suggested, ultimately, by the dualism between genitus and natus. There is a positive action of God, which brings about the extraordinary unity of D + H, and it is thanks to this positive action that Jesus, the divine limit of H, appears in history. A consideration of this point can lead us to reconsider what has been suggested about the metaphysics of negation (Sect. 2.3.2). As we know, negation in logic is a very controversial subject, and almost equally controversial is the notion of negative facts as non-existences, absences, privations, etc. in metaphysics. We do not need here to expand on this subject. The only relevant point is that the teaching for a conjunctivist semantics is here quite clear. The natural dominance of D over H recalls us the subordination of negation, a traditional view (it possibly dates back to St. Augustine) whereby ‘not P’ is logically dependent on ‘P’, since there is no absence, privation or lack in the plenitude of being. As a matter of fact, there is no negation of a property name without the name itself, and hence the postulated subsistence (though not necessarily existence), of such a property. The dominance of P over non-P (as fact and name), is nothing else than a dominance of being (plain presence) over negation (absence, privation, etc.). If we

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accept this interpretation of the assumption principle we can confirm and specify the idea of the ‘holiday’ of negation. In case of Hλ and not Hλ we may say that negation is on holiday, because it loses its exclusionary properties. ‘Not’ still marks the border of the property but does not mark the exclusion-rejection of not Hλ any longer. This is perfectly in the line of Conj. Notably, in these cases what is ‘on holiday’ is exclusion-negation, not negation as border operator. The border between H and D remains a sharp boundary, and this is why the picture in terms of ‘not’ is in order. But the assumptio tells us that the incompatibles in the JI-situation are asymmetrical: one of them (God) embraces the other. Now we also see how the idea of two in one may support Conj. In virtue of the ‘two in one’ principle we have that Hλ and not Hλ does not prove Hλ and separately not Hλ because negation accompanied by truth works as rejection. And we do not have this rejection in case of JI situations. Christ is truly and effectively completely D and completely H but in his life he is not D or H separately: non duo sed unus est.

3.3

Christological Anthropology and Its Logic

The two further passages specify Christ’s perfect duality and perfect unity. (5) Unus omnino, non confusione substantiae, sed unitate personae The unity of persons as opposed to the confusion of substances clarifies how the two predicates are joined without conflict.21 Christ is perfectus Deus and perfectus homo because in him D and H are not confused or mixed but are simply joined in only one person. There is no mutual annihilation of each ‘perfectly’ instantiated property any longer. D does not exclude H and vice versa. It is thus confirmed the basic idea: that ‘not’ still marks a real border, a real limit between H and not H, but its exclusionary action fails. If we only keep to the perfect dualities of minor/aequalis, ante saecula/in saeculo, from God/from carnal mother, the unitas personae appears problematic. But we see that these dualisms are grounded anthropologically, in the same constitution of the property H, as it is suggested by the comparison of (6) (6) Sicut anima rationalis et caro unus est homo: ita Deus et homo unus est Christus The unity of D and H is of the same kind of the unity of body and soul, material and spiritual nature, in every human being. If you admit of this basic anthropology, then you might not be surprised by the jointness of contradictories. Christ’s ‘double’ nature is not implausible, because humanity in itself instantiates a similar duality.

For van Inwagen (1994) the “no confusion sed unity” principle dispels the contradiction. He appeals to the idea of “relative identity” (RI) so that a RI-logic can easily show there is no true contradiction. 21

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One may say that H is contradictory in itself, so that any effective Ha (for some object a) is a dispositionally releaser of true contradictions.22 In the framework here proposed if we keep to the idea of contradictions in general as border-facts, and of Christ in particular as the limit between what is H and what is not H, we see that this also explains the idea of the Incarnation as the action of God in history. Christ’s Coming launches a new-old anthropology, grounded on the ancient (Greek, Socratic) idea of humans structurally made of temporal and intemporal nature, rationality and carnality, history and eternity. The Incarnation also gives a logic for this humanity, a human logic made of compatible incompatibilities, and if you want, of the non-contradictory nature of true contradictions, which is what is postulated by conjunctivism (Sect. 2.3.1). Contradictory Christology so intended does not only confirm the conjunctivist intuition. It may also give us some suggestions about the metaphysical reasons of the ‘unity’ of contradictories in JI situations. What the assumptio humanitatis tells us is that D is (pre)logically dominant. The logical consequence is that when we face a contradictory fact (a JI-situation) the best description (what is made true) is Pa and not Pa, but P, the positive property, is what generates the limit that we express by ‘not’, just like God generates Christ (genitus) and makes him be born (natus). There is no contradictory fact without the position of a certain property. In the same way, there is no property whatsoever without God’s creation.

3.4

A Hypothesis

The Creed is obviously made of categorical declaration. It does not give us reasons to find metaphysic or epistemic justification of Christ’s being H and D, and completely but inseparably both. But the anthropological dualism that it postulates and the idea of the ‘assumption’ (inclusion) of H in D, give us a metaphysical framework that we can use to justify our logical choices concerning the truth of contradictions. The hypothesis that we can advance consists of the following claims. First, jointness dominates over incompatibility. In the JI-situation instantiated by Jesus, ‘J’ means there is only one person, and hence there is only one truthmaker, the above-mentioned one fact hypothesis of is justified. Second, Simplification fails. The conjunctive interpretation of the contradiction requires a (not implausible) kind of conjunction without Simplification. The consequent logic is not explosive, as the true conjunction Hλ and not Hλ works as an atomic sentence, it does not entail that Hλ and not Hλ are separately true.

22

Clearly, this does not mean that any human being is both divine and human. The two properties work in humans as dispositions, while in Christ they work as facts.

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Third, truthmaker theory is satisfied. Jesus’ divine humanity is a case of true contradiction, there is – there has been – a positive JI-state making the state description Hλ and not Hλ true. Fourth, the ancient notion of truth as aletheia is satisfied too. The jointness of incompatibles in Christ respects the ancient sense of truth, implying realism plus exclusion, IT + ET. There is a contradictory truthmaker, but we cannot assert or assume Hλ or not Hλ separately, because one implies rejection of the other. Fifth, one can say that true contradictions are anthropologically grounded. The grounding (explanation-justification) for the jointness of D and H in Jesus is to be found in the anthropology of humans as individual instances endowed with opposite properties, rationality and carnality. More specifically, H, as such, is located at the border of D: where the divine element (rational soul) is joined to not D (carnal body), and the historical ‘natus’ is joined to the intemporal ‘genitus’. Sixth, the positive property is dominant. Jesus’ Coming is due to God’s assumption of H, the consequent contradiction shows the dominance of D. The paradigmatic role of Christ is to show us that contradictions are the consequences of the appearance (creation) of positive properties in human language-thought.23 If we want to trace a Ch-sensitive semantics along these lines, then we can begin by specifying that while the property D plays a superessive role, it ‘stands on top’, H is subessive: H is assumed by God in God, so becoming an ‘internal’ property of God as Christ. This is what the Athanasian Creed expresses by the assumptio humanitatis in Deo. We can add that the dominance of D holds metaphysically; while historically – i.e. in the concrete adventure of the Incarnation – H played as a superessive property, which justifies the liturgical conception of Christ’s eternal birth, death and resurgence. Notably, in this way the qua-solutions as well as the non-contradiction solutions are admittable, but for the idea of the acceptance and truth of the contradictory state description Hλ and not Hλ as instantiated by the true nature of Jesus, as the two-in-one paradigm of human persona tells us.

4 Summary and Concluding Remarks I have specified the notion of true contradiction briefly mentioning the three positions of standard dialetheism, non-adjunctivism and conjunctivism, to be distinguished on the basis of the interpretation of the ‘and’ joining Pa and not Pa in case Pa and not Pa is held true. For standard dialetheists (and gluttists in general) a true contradiction is a true conjunction of contradictories wherein the conjunction

23

Finally, and altogether, I would say that the conjunctive view of Christological logic reminds us of the importance of a pre-logical foundation of logic. In any logic informed by the idea of aletheia, logical choices are to be justified and explained by metaphysical, epistemological and pragmatic considerations, and it is on ground of this prelogical view that Conj appears perfectly justified, and in some sense preferable (see d’Agostini, 2023a).

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behaves normally, it admits of Simplification and Adjunction: the conjunction is true and each conjunct is true too. As falsity is the truth of negation, in case of true contradictions we have true and false propositions. For non-adjunctivists some Pa can be true and its negation true too, but the conjunction Pa and not Pa must be untrue: Adjunction fails. In case of conjunctivism, what fails is Simplification: we have Pa and not Pa true, but each conjunct must be untrue. If we accept that a contradiction is, metaphysically, the joint subsistence of incompatibles (what cannot jointly subsist), then we have that non-adjunctivists reduce or revise jointness (the two incompatibles does not belong to the same area of reality) to preserve incompatibility. Standard dialetheists accept both features (but revise truth, admitting of truth value gluts), and conjunctivists diminish the metaphysical incompatibility of the opposites, and preserve jointness, to save the exclusionary action of truth. The central idea of conjunctivism as it has been reconstructed here is that non-adjunctivist and standard dialetheist interpretations of true contradictions fail because they are committed to elude or forget the traditional conception of truth, which, very likely, informs conciliar Christology. More specifically, conjunctivists accept some true Pa and not Pa but save alethic exclusion (if Pa is true, then not Pa must be untrue), a constraint that is basically avoided, by dialetheists and gluttists in general. If we keep to the logical-metaphysical problems suggested in Sect. 2.1, the conjunctivist idea of true contradiction here proposed can be so summarized: ‘and’ in contradictions works, logically, as a binding operator (that p and not p is true does not imply that p or not p are true). The metaphysical justification is given by the consideration that what makes a contradiction true is only one fact, it is the state or event located at the border or limit of properties. ‘not’ is a border operator: it marks the extension of properties (as it is usually considered), and hence it differs from falsity (the truth of negation), as falsity implies exclusion of the opposite. Consequently, in case of true contradictory states, both p and not p subsist as such, as parts of a contradictory state, but the correlative state descriptions cannot be said true (subsistence is not enough). ‘true’ is just true: it marks the realistic acceptance-assumption of a certain proposition p, on the basis of its being made true by a fact p positively occurring in the (actual) world (IT), which implies the rejection of not p (ET). The notion of truth, so specified, satisfies many needs involved in the epistemic, pragmatic and metaphysical use of the predicate. In fact, to a certain extent, what makes a contradiction problematic is that we ought to reject the notion of a-letheia, as implying non-concealment, and hence, not only realism but also exclusion (see Sect. 2.3.1). Now this view seems to be adaptable to the Christological paradox, if we are willing to accept that it is a case of true contradiction. Here and elsewhere (d’Agostini, 2021a, b, 2023a) I have tried to support the relative preferability of Conj by appealing to the traditional conception of truth. Now I advance the idea that this is also the kind of truth we should presuppose, when we deal with the Fundamental Problem of Christology. A capital thesis of dialetheism and glut theory in general is that the logical notion of truth does not exclude rather implies the occurring of true contradictions (Priest, 2006; Beall, 2009). I have argued

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that this also holds for the old aletheia, a notion of truth which – in my interpretation – rules classical logic, as well as traditional metaphysics and traditional epistemology.24 Of the two highlighted aspects, IT and ET, logic (as it has been developed in the analytic tradition) in some sense saves IT: the T-schema, the capital feature of most of the contemporary T-theories, can be easily interpreted (as in Alston, 1996) in realistic terms. But logic (in this sense) does not tell us anything about exclusion, and this is the justification of dialetheism, in principle. However, a logic without the metaphysic and epistemic foundations of truth is ungrounded. And as soon as we focus on the idea of JI-state as ontologically unacceptable (being a state that there is and there is not, subsists and does not: see Sect. 2.1), we see how the exclusionary action of T cannot be dropped. One may contend that the resulting ‘true contradiction’ is not a contradiction anymore, as the conjunctive state description behaves logically as an atomic sentence: once we have Pa and not Pa we are not entitled to infer that Pa, so the conjunction must work, logically, as a single sentence. In this respect, one may charge Conj with the same objection advanced against Non-Adj: the putative contradiction does not satisfy the Aristotelian Condition, because, ultimately, this condition requires two I-terms. I have partially dispelled this objection (in Sect. 2.3.2) by noting that, metaphysically speaking, ‘real’ contradictions are located at the borders of properties, where our effort of ‘carving reality’ by using the name of some property P fails, and the postulated incompatibility of P and non-P is disproved. But surely the truth theory supporting conjunctivism is ‘classical’ (traditional), so there are reasons to believe it is closer to Pawl’s idea of the compatibility of postulated incompatibles than to Beall’s idea of Christ’s true-and-false divinity and humanity. My point here was not to arrive at a final decision in this respect. What I tried to advance is that the narrative of the Incarnation explains the inseparable unity of contradictories in the best way: the infinity of God becomes, historically, the finiteness of Christ. In a sense, Christ’s historical being works for us as the common fraction 9/7, i.e. a single finite being, containing the infiniteness of 1.2857142857. . . . Christ is both human and divine, at the same time, and entirely one thing and the other, but we cannot say he is only human nor can we say he is only God. This is the dictate of Christian orthodoxy, and it seems perfectly consistent with a conjunctive conception of true contradiction.

References Alston, W. (1996). A realistic conception of truth. Cornell University Press. Anderson, J. (2007). Paradoxes in Christian theology. Paternoster. Armstrong, D. M. (2004). Truth and Truthmakers. Cambridge University Press.

24

Here I clearly assume that there has been a certain caesura between traditional philosophy and analytic philosophy as ruled by logic (Frege-Russel semantics), a historiographic position which can be variously supported (in particular see Glock, 2008, 85–86 and d’Agostini, 2023b).

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Priest, G. (2006). Doubt truth to be a liar. Oxford University Press. Priest, G. (2014). One. Oxford University Press. Priest, G. (2019). Dialetheism and the Sorites Paradox, In S. Oms and E. Zardini (eds), The sorites Paradox. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2019: 135–150. Priest, G., Berto, F., & Weber, Z. (2023). Dialetheism. In E. N. Zalta and U. Nodelman (eds), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2023 Edition). Accessed 6th of October 2023. Rescher, N., & Brandom, R. (1980). The Logic of Inconsistency. A Study in Non-Standard Possible Worlds Semantic and Ontology. Oxford: Blackwell. Ripley, D. (2015). Paraconsistent Logic. Journal of Philosophical Logic. 44(6), 771–780. Rodriguez-Pereyra, G. (2006). Truthmaking, Entailment, and the Conjunction Thesis. Mind, 115: 957–82. Rodriguez-Pereyra, G. (2009). The Disjunction and Conjunction Theses. Mind, 118 (470): 428–442. Schein, B. (2017). And. Conjunction reduction redux. MIT Press. Uckelman, S. L. (2019). Contradictions, impossibility, and triviality: A response to JC Beall. Journal of Analytic Theology, 7(1), 544–559. Van Inwagen, P. (1994). Not by confusion of substance, but by unity of person. In R. Swinburne & A. G. Padgett (Eds.), Reason and the Christian religion: Essays in honour of Richard Swinburne. Oxford University Pres. Varzi, A. (2003). Cut-offs and their neighbors, in J.C. Beall (ed.) Liars and Heaps, Oxford: Oxford University Press 2003, 24–38. Varzi, A. (2004). Conjunction and Contradiction, in Priest, G., JC Beall, B. Armour-Garb (eds.), The Law of Non-Contradiction. New Philosophical Essays. Oxford: Oxford University Press 2004: 92–110.

The Trinitarian Doctrine in the Language of Category Theory Fábio Maia Bertato

1 Introduction My aim is to present some proposals for the representation of a significant part of the trinitarian theology through the language of category theory. To this end, important and relatively simple categorical notions will be employed, such as the concept of isomorphism between objects and equivalence of categories. The categorical interpretation of the trinitarian discourse claims (or the trinitarian interpretation of particular categories) shows that if we can assume that category theory is consistent, then the trinitarian categorical theory presented in this text is also consistent, which supports the defense that the trinitarian theses, which are part of a very particular religious discourse, can be regarded as free from contradiction. As Christian theology traditionally admits a classical underlying logic, then such an approach is of interest in solving the so-called logical problem of the Trinity. I will assume here certain claims that are in accordance with the traditional Latin interpretation, although our approach allows us to better understand the relationship between this perspective and the Greek tradition. I seek to take a categorical approach that respects orthodox doctrine, but as this endeavor involves the use of abstract mathematical language, it would be not surprising to find that this task has not been satisfactorily accomplished. In Sect. 2, I present a brief outline of the main teachings of the Christian trinitarian doctrine, which will be used for the categorical approach to be carried out. In Sect. 3, I lay out the main notions of category theory that will be necessary for our purposes.

F. M. Bertato (✉) Centre for Logic, Epistemology, and the History of Science (CLE), University of Campinas (Unicamp), Campinas, Brazil e-mail: [email protected] © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3_22

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In Sect. 4, I present some categorical approaches that represent monotheistic and trinitarian theories. In Sect. 5, I make some final comments on the main results of our enterprise.

2 Some Elements of the Trinitarian Theology The central dogma of the Christian faith teaches that there is only one God that is triune, i.e., there is only one divine substance or nature in three distinct persons or hypostases, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.1 They are distinguished only by virtue of relative opposition, whereby the Son proceeds from the Father, the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son (Filioque), and the Father proceeds from no one. There are, therefore, two processions in God, generation and spiration. Generation is understood as an operation of the intellect and spiration as an operation of the will. One way to understand the personal processions is to think that the Father is God knowing himself, the Son is God’s knowledge of himself, and the Holy Spirit is God’s love for himself. Since God is perfect, his self-knowledge and his self-love are so perfect that they coincide with himself. Therefore, the only way to distinguish the divine persons is through the four relations determined by the two processions, namely, paternity, filiation, active spiration, and passive spiration. The following propositions summarize an important part of the trinitarian doctrine: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

There is only one God. The Father is God. The Son is God. The Holy Spirit is God. The Father generates the Son. The Son is generated by the Father. The Father and the Son spirate the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is spirated by the Father and the Son. The Father is not the Son. The Father is not the Holy Spirit. The Son is not the Holy Spirit.

The Logical Problem of the Trinity consists in deriving a possible contradiction from the above propositions.2 If one considers that “is” is reflexive, from (2) and (3), one can deduce that “the Father is the Son”, which contradicts proposition (9). Or

1 For an introduction to trinitarian theology see Mateo-Seco (2005), Méndez (2006), Pohle and Preuss (1925), Marmion (2011). Cf. Compendium of the Catechism of the Catholic Church, 48; Catechism of the Catholic Church, 249–256. 2 For a first-order logical approach to the logical problem of the Trinity, see Bertato (2020). For a mathematical perspective see Bertato (2014).

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again, the conjunction of (2), (3), and (4), could imply that there are three gods, which contradicts (1). Much discussion has been carried out on the consistency of trinitarian doctrine. One way to approach this problem is to consider the following Fundamental Law of the Trinity (or Anselm’s axiom): In Deo Omnia sunt unum, ubi non obviat relationis opposition. [In God all things are one except where there is opposition of relation.]

Thus, the propositions about the persons of the Trinity can be interpreted in different aspects. It can, for example, be consistently asserted that the Father and the Son are equal according to the divine nature but are distinct according to the opposition of relation. The categorical approach that I propose in this paper aims to be an original contribution in favor of the thesis that the trinitarian doctrine can be considered consistent, using meta-mathematical tools. The formation of the trinitarian dogma took some centuries and was established by the expositions of the Doctors of the Christian Church and by Ecumenical Councils. To express the truths of faith of such teaching, terms and expressions of current philosophical language were used, especially from the Greek tradition. However, when considering the concepts used for this purpose, they must be assumed to be “purified of their imperfections”, that is, they are applied to God in a unique and exclusive way, in a different sense from when speaking of created beings. For example, when the term “relation” is used in trinitarian theology, it is considered to mean only a reference from one term to another, and not in the accidental Aristotelian sense, for in God there are no accidents. It is customary to consider that our knowledge of the divine is limited and imperfect and that we cannot adequately express truths about God. Our languages try to capture some notions that aim to approach these truths, but they are always flawed. However, different languages can express different aspects, perceptions, and insights on such subjects. I believe that the categorical approach can shed new light on this debate. I argue that, at the very least, expressing part of the trinitarian doctrine using tools of category theory shows us how certain distinctions and identifications that cause estrangement when applied in the theological domain are usual and very useful when considering structures studied in mathematical practice. In what follows, I try to present the fundamental notions of category theory, which will be used to express this small most important part of trinitarian theology considered here. Basically, I try to show how we can represent God through categories, composed of objects and relations, and that can signify certain trinitarian propositions. Notions such as isomorphism between objects and categories, and equivalences between categories, among others, serve to show that it is usual to consider that certain objects are distinct from a certain perspective and essentially the same in a category. Furthermore, I indicate how certain different approaches can be considered equivalent and that serve to “model” some aspects of the trinitarian discourse about God.

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3 Basic Notions in Category Theory It can be said that category theory is the abstraction of mathematics itself. In this sense, such theory is configured as the “mathematics of mathematics”. It is established from very elementary notions and has a great power of representation of very important concepts in mathematics. It is a tool that can be applied to various fields of knowledge, such as logic, computing, linguistics, philosophy of science, etc. To the best of my knowledge, the present paper is the first attempt to apply category theory to a theological topic. From the perspective of the foundations of mathematics, category theory has several advantages. For example, the set theory can be considered a category. Moreover, several structures from the most varied domains of mathematics can be studied from a categorical point of view, which allows us to perceive correspondences and similarities between apparently very different mathematical theories. In this theory, there is no talk of equality in the strict sense, but equivalence. Such a way of proceeding starts from the premise that mathematicians treat as equal things that are actually equivalent. Equivalence would be the fundamental notion in practice. To exemplify this kind of attitude, let us consider equations. Assuming that an equation is a mathematical sentence expressed by an equality containing one or more unknowns, we can perceive that we are actually considering certain equivalences as equalities. As a more elementary example, let us consider the equality of the numbers 2/4 and 1/2. While we can consider them equal, from the point of view of fractions such representations can indicate quite different operations, despite being quantitatively equivalent. The fraction 2/4 indicates something broken into four parts, two of which are taken. On the other hand, the fraction 1/2 indicates taking half of something. Depending on the context, such operations are quite different. But from the point of view of equivalences, their representations are considered equal. In this perspective of equivalences, two things can be the same in some respects, but different in other respects. In the next section, I present definitions and some brief comments on the fundamental concepts for our discussion. Such exposition is an attempt to make this text more self-contained and does not intend to be an introduction to the theory of categories.3

3.1

Categories

Below is a definition of category, the fundamental notion in category theory.

3 To an introduction to the category theory I recommend Goldblatt (1979), Mac Lane (1978), Marquis (2021), Spivak (2014), Fong and Spivak (2019).

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Definition 1 A category C consists of (i) a collection of objects; (ii) a collection of morphisms or arrows; (iii) for every morphism f, an object dom f (the domain of f ) and an object cod f (the codomain of f ); (iv) for every pair f, g of morphisms, such that dom g = cod f, a composite morphism g ∘ f, with dom (g ∘ f ) = dom f and cod (g ∘ f ) = cod g, which satisfies the associative law: (h ∘ g) ∘ f = h ∘ (g ∘ f ), whenever f, g, h are morphisms and cod g = dom f and cod h = dom g. (v) for every object x, an identity morphism idx, with dom idx = cod idx = x, which satisfies the identity law: idx ∘ f = f, and g ∘ idx = g, whenever f and g are morphisms and cod f = dom g = x. Notation: f: x→y means that dom f = x and cod f = y. A diagram consists of some objects, together with some arrows connecting such objects. An important and useful notion in category theory is of commutative diagrams. The general intuitive idea on them can be presented as follows. Consider the diagram below:

f

x

y g

h z

If g ∘ f = h, then we say that the diagram commutes. So, we can say that the diagrams representing the associative law and the identity law are commutative diagrams: Associative law A diagram having the form

f

x

(h ° g) ° f

h ° (g ° f)

z

y

g° f h° g

h

g

w

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commutes. Identity law A diagram having the form

f

x

y g idx

f y

g

z

commutes. It is usual to represent a category or its fundamental notions via diagrams. An important category in mathematics is the category of sets, denoted by Set. The objects of Set are all sets, and its morphisms are all functions between sets. Another category built from more familiar mathematical concepts is N. The category N has only one object N, and the natural numbers 0, 1, 2, 3, . . . as an infinite collection of morphisms. The composition of morphisms m and n is defined by m ∘ n = m + n. The identity idN is the number 0. Thus, the diagrams.

commute by definition. The following simple examples will be useful to us. The Category 1 The category 1 has only one object x, and one morphism f. Note that it does not matter what x and f really are. They can be anything as long as the corresponding notions are such that the axioms for a category are satisfied. Since f is the only morphism, f = idx. 1 can be represented by the following diagram:

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The Category 2 The category 2 has two objects, three arrows and is depicted by the diagram below.

The Category 3 The following diagram represents the three objects and six arrows of the category 3.

3.2

Discrete and Indiscrete Categories

It is easy to prove from the Identity law that for every object x in a category C, the identity morphism idx is uniquely determined. For this reason, it is possible to identify the object x with the morphism idx. Such identification will be denoted by x ~ idx. If in a category C, every morphism is the identity on some object, then C is said to be a discrete category. So, basically, a discrete category can be considered just a collection of objects well separable and distinguishable. This means that there is no morphism from an object to anything else. On the other hand, a category C is said to be an indiscrete category if, and only if, there is exactly one morphism from every object to every object.

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Isomorphic Objects

In category theory, isomorphic objects are considered to be “essentially the same”. Next, we present the definition that allows us to characterize this notion. Definition 2 Let C be a category and x, y be objects. A morphism f: x→y is an isomorphism in C iff there exists a morphism g: y→x in C such that g ∘ f = idx and f ∘ g = idy. If it exists g satisfying such conditions, then it is possible to prove that it is unique. So, g is called the inverse of f, and it is denoted by f -1. If there exists an isomorphism between the objects x and y we say that they are isomorphic objects, which is denoted by x ffi y. It is usual to say that two isomorphic objects are categorically the same. It is so because any categorical property that is satisfied by an object is also satisfied by any object isomorphic to it. Within a theory expressed in a categorical language, isomorphic objects are indistinguishable in terms of that theory. Let us take a simple example to show that two isomorphic objects appear to be the same from a certain point of view. Let C be a category with three objects a, b, and c, such that a and b represent individuals and c represents a certain attribute. Moreover, given an individual-object x, the fact that there is a morphism p: x→c means that “the individual x has the attribute c”. Suppose a and b are isomorphic objects. So, there are f: a→b and f -1: b→a. In the imposed conditions, a and b are indistinguishable from the perspective of having or not the property c. On the one hand, if there is p: a→c, then there is a morphism p ∘ f -1: b→c. On the other hand, if there is p’: b→c, then there is a morphism p’ ∘ f: a→c. The diagrams below depict such possibilities.

So, either both a and b have the property c, or neither does.

3.4

Initial and Terminal Objects

An initial object in a category C is an object 0 such that for every object x in C there exists one and only one morphism from 0 to x in C. The dual notion is that of a

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terminal object 1 such that for every object in C there exists one and only one morphism from x to 1 in C. If there they exist in a given category C, initial objects and terminal objects are unique up to isomorphism. In Set the empty set ∅ is the initial object and every singleton (which are all isomorphic) is a terminal object.

3.5

Products

The notion of product of objects is useful to capture the patterns of some constructions in mathematics, such as the Cartesian product of sets. Definition 3 A product of two objects x and y in a category C is an object x × y in C together with a pair of morphisms π 1: x × y→x, π 2: x × y→y, such that for every object z in C and every pair of morphisms f: z→x, g: z→y, there exists a unique morphism ( f, g): z→x × y making the following diagram commute:

z g

f

x

p1

x×y

p2

y

We say that ( f, g) is the product of morphisms f and g. If the product x × y exists, then it is unique up to isomorphism. As a familiar example of a product of two objects in a category, consider that in Set the product of two sets A and B is the Cartesian product set A × B.

3.6

Functors

An important concept in category theory is the concept of a functor. To define it, we will use the intuitive notion of function. A function can be understood as an association between things that assigns to each thing considered one and only one thing. It works like a “black box” that for a particular input produces a uniquely determined output, just like a kind of transformation. A functor is a function between categories. One can say that a functor transforms a category with a certain structure into another category preserving the original structure. In particular, a functor preserves composition and identity morphisms.

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Definition 4 A functor F from a category C to a category D is a function that (i) associates each object x in C to an object F(x) in D; (ii) associates each morphism f: x→y in C to a morphism F(f): F(x)→F(y) in D such that: (a) F(idx) = idF(x), for every object x in C, (b) F(g ∘ f) = F(g) ∘ F(f), whenever g ∘ f is defined. Notation: F: C→D indicates that F is a functor from C to D. A trivial example of a functor is the identity functor IDC: C→C, which assigns each object and each morphism in a category C to itself. In terms of sets, consider the Power Set Functor P: Set → Set, that assigns to each set X its power set P(X), and each function f: X→Y to the function P(f): P(X) → P(Y), that maps each A ⊆ X to its image f(A) ⊆ Y. The idea of functor shows us that we can consider categories as objects and functors as morphisms between them. This points to an interesting intuition about a possible category of all categories. In turn, this intuition raises the question of problems similar to Russell’s Paradox in set theory. Such a discussion is beyond the scope of this article, but it is worth mentioning that we can count on the category Cat of small categories, whose collections of objects and of morphisms are sets.

3.7

Natural Transformation

Advancing in abstraction, given two categories C and D, let us consider the possibility of a category Funct[C, D], whose objects are all functors from C to D. As morphisms between functors, we employ natural transformations. Definition 5 A natural transformation from a functor F: C→D to a functor G: C→D is a collection τ of functions, in which for each object x in C corresponds a morphism τx: F(x)→G(x) in D, such that for any morphism f: x→y in C, the diagram.

F(x)

τx

F(f)

F(y) commutes in D.

G(x) G(f)

τy

G(y)

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Notation: τ: F ) G indicates that τ is a natural transformation from the functor F to the functor G. As a morphism between functors, a natural transformation offers us a way to transform one functor into another, respecting the composition of morphisms of the categories involved. According to the analogy proposed by Goldblatt (1979, 198–199), each of the functors F, G: C→D provides different “pictures” of C inside D. We could think of a natural transformation as an attempt to superimpose the F-picture onto the G-picture. Thus, the structure of D would be used to translate the former into the latter. Furthermore, if each of the τx is an isomorphism in D, then τ is said to be a natural isomorphism between F and G (notation: τ: F ffi G). In this case, we can consider that the F-picture and the G-picture of C look the same in D. As an elementary example of natural transformation, we can consider the natural identity transformation IDF: F ) F, which assigns to each object x, the identity arrow idF(a): F(a)→F(a).

3.8

Equivalence of Categories

As defined above, there is the notion of isomorphism between objects in a category. So, it makes sense to talk about isomorphic categories in Cat, whose objects are categories. Thus, given two categories C and D in Cat, we say that C and D are isomorphic categories (notation: C ffi D) if, and only if, there are functors F: C→D and G: D→C, such that F ∘ G = IDD and G ∘ F = IDC. Suppose that C ffi D is established by the pair of inverse functors F: C→D and G: D→C. Given an object x in C, we have that x = G(F(x)), and given an object y in D, we have that y = F(G(y)). In the category theory, two isomorphic objects are considered indistinguishable. Thus, for two categories C and D to be admitted as “essentially the same”, it is not necessary to rely on identities obtained by the isomorphism between them. For this, it is sufficient that we have x ffi G(F(x)) and y ffi F(G(y)). Thus, to establish an equivalence of categories, we can use natural isomorphisms between the functors obtained by composition and the respective identity functors on C and D. Definition 5 Let C and D be categories. A functor F: C→D is called an equivalence of categories, if there is a functor G: D→C and a pair of natural isomorphisms τ: IDC ffi G ∘ F and τ’: IDD ffi F ∘ G. In this case, C and D are said to be equivalent categories (notation: C  D). As far as our notions of the “sameness” of categories are concerned, isomorphism is stronger than equivalence. As we have seen, for two categories to be considered the same, it is sufficient that they are equivalent. While isomorphism between objects depends on a pair of inverse morphisms and isomorphism between categories

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depends on a pair of inverse functors, equivalence between categories depends on two very particular natural transformations. The notions established so far provide us with ways of expressing in the language of category theory some of the propositions of the trinitarian doctrine. It is this task that we will deal with in the next section.

4 Categorical Approaches to the Trinity Our procedure in the following can be understood, on the one hand, as a categorical approach to notions of the trinitarian doctrine, and, on the other hand, as a trinitarian interpretation of particular categories. In any case, what interests us is to investigate how and if we can express some propositions and/or teachings about the Holy Trinity using the language of category theory. In our approaches, we will assume that we are working in Cat.

4.1

First Approach: 1θ

In our first approach, we consider the trinitarian doctrine to be a particular type of monotheism. Thus, the category to be constructed has only one object that, for our purposes, represents God. Now the simplest non-empty (or inhabited) category is the category 1. Such a category seems quite adequate to represent a “divine category” for monotheism. Thus, in a theological interpretation, in the category 1θ we have a single divine “object” θ, namely, God, who is related to himself through identity morphism idθ. As discussed above, we can consider that there is a certain identification between the object and the identity on it. So, it is possible to identify the object θ with the morphism idθ. Such identification allows us to conclude that the identity morphism is somehow divine. 1θ

idθ θ For the trinitarian interpretation of 1θ, we can say that the Father (F) is θ qua the domain of idθ, that the Son (S) is θ qua the co-domain of idθ, and that the Holy Spirit (H ) is the identity idθ.

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F = dom idθ = θ S = cod idθ = θ H = idθ ~ θ Thus, we have a category composed of one God and that the Father is God, the Son is God, and the Holy Spirit is God. This first approach is in line with the view that the distinction between the divine persons is only given by relations of procession, in which it is understood that relation is an esse ad, a mere and pure reference of one to the other. So, the Father is in reference to the Son, the Son is in reference to the Father, and the Holy Spirit is in reference to both the Father and the Son.

4.2

Second Approach: 2’θ

Our second approach employs an indiscrete version of the category 2. Accordingly, the category 2’θ contains two objects F and S and their identities idF and idS, and two inverse morphisms p and f (paternity and filiation, respectively). Thus, we have two isomorphic objects that correspond to the divine persons of the Father and the Son. One possibility of determining the Holy Spirit in this category could be to consider it as originated by the pair of morphisms p and f, whose compositions coincide with the respective identities. Perhaps, such a determination is not very natural in the trinitarian perspective, at least at first sight. In any case, 2’θ can be considered as representing a first movement in the understanding of how the Father and the Son are “equal” through the notion of isomorphism, from the generation procession, which induces a pair of inverse relations p and f. In 2’θ, we can say that we have a unique divine object up to isomorphism, which is to say that the two objects are distinct in some way but can be considered categorially essentially the same. 2’θ

idF

ids p

F

S f

It can be said that the next category to be considered corresponds more naturally to the conception of the Holy Trinity, since in it we explicitly have the three divine persons as objects and all the relations between the persons as morphisms.

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Third Approach: 3’θ

The third category to be discussed in a trinitarian interpretation is an indiscrete version of 3. In 3’θ, we have three objects F, S, and H, and six non-identity morphisms. Here, the morphisms p and f continue to signify paternity and filiation, respectively. The relations established between F and S with H as a codomain will denote the relations determined by the active spiration from the Father (SaF) and from the Son (SaS). The morphisms SpF and SpS represent their inverse relations, respectively. 3’θ

p F

SaF

f

SpF

S

SpS

SaS

H

In the category 3’θ, we have that F ffi S ffi H, that is, the three divine persons are essentially the same. The distinction between them is given a priori or externally to the category. We could say even that it is a meta-distinction, as opposed to a metaequality represented by the traditional symbol =, and which is presupposed in the definition of categories. In this way, we distinguish three objects, particularly by their names or labels F, S, and H, which, as names, do not coincide. While it is interesting to say, on the one hand, that the divine persons cannot be distinguished internally within the category (since they are isomorphic objects), on the other hand, it is unsatisfactory to say that the distinction is given only externally to it. Since the distinction of persons is given in the trinitarian doctrine only by the relations of procession, we propose the following criterion to a relational distinction ≠R: 8x8y ððx ≠ R y $ ∃ξ ððdom ðξ Þ = x ^ cod ðξ Þ = yÞ _ ðdom ðξ Þ = y ^ cod ðξ Þ = xÞ ^ξ ≠ idx ^ ξ ≠ idy , where ξ is a morphism.

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In this way, we can admit distinctions (or equalities; both represented by the symbol “=”) between objects and morphisms (both represented by “≠”) as primitive relations, and define a relational distinction ≠R (or equality; =R) between objects, such that two objects are considered distinct if, and only if, there is a non-identity morphism between them. It is easy to prove that ≠ is symmetrical. Thus, from the morphisms that represent relations of procession, we can stablish the following: F≠RS F≠RH S≠RH If we consider that the distinctions established are given from the opposition between domain and codomain of morphisms (relations), we can say such distinctions are “oppositions of relations”. Consequently, in view of the isomorphism between objects, if we consider 3’θ as the categorical interpretation of the Holy Trinity, then it seems that the Fundamental Law of Trinity is satisfied, since in it all objects are categorically the same, except by oppositions of relation. Even when we say that in 3’θ, there is only one unique object up to isomorphism, we should note that isomorphisms are given by pairs of inverse relations that establish oppositions. Thus, it can be said that the categorical version of the aforementioned law is as follows: “In Deo Omnia sunt unum, usque ad isomorphismum” (“In God all things are one up to isomorphism”).

4.3.1

Filioque

While the Latin theological tradition admits that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son (Filioque), the Greek tradition holds that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father alone. Among other things, this is because the terms corresponding to “procession” in Latin (processio) and in Greek (εκπóρευσις) are not fully equivalent. The Latin term is more general, while the Greek term means something like “proceeding from the Father as the source of all processions”. A kind of agreement is given in the two traditions in saying that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father, through the Son. Regarding the Filioque, in 3’θ we can identify a way of understanding how the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son, as well as realizing that this is the same as saying that the Holy Spirit proceeds from the Father through the Son. The composition of morphisms indicated in the diagram below helps us to visualize how we can interpret such identification.

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p

F

S SaS

SaF = SaS ° p H

If we consider that, in 3’θ, the diagram as the one that represents category 3 indicates via morphisms all divine processions, we can see that only the Father is the source of all processions, and we can still infer the procession of the Holy Spirit also from the Son, according to the Filioque clause. The categorical approach can shed light on the distinction between the concepts of procession in the Latin and Greek traditions.

4.3.2

The Holy Spirit as Passive Spiration

Using the concept of product between objects, we can represent how the Holy Spirit can be the subsistent relation of passive spiration. For this, it is enough to consider that in 3’θ, the Holy Spirit is the product of the Father and the Son.4 Assuming H = F × S, then the diagram below commutes.

H SpF

F

SpF

(SpF, SpS ) F×S

SpS

SpS

S

So idH = (SpF, SpS). We have, then, that the identity of H coincides with the morphism that is the product of the two morphisms corresponding to the passive spiration. As there is a certain identification between the object and the identity on it, therefore, we can say that the Holy Spirit is the passive spiration.

4 Of course, the term “product” is used here in its categorical sense, not as something that is made or produced, nor inferring that some person is created or something like that.

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Equivalence of Our Approaches

An interesting fact about our approaches is that they are categorically equivalent, since it can be proved that every non-empty (inhabited) indiscrete category is equivalent to the terminal category. It turns out that category 1 is the terminal category in Cat. Since 1θ is isomorphic to 1, then: 1θ  2’ θ  3’ θ For the same reason, we can consider that every indiscrete category with n objects is equivalent to the categories discussed in our approaches, although such categories are not isomorphic. In categories where all objects are isomorphic, it can be considered that there is essentially a unique object (up to isomorphism). Such a fact in category theory shows us how the claim that God is one and three in a monotheistic perspective is not as problematic as one might suppose, since, according to our proposal, it could be the case that God is one and n-ary. Instead of “Sancta Trinitas, Unus Deus”, one could have “Sancta n-itas, Unus Deus”, for any natural number n, and the difficulties would be categorically the same. As far as I know, nothing like that has ever been proposed. Perhaps such equivalence, regardless of cardinality of the collection of objects, has to do with the Christian notion of divinization, in which those who become sons (and daughters) of God by adoption (divine filiation) become more divine, more like God, by grace. In this way, one could consider a category interpreted in such a way that each deified human being establishes relations with God and/or the divine persons, being on the one hand equal in divinity (by isomorphism), but distinct due to human nature, which establishes the necessary opposition. Such a perspective may be of interest, but it is beyond the scope of this article. However, this is helpful in discussing how God’s simplicity can be expressed through this trinitarian perspective.

4.5

Divine Simplicity

In the discussion of divine simplicity, it is common to understand that there is no distinction between God as the subject of his divine attributes and the divine attributes themselves. God is, in some sense, identical to his attributes. With our categorical analysis, we can see how each of the divine persons can be identified with these attributes. To do so, consider the extension 3’θℵ of the category 3’θ, adding to it the object ℵ and the necessary morphisms. The object ℵ represents in this category a divine attribute, say, the omnipotence. If such an attribute is associated with any of the divine persons, as they are isomorphic, then the attribute will be associated with each of them. Suppose that, in the diagram below, the arrow from F to ℵ means to say that “the Father is omnipotent”.

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p F

SaF

f

S

SpF

SpS

‫א‬

SaS

H

If α: x→ℵ is interpreted as “x has the attribute ℵ”, then it seems natural to assume that there is an inverse morphism α -1: ℵ→x, which means “ℵ is an attribute of x”. So, x ffi ℵ. So also, the Son and the Holy Spirit have the attribute of omnipotence. More than that, each person is the attribute of omnipotence. In general, if a category Dn, containing the divine persons and n - 3 divine attributes, is such that all objects are isomorphic, then Dn  1θ. Thus, we could say that each divine person is each of the divine attributes. In this way, our categorical approach agrees with the claim that God is what he has. Note that ℵ can be any divine attribute, except those personal attributes that pertain exclusively to a particular divine person due to the relations of procession, as these are determined by the morphisms in the category itself. Thus, for example, ℵ could not mean “generated” or “spired”, for example, which indicate the fact that F is the codomain of p, and H is the codomain of both SaF and SaS, respectively.

5 Final Remarks Considering that 3’θ is the “natural” category for the discussion of the divine persons and their interrelationships, we can use the categorical notions here introduced to “translate” the propositions (1)–(11) of Sect. 2 as follows: 1. There is only one God. 2. The Father is God. 3. The Son is God. 4. The Holy Spirit is God. 5. The Father generates the Son. 6. The Son is generated by the Father. 7. The Father and the Son spirate the Holy Spirit. 8. The Holy Spirit is spirated by the Father and the Son. 9. The Father is not the Son. 10. The Father is not the Holy Spirit. 11. The Son is not the Holy Spirit.

1’. 8x8y (x ffi y) [F ffi S ffi H] 2’. F is an object in 3’θ. 3’. S is an object in 3’θ. 4’. H is an object in 3’θ. 5’. p: F→S 6’. f: S→F 7’. SaF: F→H and SaS: S→H 8’. SpF: H→F and SpS: H→S 9’. F ≠ R S 10’. F ≠ R H 11’. S ≠ R H

The Trinitarian Doctrine in the Language of Category Theory

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Expressing the propositions using categorical language, it can be argued that the supposed contradictions derived from the trinitarian doctrine are only apparent, due to the ambiguity of the natural language. Although the consistency of such a doctrine can be defended through the use of other languages, it is possible to perceive that the identities and distinctions established in a categorical way are usual in the mathematical enterprise. The notions of isomorphism and identity make it possible to distinguish different aspects of claims about divine persons. In this way, we can say that the three persons are equal according to the divinity or that they are isomorphic objects in the divine category 3’θ. Furthermore, we can distinguish objects, either by meta-distinction or by primitive distinction and, what is more interesting, by determining the existence of non-identity morphisms that represent relations considered distinct in the trinitarian discourse. The divine persons are therefore, from the categorical point of view, essentially the same and distinct by the oppositions of relations. As we have seen, this conclusion respects the principles, axioms, laws, or dogmas established by the trinitarian theology. If the category theory is consistent, then so is the trinitarian category 3’θ. This fact corroborates the defense of the consistency of the doctrine on the Holy Trinity, respecting the traditional perspective that such a doctrine is in accordance with the canons of classical logic. Our discussion deals with the possibility of expressing parts of trinitarian theology through the language of category theory and proposing how such a representation shows that the discourse on the Trinity is not contradictory. This is not to say that it is thus proved that God is positively one and triune. Such a proposal is beyond the scope of the present investigation and is not even in accord with the Christian view that such truths are accessible only to reason informed by revelation. Following this view, such a mystery could only have been revealed, for it concerns the divine intimacy. Accordingly, reason alone can only conclude propositions in the realm of natural theology concerning the existence and uniqueness of God, as well as his attributes. The categorical equivalences between 1θ and 3’θ discussed here seem to help us to understand how such results can agree with the trinitarian dogma.

Bibliography Bertato, F. M. (2014). Sobre a Definição Matemática de Sistema: Alguns aspectos Históricos, novas propostas e Lógicas Sistêmicas Associadas. In E. B. Filho et al. (Eds.), Auto-Organização: estudos interdisciplinares (Vol. 66, pp. 55–100). Coleção CLE. Bertato, F. M. (2020). The logic of the trinity and the Filioque question in Thomas Aquinas: A formal approach. In R. S. Silvestre et al. (Eds.), Beyond faith and rationality. Springer. Fong, B., & Spivak, D. I. (2019). An invitation to applied category theory. Seven sketches in compositionality. Cambridge University Press. Goldblatt, R. (1979). Topoi. The Categorial analysis of logic. North-Holland Publishing. Mac Lane, S. (1978). Categories for the working mathematician (2nd ed.). Springer. Marmion, D., & Van Nieuwenhove, R. (2011). An introduction to the trinity. Cambridge University Press.

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Marquis, J.-P. (2021). Category theory. In E. N. Zalta (Ed.), The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2021 ed.). https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2021/entries/category-theory/. Accessed 19 Apr 2023. Mateo-Seco, L. (2005). Dios Uno y Trino (2nd ed.). Eunsa. Méndez, G. L. (2006). Deus Uno e Trino. Manual de Iniciação. Diel. Pohle, J., & Preuss, A. (1925). The divine trinity: A dogmatic treatise (5th ed.). B. Herder Book. Spivak, D. I. (2014). Category theory for the sciences. The MIT Press.

Index

A Abstraction, 26, 31, 34–36, 38, 39, 43, 44, 195, 261, 293, 328, 334 Alchemy, 9, 227–241 Ālvārs, 121, 122, 130 Anthropology, 10, 51, 258–260, 262, 264, 265, 317–320 Apophaticism, 59 Aristotle, 62, 64, 72, 216, 218, 223, 229, 230, 290 Artificial intelligence (AI), 2, 10, 247, 249, 251 Authorless Text, 191–210 Averroes, 218, 223

B Belief, 9, 10, 35, 45, 52, 73, 89, 92, 95, 99–102, 129, 142, 143, 209, 216, 231, 235, 238, 239, 245–255, 260, 266 Belief change, 252 Belief formation, 246–248, 251, 253, 254

C Christmas, 8, 179–188 Christology, 186, 303–322 Colonialism, 8, 157, 170, 172 Complementarity, 133, 134, 137, 140–142 Complex systems, 246, 249, 252, 255 Computational metaphysics, 4 Concept of God, 287–302 Conjunctive paraconsistency, 11, 304–314, 316

Contradiction, 7, 11, 35, 115, 116, 141, 142, 153, 200, 224, 235, 303–316, 318–322, 325, 326, 343

D Devī Mahātmyam (DM), 106–116, 119 Dialetheism, 304, 307–312, 320–322 Divine attributes, 11, 341, 342

E Education, 8, 27, 130, 159–167, 169, 170, 176, 208 Empathy, 7, 89–102, 264 Epistemology, 186, 216, 304, 322 Escher, M.C. (1898-1972), 5, 26, 42–44 Experience, 2, 4, 6, 7, 28, 29, 31, 37, 40, 45, 51, 52, 54, 59, 65, 66, 71, 72, 77, 80, 84, 85, 89–93, 95–102, 115, 116, 118, 125, 126, 128, 129, 131, 136, 139, 140, 159, 163, 168, 172, 197, 206–208, 210, 216, 240, 241, 245, 246, 249–253, 261–264

F Faith and reason, 59, 64, 65, 67 Farmanfarmaian, M.S. (1928-1919), 26, 32, 39–42, 44 Filioque, 11, 315, 326, 339–340

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2023 A. Vestrucci (ed.), Beyond Babel: Religion and Linguistic Pluralism, Sophia Studies in Cross-cultural Philosophy of Traditions and Cultures 43, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-031-42127-3

345

346 G Gadamer, H.-G., 98, 192, 193, 197, 205–209, 240 Geometry, 5, 25–46, 199 Gersonides, 9, 215–225 God, 1, 15, 28, 49, 59, 80, 99, 105, 121, 137, 152, 168, 180, 194, 217, 229, 261, 273, 287, 305, 326

H Hebrew, 8, 9, 15, 50, 52, 99, 131, 138, 149–151, 153–155, 180, 215, 218–221, 224 Hermeneutics, 4, 8, 9, 26, 27, 73, 89, 99, 100, 191–210, 237–241 Hindu–Christian comparative theology, 105 Hindu–Christian theologies of religions, 105 Human dignity, 10, 257–267

I Imagination, 7, 27, 60, 91, 98–100, 102, 266 Immortality, 111, 123, 126, 217, 222–225, 258 Ineffability, 4, 6, 29, 55, 59–74 Interfaith dialogue, 7, 133–138, 141 Interreligious dialogue (IRD), 4, 6, 71–74, 89–91, 99, 105, 133, 134, 136–138, 245–255 Islam, 3, 8, 27, 31–34, 36, 37, 39, 40, 42, 45, 50, 157, 159–163, 165–167, 169, 170, 172, 173, 288

J Josephus, 8, 150, 153–155

L Lamentation, 6, 81, 84–86 Language of thought, 17, 19–23 Letter of Aristeas, 8, 150 Linguistic-historical contextualism, 238 Linguistic pluralism, 2–5, 10, 12, 105–119, 245–246

M Metaphysics of God, 61, 74, 223 Mīmāṃsā, 9, 191–197, 199–206, 208–210 Modal collapse, 10, 272, 279, 280 Modernism, 26, 34, 35, 39, 71 Modern Protestantism, 181

Index Mohanty, J.N., 206, 207, 209 Muhammad ‘Ali Mongiri, 8, 158–159, 163, 170 Multilingualism, 8, 157–176

N Nadwat al-‘Ulama, 8, 157–176

O Ontological argument, 271–284 Oscillation, 7, 133–144

P Paraclassical logic, 134, 142, 143 Paraconsistency, 11, 303–314, 316 Philo of Alexandria, 8, 150, 152 Philosophy and theology of language, 280 Philosophy of dialogue, 137–138 Philosophy of religion, 10, 11, 19, 96, 287, 289 Pilgrim reader, 122, 129, 130 Poetry, 7, 40, 41, 43–45, 72, 121–123, 129–132 Posthumanism, 10, 257–259, 261, 263–266 Praise, 6, 81, 83–86, 113, 176 Prayer, 4, 6, 65, 80–86, 95, 101, 152, 168 Private language, 16–20 Productivity, 20, 23

R Religion and family, 179–188 Religion and logic, 287–302 Religion and science, 9–10, 136, 236, 254 Religious love poetry, 122 Religious pluralism, 3, 6, 12 Revelation, 6, 15, 50, 51, 56, 59, 61, 64–67, 70, 71, 74, 97, 108, 118, 121, 126, 129–132, 137, 179, 187, 195, 206, 343

S Śabdapramāṇa, 191, 197, 207, 209 Śākta, 7, 105–119 Schleiermacher, F., 8, 96, 179–188, 192 Science and religion, 9, 236, 254 Science and religion dialogue, 246, 254, 255 Secularization, 179, 180 Semantic primes, 22, 23 Semiotics, 26, 27, 30, 32, 33, 43, 44, 109 Septuagint, 8, 149–155 Sequential paraclassical logic, 134, 143

Index Simplest Quantified Modal Logic (SQML), 298, 299 Simplicity of God, 63, 69, 70, 296, 341 Song of Songs, 7, 130–132, 216, 221–222 Srivaisnavism, 121, 122, 125, 129–132 Supplication, 6, 81–86 Sympathy, 7, 91, 92, 94–95, 101 Systematicity, 20, 21, 23

T Tamil poetry, 123, 130 Tantra, 105 Testimony, 176, 191–210 Theism, 60, 71, 288 Theology, 4, 7, 8, 11, 12, 27, 28, 33, 38, 40, 53–56, 64, 67–71, 105, 108, 112, 121, 159, 166, 179, 216, 225, 238, 245, 246, 266, 280, 305, 311, 314, 325–327, 343 Theology of language, 53, 343 Theory of categories, 11, 325–343

347 Theory of concepts, 289–291, 294, 302 The War of the Lord, 223 Tradition, 2, 19, 25, 50, 64, 90, 105, 121, 135, 149, 179, 192, 228, 245, 259, 288, 308, 325 Transcendence of language, 6, 55 Translation, 2, 5, 8–9, 34, 41, 43, 44, 81, 82, 85, 122, 124, 125, 130, 131, 150–155, 157, 167, 179–188, 191, 195, 196, 218, 224, 225, 230, 237, 238 Trinitarian theology, 325–327, 343 Trinity, 11, 18, 65, 265, 288, 325–327, 336–342

V Vernacular theology, 8, 181

W Western esotericism, 228