Theological Philosophy and Fun

Now, there are two concepts that do not usually appear in the same sentence. Who on earth could think that something as weighty as philosophical theology (or theological philosophy: I am never sure what the difference is) could be related to fun, joy, excitement, and so on? Well, I have been reading an introduction to contemporary theology (which I have not yet finished; hopefully, there will be a bit more to say about it soon) and it has covered, in a few of its short chapters, both Reformed Epistemology and Analytic Theology. And it reminded me of why I actually liked these topics.

Most people, I think (my experience as a learner was certainly the case) consider courses in philosophy or philosophy of religion and so on with a great deal of trepidation. Indeed, I recall a number of my colleagues declining to submit essays on the topic and auditing the courses anyway, just to try to keep their average marks up. Fair enough. Philosophy of religion is not for everyone, and those who actually like it as a subject are probably even fewer. Yet it does appeal, to me at least.

I think that I like Reformed Epistemology because there is something about it I do not like. This sounds like a standard inconsistency in my mind, but there is a little more to it than that, I hope. After all, I keep encouraging people to read the things they disagree with and try to figure out why they disagree with it. That way we learn; if we only read things we agree with we will never change.

Reformed Epistemology annoys me, slightly, and I am reasonably convinced that there is something wrong with it somewhere. It is not a subject that I have studied much recently, but I did write an essay on the topic once (and it got a good mark) and I have read a little more since (before I was sidelined into Lonergan and Ramsey). The problem here is that, given the assumptions, Reformed Epistemology works, that is, the conclusions it reaches are perfectly acceptable given the premises.

As is well known, part of the assault of Reformed Epistemology on ‘ordinary’ philosophy of religion is upon foundationalism. The argument here starts from the undisputed agreement that there are some things we know in a properly basic manner. Thus, for example, we know that 1+1 equals two. Similarly, I know I had toast for breakfast even though there is no evidence for the fact. I suppose that, by examination of my digestive tract, the washing up water, and so on someone could deduce that I did, indeed, have toast for breakfast this morning, but it might be more difficult to establish my breakfast evidentially for the morning of a week ago. But I know what I had.

The question is, therefore, whether we can know of the existence of God in a properly basic way or not. Post-enlightenment thought would expect such a proposition to be argued for from basic assumptions. Hence we get, in some quarters, a focus on arguments for the existence of God; admittedly, most of them start from Aquinas, but given that Aquinas only gave the arguments one query at the beginning of the Summa Theologica he presumably thought there were more interesting things to discuss.

By denying that we have to argue for the existence of God and can know God directly, in a sunset or a flower, Reformed Epistemology probably captures how people come to faith much more accurately than the Aquinas’ five ways. Few people are, I think, argued into the Kingdom of God. While we like to think that we are entirely rational, reason-following creatures, evidence suggests that while we are often, in fact, our feelings and emotions have more to do with our beliefs and decisions than we might think. Thus I might look at a beautiful vista and decide that it is so wonderful that God must exist. This is not an argument – that might come later if and when I reflect on the scene and my feelings about it.

Of course, not everyone who looks at a beautiful sunset will agree that because of it they know God exists. This runs the risk, I suppose, of making God, or at least belief in God, thoroughly subjective. The Reformed Epistemologists suggest that how we respond to such an experience depends on our presuppositions. If we are open to God, then we may believe that he exists after such an experience. If we are not, then no such experience is going to change our minds (or is unlikely to, anyway). On the other hand arguments for the existence of God are unlikely to make much of a difference either.

It is here that the theological assumptions of Reformed Epistemology kick in. According to this we are all fallen, steeped in sin (that is, after all, Biblical). The sin affects our ability to perceive God: some of us, more open to the grace God offers us, might manage it, but some of us will not. And with a single bound, not only are the divergences of belief in God explained but key theological points of Calvinism are established.

How you might ask, is this fun? Well, I doubt that I am alone in thinking that it is a bit annoying. Reformed Epistemology is not alone in this sort of thing of course. Lonergan, about halfway through Insight does a similar thing by suddenly introducing categories from Thomism into his argument. As a reader, you might feel ambushed (I did). But you cannot deny that as an argument it is intriguing and hard to initially see the flaws. This is where the interest and fun lie, as well as the learning. ‘Why do I not like this argument?’ is the question that must be poised on many lips as Reformed Epistemology is read and pondered.

The fact is that these sorts of questions are the sorts of questions that make us think and enable us to see across our own divides. It took a while for philosophers to recognise that Reformed Epistemology and Aquinas were not far apart, and the Aquinas / Calvin model was formulated. Given the starting assumptions of both, this might be a bit startling. And that, in any intellectual pursuit, is fun.