Everyone everywhere, drop what you are doing and go to Glitter Theology.
My top 13 favorite reads of 2013…
13.) Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions
12.) David Abram, The Spell of the Sensuous
11.) Slavoj Žižek, Parallax View
10.) Richard Bauckaum, Jesus and the Eyewitnesses
09.) Jean-Luc Marion, God Without Being
08.) Christina Gschwandtner, Postmodern Apologetics
07.) Emmanuel Levinas, Totality and Infinity
06.) Emmanuel Falque, The Metamorphosis of Finitute
05.) Slavoj Žižek, God in Pain
04.) Jacques Derrida, Given Time
03.) Gilles Deleuze, Difference and Repetition
02.) Edmund Husserl, Ideas I
And the grand finale…
01.) Caroline Walker Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption
The Gift, Christ(mas), and the Claus(e) of Prohibition: Re-membering the Divine Economy of Mary and her Infant King
Forewarning: I do not intend to use this post to propagate some sort of worthless “Jesus is the reason for the season” or “Let’s end the war on Christmas” folly. This is a hermeneutical discourse on the internal paradoxes of the language employed around this holiday and how they present an ethical aporia for, most of all, Christians.
Jesus was born in a feeding trough. What that means is that pigs ate from it. Jesus’s newborn, fragile body was birthed and first laid in a structure made for pig food…as the story goes.
Whether you interpret the Matthean and Lukan birth narratives as literal or symbolic, the symbolic point of reference here is the beginnings of Jesus in poverty. The historical man who came to be propped up as the very incarnation of God in flesh–he dwelt among the lowest and basest of created things. Furthermore, he lived his life touching lepers and hanging out with prostitutes, teaching unconditional love and giving.
That’s right. Jesus taught unconditional love. This means that the Gift, when unconditional, is given without expect of return or reward. There was no prohibition given by Jesus in terms of the Gift. No exception. This is the divine economy: to give on the basis of love for the other alone–worthy in his/her own being as such–without any exceptions or conditions. An impossible and difficult thing to do, but something to be strived for anyway.
Christmas has been proclaimed to be, by many Evangelical Christians, a season for honoring and remembering the humbly-born Christ. But they quickly forget that this humble Christ taught us to practice a divine economy. They claim that “Jesus is the reason for the season,” but they do not celebrate the radical generosity he taught. Sure, they will give nice gifts to family and friends. But only on this occasion, and it is no Evangelical imperative that one should make a regular effort to give gifts of sustenance to the poor.
Evangelicals may claim that “Jesus is the reason for the season,” but it would seem that they believe more strongly in a Santa-figure (as representative of the Divine). Santa’s economy can be summed up by the following lyric: He’s making a list and checking it twice. Gonna find out who’s naughty and nice.
Santa’s economy is one of prohibition. Santa’s gift is not unconditional but depends upon whether one obeys the prohibitions given by the Big Other. But Christ’s God, unlike the Big Other, does not give this way. Rather, Christ’s God makes the same rain fall and the same sun shine on both the righteous and unrighteous (Mat. 5:45). Evangelicals tend to see God as the Big Other, rewarding and punishing according to proper faith or deeds.
But this is not what Christ taught. If Evangelicals want to truly proclaim that “Jesus is the reason for the season,” the solution is not billboards or media annoyance. Rather, they ought to practice the radical hospitality of Jesus and the divine economy he taught. For to remember Christ is to re-member the divine economy that has been broken and obscured by Christendom.
(Then again, when did you ever get coals in your stocking when you were bad? We all know the big secret: Santa doesn’t actually follow his own rules…he gives unconditionally to all. He just says those things to get you to be nice to your brothers and sisters!)
“Visible and mobile, my body is a thing among things; it’s caught in the fabric of the world, and its cohesion is that of a thing. But, because it moves itself and sees, it holds things in a circle around itself.”
“We must therefore rediscover, after the natural world, the social world, not as an object or sum of objects, but as a permanent field or dimension of existence.”
Continental philosophers of religion from Marion to Caputo to Zizek have frequently recognized and praised Saint Paul for his subversive discourse on being and nonbeing in his first canonical letter to Corinth: “God has chosen the lowly things of this world and the despised things—the things that are not—to nullify the things that are.” For Paul this is the direct consequence of his faith being grounded upon nothing but “Christ crucified.”
In my previous post I argued that Christ, in his self-emptying as a human being (especially in his crucifixion in Golgotha), makes himself an open space between being where the divine and human can come together. This happens when he abandons his own identity and self-enclosure in order to unconditionally embrace the other—the human outside cultural and tribal systems—thus bringing forth a new holistic form of Being in differentiated unity. This new unity becomes the actualization of the divine in human life. In this way he becomes fully human and fully divine, inviting everyone else to do the same through participation in crucifixion—“take up your cross”.
So Paul, building off of this scandalous truth, wanted to argue that God in Christ had changed up the worldly game of being by undermining its order through the cross. All those outside of tribal and cultural boundaries had been stripped of identity (especially lepers). Culturally this meant that they were abandoned to the realm of nonbeing. But “in Christ,” such persons could gain a new, universal identity as the very dwelling place of the divine by virtue of simply being human. Paul embraces this new kind of identity, recognizing that because it is apart from all exclusive and tribal systems, these persons “in Christ” would be regarded as “the trash of the world” by those on the side of worldly being.
This serves as the ground for what Paul calls “the body of Christ,” something that the aforementioned philosophers have failed to grasp in unity with Paul’s undermining of the worldly order of being.
The Body of Christ is the new body that appears in resurrection after the old body of the crucified one dies. In this new body, no one’s body is meant to exist in isolation. When I enter, I donate my own being and no longer possess myself. When I use the term “donation,” I am not only hearkening back to Jean-Luc Marion’s language of the Gift—an unconditional giving with no return expected—but I am thinking of the very carnal reality of organ donation. If I donate my organ to a dying patient, I lose part of my life that they may gain their own life. In a similar way, when I donate my being to the Body of Christ—a holistic community of differentiated beings in mutual support—I give something unconditionally for the life of the other. Christ, on the cross, donates his entire being. But resurrection means that all benefit. All members of the Body donate their own being, and as a result, all gain life-support. It is a double-experience of crucifixion and resurrection. Jesus said that anyone who loses her life for the sake of Christ will find it, but anyone who holds onto it will lose it. Christ is the new holistic reality wherein the Body of Christ emerges. Everyone loses so that everyone gains.
Ecosystems are a good picture of this. In an ecosystem, every individual part exists in unity with the other parts through the mutual exchange of energy. This exchange of energy empowers each organism to thrive, and any organism outside of an ecosystem will die.
The Body of Christ, for Paul, is a divine-human ecosystem. The whole of the ecosystem is the “divine” dimension, and the individual parts are the “human” or “animal” dimension. The two dimensions are inseparable as are all the individual parts. Just as in an ecosystem the individual being of an organism is not lost in unity but supported by it, in the Body of Christ, each being—each body—is a “whole within a whole,” a unique and differentiated individual in unity with others, supported by them and supporting them. Paul says that we retain our individuality in the Body—analogized as hands, feet, tongue, eye—working together for each other’s good. He says that if one member suffers, all members suffer. This holistic unity involves the emergence of new Being from the coming together of individual beings as a fuller realization of the divine, for “God is love” as the Johannine proclamation affirms.
This unity is one of love, not forced conformity. It is a unity that upholds and supports differentiation. It is a unity achieved by the crucifixion of tribal identity for the realization of a universal identity as simultaneously creaturely and divine.
To be concise, the new identity that arises is individual membership in an emerging universality of creaturely unity toward the deepening of the “divine” dimension of life itself, every individual creature a “temple” or “body” of the divine.
This crucifixion involves the mutual donation of being for the very purpose of the flourishing of each being together toward new and fuller Being. Even as this new Being/Body is upheld and supported by individual beings/bodies, it strengthens and divinizes each individual body and being.
Thus, the Body of Christ is a new form of interbeing as natural and original as an ecosystem but as novel as each new page in the ongoing book of evolution.
Overall Rating: 7/10
I should begin with the confession that I entered God Without Being with a bit of trepidation. On the one hand, the text is somewhat foundational for my own field (phenomenological theology), on the other, I find myself consistently disappointed by Marion’s explicitly theological texts (he makes a better philosopher than theologian, I would suggest). On top of this, I also had the strong suspicion that, having been so foundational to phenomenological theology in the 90’s and 00’s, that this text would say nothing that I hadn’t already heard. All that being said, I was nonetheless pleased with the reading, and though at times it tends to bog down in the very dense specifics of Marion’s reading of Heidegger, I would still suggest that it is a significantly valuable text, specifically the second edition, for reasons that I will explain below.
The main focus of God without Being is Marion’s attempt to theologically sidestep the Heideggerian critique of ontotheology. By ontotheology Heidegger intends, primarily, the theological or philosophical move wherein a greatest being or super-being (i.e. God, the Good, the One, etc.) is posited as the foundation of all other beings. Without going into considerable detail, I will leave that for Marion, Heidegger contends that this move fails to recognize the fundamental nature of ontological difference (the difference between beings and Being). Simply, for Heidegger, the foundation of all beings must be ontologically dissimilar to the beings it grounds (beings can’t pull themselves up by there own ontological boot-straps). Or again, the absolute foundation of all reality must be of a completely different nature from the reality it is said to found.
To his credit, Marion does not begin by attacking this notion of ontotheology, but rather, fully embraces it, re-articulating it under his notion of idolatry. For Marion, to think God as a being among beings is, not only to fall victim to ontotheology, but to furthermore commit the crime of idolatry. This redoubling of Heidegger’s critique culminates in his notion of “conceptual idolatry.” For Marion, any attempt to delimit God under the guise of a concept, is already to subsume God under the reign of Being, and therefore ontotheology; the “true” God, the God without Being, must also be a God beyond conceptuality.
In order to make the case that Christian theology can bypass this critique, Marion attempts to articulate his notion of a God which is “beyond Being,” that is to say, is completely dissimilar to created beings. For this task, he draws upon a variety of sources, most notably the Neoplatonic tradition of Christian theology inaugurated by Pseudo-Dionysius. For these mystical thinkers, God surpassed, not only all beings, but also Being-itself, even, they would add, Nonbeing. God, for Marion and these mystics, cannot be rendered as an object, either physical or conceptual, but instead surpasses all objectivity, all beings, even being itself. God, in this thought, is radically transcendent.
The obvious critique of this position is built upon the question of evidence. If God is beyond both Being and conceptuality, than how can this God be known, experienced, or verified? Marion’s creative solution to this problem, one which points to his latter work in Being Given, is to think God, not principally as a being, but as a giving (and as charity). God, for Marion, is defined by self-revelation. His principal case study in this notion is the Eucharist which, he argues, permits the presence of the absolute Otherness of God to manifest as the ultimate gift. More strongly, and revealing an indebtedness to the work of Michel Henry, he argues that this gift of presence is also the gift of the present, that the eucharistic presence of God cuts through the negative irreality of the past and future and offers the only true access to the present now.
The great addition to the second edition of this text is the inclusion of an additional essay “Thomas Aquinas and Onto-Theology.” In some ways more interesting than the primary text itself, Marion here pits Aquinas against Thomistic theology, arguing that while the latter falls victim to ontotheology, that this turn is only prepared by a misreading of Aquinas himself, who never subjugates God under the categories of Being.
Overall, I would recommend this text to anyone interested in the relationship between continental philosophy and theology, scholastic thought, or ontology, but would caution casual theologians or those who do not already possess a background in Heidegger as they may find themselves lost in his extended engagement with Heideggerian phenomenology.
I recently tasked myself, in the context of a
n argument “discussion” with drawing up a notion of “dogmatism.” Like one of Socrates interlocutors, I feel that I see dogmatism everywhere, but possess no grasp on what it is that I am seeing.
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I knew, from the start, that a definition of dogmatism should side-step the traditional “faith/reason” dichotomy in which it is often couched. For many, dogmatism is simply any proposition which is taken on faith, often to the detriment of so-called reason. A thoroughly modernist (read: Kantian) conception of dogmatism, this perspective is hugely problematized by the abandonment of traditional notions of faith, or more precisely, the recognition that the relegation of faith to “belief in what cannot be seen” is essentially vacuous. Not only, from a Christian perspective, does such a definition fail to account for the complexity of the Greek πιστις, but it is also severely limited from a philosophical perspective.
In his 1802 Faith & Knowledge, Hegel challenged this notion of faith, which for him was epitomized in the philosophies of Kant, Jacobi, and Fichte. For them, Hegel writes, “knowledge knows nothing save that it knows nothing; it must take refuge in faith.” Against this subjugation of reason by faith, Hegel argued for a more dialectical approach which might avoid this fideist hierarchy. Simply, rather than a rejection of reason in the Absolute, and subsequent necessitation of faith, Hegel argued for the Absolute as that wherein faith and reason find themselves reconciled.
“Above this absolute finitude and absolute infinity there remains the Absolute as an emptiness of Reason, a fixed realm of the incomprehensible, of a faith which is in itself non-rational (vernunftlos), but which is called rational because the Reason that is restricted to its absolute opposite recognizes something higher above itself from which it is self-excluded” (emphasis original).
Here, the “but” is essential. For Hegel, the absolute is certainly incomprehensible, but it is nonetheless “called rational.” At the apex, the distinction between faith and reason breaks down, or rather, is dialectically synthesized.
A similar disruption of the clear demarcation between faith and reason can be found in hermeneutic philosophy. In Being and Time, Heidegger writes:
An interpretation is never a presuppositionless apprehending of something presented to us. If, when one is engaged in a particular concrete kind of interpretation, in the sense of exact textual Interpretation, one likes to appeal to what ‘stands there’, then one finds that what ‘stands there’ in the first instance is nothing other than the obvious undiscussed assumption of the person who does the interpreting (Being and Time, 191-192).
For hermeneutic thought, there is no purity of reason; knowledge is always contexualized by its recipient. Or, put more challengingly, every reason is grounded in a prior faith (assumption), though of course, conversely, every faith is also grounded in a prior reason (philosophical presuppositions). These two do not stand as far apart as some might hope, but rather, are uncomfortably interpenetrating. This interpenetration is clearly marked in Thomas Kuhn’s The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, where it is shown that the emergence of scientific epochs is not simply (or principally) an outgrowth of reason-proper, but more clearly the reorientation of pre-rational worldviews, such that new evidence can be exposed and old evidence reinterpreted (and of course, some old evidence discarded).
Lastly, from a theological/phenomenological perspective, Jean-Luc Marion has taken this modernist reading to task in They recognized Him; and He Became Invisible to Them.
“This argument nevertheless results in a blasphemy: first of all because it makes me, and only me, a “knight of the faith”—the singular actor, within the supposed “night” of the intelligence, of a faith without reason, who decides, by himself, on the existence of God and the truth of Christ, like a god deciding on God. Secondly, it is blasphemous because God and Christ become in this context either impotent (incapable in fact of fulfilling the Revelation that they promise), or perverse judges (who, in masking themselves, expose me to unbelief by condemning me to a faith without reason). These consequences alone should suffice to convince us of the inanity of such a definition of faith.”
Instead of the traditional distinction between faith and knowledge, as a distinction between the blind (faith lacking intuition) and seeing (reason intuiting the Truth), Marion argues for a displacement of the “lack” in faith. Faith does not lack intuition, it is not blind, it lacks concepts. The intuition of faith is a saturated phenomenon, it overwhelms any possible conceptual schema in which one might seek to place it.
“It might be that faith does not consist in the compensation of a shortage—or, perhaps, that the shortage is an entirely different one from that of the intuition, one that would instead locate deficiency in the conceptual statements. It might be that we should believe not in order to recapture a lack in intuition, but rather to confront its excess in relation to a deficiency of statements and a dearth of concepts.”
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Having thrown out the clear faith/reason distinction, the very notion of “dogmatism” becomes considerably more difficult to navigate. If it cannot be understood as the blind reliance upon faith in the face of reason (as the relation between these two is significantly more complex), than how can dogmatism be understood. Particularly, what conception of dogmatism would be sufficient to recognize not only the dogmatism of faith, but equally, the dogmatisms of “reason.” Not only do we find dogmatism in religion—fundamentalist Christians, Muslims, and Buddhists, for example—but also dogmatic liberals, dogmatic atheists, dogmatic capitalists, and dogmatic Marxists. The tendency toward dogmatism appears to surpass every possible socio-cultural-ethnic-economic divide; dogmatism is everywhere.
Perhaps, I would like to suggest here, dogmatism is not opposed primarily to a “knowledge” or to a “seeing,” but to a recognition of an ambiguity. Dogmatism is not an absolutism despite the nothingness or lack inherent to “faith,” but an absolutism despite the irreconcilablity of ambiguity, of the antimony. Dogmatism is the tendency, not only to “take sides” in an ambiguous debate, but to fail to recognize that one is taking sides, that the debate is itself ambiguous, that one simply does not know. Dogmatism is opposed, not to reason, but to epistemic humility.
It should not be surprising, therefore, that those who attempt to articulate this ambiguity, who attempt to hold up the antimony, are attacked from both sides. Jacques Derrida, for instance, whose very philosophy of Différance sought to maintain the ambiguity and tension at the core of every identity, was targeted with astounding vitriol. As John D. Caputo writes in Deconstruction in a Nutshell:
“It is not uncommon to portray Derrida as the Devil himself, a street-corner anarchist, a relativist, or subjectivist, or nihilist, out to destroy our traditions and institutions, our beliefs and values, to mock philosophy and truth itself, to undo everything the enlightenment has done—and to replace all this with wild nonsense and irresponsible play” (Caputo, 36).
What is astounding about these condemnations is not merely their bizarre strength, but their origin. From the most rigorous analytic philosophers, to the most fundamentalist Christians, to Richard Dawkins and his cohorts. Groups which, in general, share remarkably little in common, joined together in condemnation of this lone philosopher. Cambridge philosophers sought to block Derrida’s honorary degree, Sokal sought to reveal all postmoderm thinkers as charlatans in the infamous “Sokal affair,” and Dawkins wrote his scathing (and misguided) Postmodernism Disrobed.
The strength of this condemnation reveals not simply a scholarly disagreement, but more tellingly, a great fear. What binds Richard Dawkins and the most Fundamentalist Christian? An absolute self-assurance, a rejection of ambiguity. What makes Jacques Derrida and the like so frightening, is that they refuse to close the book on these ambiguous issues. While they certainly take a side, they refuse to deny that they have taken a side. Dogmatics must anchor their thought in a Archimedean point (The Bible, the Koran, “reason,” Marx, the Free-Market), for fear of drifting eternally. When one challenges this point, the entire system begins to shake, the entire edifice begins to crumble. This is the most frightening possibility for a dogmatist, the erosion of the unifying factor, the free-fall into an ambiguous abyss.
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One reads, in the context of the abortion debate, for instance, of the “baby-killing-liberals” or of the “women-hating-conservatives.” Yet, what the extremes of both sides fail to recognize is that they are merely mirroring each others dogmatism. At the core of the question of abortion is the notion of human life, simply, “when does a fetus become a person?”. For some, the answer is found at conception, for others the third trimester, perhaps earlier, perhaps later. What both sides fail to recognize is that they are taking a side in an issue that is, at its core, essentially ambiguous. What does it mean to be a person? to be alive? Just as in the euthanasia debate, what seems like a clear cut issue, is actually quite ambiguous. Is life/personhood defined by heartbeat, viability, brain activity? It is ambiguous, yet, the choice that one makes regarding this ambiguous question makes all the difference.
I am not here advocating a quietism, the decision must be made, because these decisions are fundamentally ethical, doing nothing is not an option. Yet, I am advocating a caution, a humility. The world, particularly the ethical world, is complex and ambiguous. If we are to avoid dogmatism, then we must recognize this point and we must live in it, not in denial of it. We must attempt to walk the middle ground between a refusal to answer and an absolutist dogmatism, but this ground is fundamentally ambiguous. But perhaps, that is the point.
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I am very pleased to present my colleague and friend Jonah Ford’s extended discussion of Michel Henry and Richard Kearney’s theological appropriation of the phenomenological method (presented in conversation with Kant and Husserl).
The Visible Image of A God Who May Be:
Michel Henry and Richard Kearney In Dialogue
Kant has won. That is to say, as the development of modernity has illustrated, the epistemological system advanced by Immanuel Kant has become the formative and, more to the point, normative structure to frame the way in which the West approaches the world and conceives of their position within it. Dismissed by Kant as oriented toward the invisible and the unknowable, operating in terms of pure concepts and constructs of the mind, Kant made decisive the break between theology and philosophy, the latter of which he asserted should be governed by a “critique of pure reason” and fundamentally rooted in the observable and natural order. Indeed, subsequent generations have operated in terms of this cleavage; it is the presumed foundation of modern life and thought. The phenomenological reduction advanced by Edmund Husserl in the early decades of the twentieth century, however, offered a formidable critique to the epistemological system of Immanuel Kant, emphasizing instead an inherent relationship between the visible and the invisible, advancing the claim that what “appears” to intuition is already conditioned in that it appears, or, “gives itself” for us. Thus, working from within this double inheritance of Kant and Husserl, this essay proposes something of a dialogue between the phenomenological works of Michel Henry and Richard Kearney, as they each work to develop a particular Christian self understanding vis-à-vis phenomenological exegesis of Biblical texts and their symbols, as set forth in Michel Henry’s work I Am the Truth1 and Richard Kearney’s The God Who May Be.2
Kant advanced his Critique of Pure Reason, primarily to break the bonds of scholastic theology on the developing sciences. As Kant states in no uncertain terms, by advancing the Critique, he meant to “set up a tribunal that [would] make reason secure in its rightful claims and [would] dismiss all baseless pretensions.”3 Such “baseless pretensions,” according to Kant, are the proofs made by theologians in regard to the existence of God and doctrines of the Soul, which he asserts have overstepped the bounds and limits of reason. These “raving dogmatists” are propelled by a “thirst for knowledge,” which only “magical powers… could satisfy,” and have inverted reason’s primary purpose, which is to “remove the deception arising from misinterpretation, even at the cost of destroying the most highly extolled and cherished delusion.”4
Theology, as Kant knew it, was essentially comprised of two branches: doctrines of God, and doctrines of the Soul. Historically, doctrines of God were advanced by way of analogies of “being.” Attempting to address the perennial question of why there is anything at all, rather than nothingness, theologians and metaphysicians (Kant seems to use these terms synonymously) reflected upon the existence of the experiential world, and from this deduced that it must have come from somewhere—must have begun somehow by something—and posited proofs for the existence of God in terms of a “first cause.” Perhaps the most notorious example of this variety of theology is the proof for the existence of God developed by St. Anselm of Canterbury, and, generally speaking, utilized Aristotelian logic and syllogisms. Doctrines of the Soul, however, operated quite differently and are perhaps best exemplified in the work of St. Augustine of Hippo and his indebtedness to Plotinus’ contemplations on “the One.” Whereas doctrines of God were primarily concerned with the external world of objects, doctrines of the Soul were concerned with matters of internal cognition, and developed analogies in terms of intangible realities ingredient to experience, such as time and memory. Doctrines of the Soul reflected on the relationship between the external realm of things and objects, and the interior realm of the mind. Characterized primarily by neo-Platonic philosophy, doctrines of the Soul developed complex systems of rational psychology (that is, the inner workings of the mind; how the mind relates to itself), and utilized the two-fold process of outer sense to inner sense, and through inner sense, ascent by way of contemplation of God. Ontological arguments, and the onto-theological systems these proofs engendered, however, were Kant’s primary concern when he undertook the development of his Critique. Thus, although he developed a critique of inner sense in his attempt to subvert the absolute reign of theology over the epistemological needs of the developing sciences, this facet of his Critique of Pure Reason was later shown by Husserl and subsequent phenomenologists to be lacking.
Kant opens his Critique of Pure Reason by writing that, “Experience is, without doubt, the first product to which our understanding gives rise, by working on the raw material of our sense impressions,” continuing on to state however, that while sensory experience “does indeed tell us what is” it cannot, on its own tell us “that it must necessarily be so and not otherwise.”5 Once sensory data is intuited it is then recapitulated within the imagination so as to be ordered according to a priori conditions and categories—a step in the order of cognition which Husserl means to problematize—and it is only then that this sensory data (or, “intuition”) can be employed by the processes of the intellect. Thus, to grossly oversimplify the complexities of Kant’s epistemological system, only those objects which conform to this three-fold structure of intuition—imagination—intellection can be offered as the foundations of experience and consequently requires something which can be intuited (remembering that for Kant, what can be intuited is external and never internal) before cognitions can occur, and certainly before they become objects of knowledge to which one is beholden. As a result, within Kant’s epistemological system, one must learn to distinguish between the composite products of intellection (composite in the sense that they are derived from these three fold syntheses) and the “basic material until long practice has made [one] attentive to it and skilled in separating [products of cognition] form the basic material [of intuited sensory data].”6 Such discrimination is necessary for Kant so as to discern what can and cannot be for us real objects of legitimate knowledge and thus no longer be obliged to and governed by false objects of knowledge, such as God. Because Kant wanted to forestall the advancement of theological systems of both forms (ontology and rational psychology), Kant did not want the mind, as such, to be left standing as an object of knowledge either. Consequently, by setting the bounds for what can and cannot be for us objects of knowledge, Kant’s epistemological system leaves one categorically beholden to objects (that is, only tangible, external actualities), and, despite his own diatribes against the audacious claims of theologians to cognize God, is overly-confident of one’s ability to cognize the cognizer itself, a point for which Edmund Husserl later took him to task.
Attempting to elucidate “a general phenomenology of consciousness,” that is to say “the basic constitution of consciousness as such,” Husserl expresses his fundamental opposition to Kantian epistemology by stating outright, “The investigations we want to conduct require a completely different attitude than the natural one within which natural-scientific and psychological knowledge is attained.”7 Because Husserl means to analyze “the basic constitution of consciousness as such,” he begins first with a close analysis of the phenomenality of the ego. “Each of us says ‘I’,” writes Husserl, and “it is as such that he finds himself, and he finds himself at all times at a center of a surrounding.”8 This “I,” as Husserl is using the term, is not a predicate or a “thing,” it is not a “first cause,” in microcosm. Rather, this “I” is an act—the act of taking ourselves as ourselves. If ego be understood as something of an “I-hood” or “I-ness,” then this is not something static, not something fixed or unchanging, but is in fact, first and foremost an activity9—an activity which leads to various conceptions of who one is. Moreover, it is characterized by an essential evanescence. While it is the most concrete aspect of everyday existence, within the Kantian epistemological system one cannot account for it. How does one turn an eye to the I? To what external actuality does one point as the concrete object of intuition? As Husserl states it, “although the I finds itself as the one having… the I does not find itself as of the same kind as the one having.”10 Which is to say, the “I” is not reducible to the physiological “stuff” of corporeality, which is what presents itself to be objects of knowing under the Kantian schema. Yet it is this ego, this “I,” through which one perceives of the world and has experiences within the world.11 It is this ego which intuits sensory data and cognizes this data within the mind by way of the intellect, but is itself not reducible to these activities; it is not merely the formal manifold by which these activities obtain.
Thus, Husserl demonstrated that there is a fundamental element of transcendence ingredient in the objective realities one perceives and intuits as one acts upon the “raw material of [one’s] sense impressions,” to create one’s experiences. However, Husserl advanced this critique of Kant with no theological inclinations at all. Even as Husserl illustrated the limiting and reductionist consequences of Kant’s system, his motivations were purely analytical. Nevertheless, as the phenomenological school he produced began to develop in the subsequent decades, various individuals applied Husserl’s phenomenological approach to the study of religious phenomenon, and even the development of overtly theological constructs. In Michel Henry’s work, I Am the Truth, he takes a phenomenological approach to Christianity, viewing the Christian claim that Jesus is the incarnate Logos, God made flesh, the visible image of the invisible God as apt symbols, it seems, for the interplay between seen and unseen that Husserl’s phenomenological method had expounded. Cast in recognizably Christian idiom, Henry’s first chapter, entitled “The Truth of the World,” is nothing short of a discussion on “the natural attitude” of which Husserl speaks.12 However, for Husserl this discussion was germane to a critique of Kant’s epistemology and discussions of analytic psychology so as to assert theories of the self/ego and inner sense. Instead, Henry employs this to express the inability of the social sciences, history and archeology to reveal or explain the essence of Christianity, and begins his so-called “philosophy of Christianity” by overtly placing in contest with one another, “the truth of the world” and “the truth of Christ.”
Just as Husserl had asserted that Kantian epistemology reduced the ego to the manifold processes of the intellect and physiological substances, only allowing us to account for so much blood and tissue, Henry argues that in merely providing dates and circumstantial details, history and the social sciences can tell us nothing about the unique essence of Christianity, which is not reducible to its historical events and characters, even if they were to be proven beyond a shadow of doubt. What is more, it is not merely Christianity which eludes the grasp of history, for “the truth of history” is incapable of grasping at reality, as such.13 That is to say, the composite picture created by the bare facts that history provides does not give us “the reality of those individuals and of everything connected with them.”14 As Henry states, “The truth of the world is the law of the appearance of things,” which is to say, it is governed absolutely by the epistemological system of Kant which essentially and formally thrusts one perpetually outside oneself.15 Moreover, illustrating undeniable indebtedness to Husserl’s explication of the evanescence of time, which perpetually transcends every “now” as it slips into a never actualized future,16 “this making-seen… destroys [and] consists in the annihilation of everything it exhibits, not letting it subsist except under the aspect of an empty apparition,” precisely because this appearance becomes actualized within time, and cannot do so otherwise.17 Because objects can only give themselves to appearance within the a priori structure of time, since time forever moves forward and forever transcends, objects are perpetually becoming annihilated at the same time they are becoming revealed to intuition.18 Thus, if this making-seen, by way of inherent externality and the “casting-outside-of” characterizes the “truth of the world,” what, according to Henry, is the “truth of Christ” and thus, Christianity?
To begin with, “the truth of Christianity is not that a certain Jesus wandered from village to village, trailing crowds after him… until his arrest by the priests and his crucifixion at Golgotha.”19 For this is nothing other than truth according to the world, i.e., “the natural attitude,” and empties these claims of their essential (connoting an “essence”) reality by reducing them to historical images.20 Rather, the truth of Christianity is precisely that this Jesus who called himself the Messiah was, in fact, God’s Messiah; a truth which evades the glimpse of history. As nonsensically obvious as such a statement appears to be, Henry offers an interesting interpretation of this most basic Christian tenet. “This is one of the most essential affirmations of Christianity,” writes Henry, “that the truth that is its own can testify only to itself. Only Truth can attest to itself… more radically, divine essence consists in Revelation as self-revelation.”21 In so doing, this Truth, says Henry, “reveals itself to someone to whom it is given to hear it,” and this “makes the person who hears it the son of that truth.”22 Thus Henry makes his position clear. The truth of Christianity, because it carries forth “the truth of Christ,” is that it proclaims the self-revealing of the invisible essence most ingredient to life itself, the visible image of the invisible God, and that this visible image which is Christ came to reveal this Self-Revealing to the world and in so doing offers salvation.
As Husserl had already asserted convincingly, because of the “re-cognition” of intuited objects within the imagination, the processes of intellection, as they work to compose our experiences and offer for us objects of knowledge, are always and by necessity at a remove from the essence or reality of the objects intuited, placing the “I” or the “ego” perpetually at a distance from the realm of external sense. Accordingly, one is thus bereft of the confidence of pure empiricism (“the natural attitude”) in that, the items of intellection (the images of intuition as they are recast within the imagination) have already distorted the alterity of intuited external realities precisely insofar as they have become objects for us. Thus, within the Kantian epistemological system/“natural attitude,” there obtains an eerie isolation as objects and individuals are forever cast outside of themselves, and “egos” are perpetually kept at bay from the world they inhabit by the inherent distancing of their own experience-making. For Henry, it is precisely to this fallen state of things that Jesus as the Christ offers Salvation. As Henry writes, “It is the first decisive characteristic of the Truth of Christianity that it in no way differs from what it makes true. Within it there is no separation between the seeing and what is seen, between the light and what it illuminates.”23 Erupting into a world of empty Kantian apparitions, Christ as the incarnate God, “is that pure Revelation that reveals nothing other than itself,” for through Jesus as the Word made flesh, “God reveals Himself,” and this revelation does “not consist in the unveiling of a content foreign to its own essence and somehow transmitted to a few initiates.”24 Instead, this Gospel gives itself (according to Husserl’s use of this phrase) by fiat of its appearance (incarnation) in and to the world, as a gift to all of humanity, proclaimed to any who might have “ears to hear” it.
As Henry rhetorically asks, “Where is a self-revelation of this sort achieved? In Life, as its essence, since Life is nothing other than that which reveals itself.”25 Taking his cue from the Johanine mantra, “I am the way, the truth and the life.” (John 14:6), Henry asserts that “God is Life—he is the essence of Life, or, if one prefers, the essence of Life is God.” Within the Gospel of John, Jesus’ own perception of his divine status as the son of God, “descended from Heaven,” is acutely actualized, allowing him to proclaim in no uncertain terms, “If you know me, you know my father also. From now on you do know him and have seen him” (John 14:7). It is precisely this conviction that within the Christian revelation there is no separation between “the seeing and what is seen,” and yet it obtains within the experiential world of Life by the miracle of the incarnation, that Henry writes, “Everywhere that something like a self-revelation is produced, there is Life… self-revelation is achieved, the answer is unequivocal, in Life and in Life alone.”26
Husserl had asserted that the ego, the “I,” is not reducible to the manifold processes of cognition as Kant had delineated them, and Henry utilized this phenomenological posture to demonstrate that the reality of lived experience eludes the glimpse of history, concerned as it is with dates and circumstances, and thus the truth of Christ stands against the truth of the world in that it demands one acknowledge the true essence of reality, which is the Truth of Life.27 That is to say, according to Henry, what has been lost as consequent of the reigning Kantian epistemology, which has since become nothing other than “the natural attitude” and everywhere dictates “the truth of the world,” is the ability to account for and to comprehend life itself, in all its existential richness and splendor, which Henry terms—Life. In distinguishing so minutely what can and cannot be for us real objects of knowledge, Kant limited the scope of what can be known (that is to say, what can be for us the basis of understanding the world and our existence within it) to observable actualities of the visible world, that which appears for us as objects of intuition. In so doing, however, Kant left us with no way of accounting for that phenomenon which is most basic, Life itself, and all that one calls living in its most subjective sense, that poetic fodder since time immemorial.28 Epistemologically, Kant can only give us flesh and blood, sinews and bones animated by calculable electric currents. In short, Kant can only give us Frankenstein’s Monster—an animated corpse, shackled within the dark bastion of science, kept tragically distant from the beautifully intangible joys and relations of which Life is more truly comprised. Thus, for Henry, the Truth of Christianity lay in its proclamation of the visible image of that invisible essence most ingredient to Life, and in so doing offers “life, and that more abundantly” (John 10:10), offering salvation by exacting our return from the Kantian self-exile which so characterizes the age of modernity. However, this self-revealing Revelation is not the proclamation of something new and unique, but is rather the shocking call to remembrance of a forgotten, primordial Truth, the re-cognition of the most fundamental reality of creation itself (cf. John 1:1).
If Henry offers a phenomenological interpretation of the Johanine claim of Jesus, “I Am the Truth,” as a way of understanding the self-revealing Revelation of the Incarnation, then it might be said that Richard Kearney offers a compelling phenomenological recapitulation of the Great Commission. That is to say, if Henry understands the fundamental Christian revelation of the incarnation, the eternal Word made manifest, as offering salvation to humanity by reminding us that we are Sons and Daughters of God29 and thus calling us to return to the Life which engendered us, undoing the curse of self-exile, then Kearney reminds us that this incarnate Messiah was crucified, resurrected and slipped away from the grasp of his disciples, instructing them instead to comport themselves in anticipation of the Parousia. Henry offers a compelling phenomenological articulation of the significance of the Christian claim that Jesus is the self-giving of Life and the Son of God. However, this self-revealing Revelation consistently declared, “I am going away, and you will search for me… Where I am going, you cannot come” (John 8:21). Like the evanescence of time itself, this manifestation which obtained in time was only for but a season; indeed, “this making-seen… destroys [and] consists in the annihilation of everything it exhibits.” “Do not hold on to me,” is what this Jesus declares upon his resurrection (John 20:17).
Richard Kearney also writes of this God who offers deliverance from exile. However, Kearney reminds us that this God that gave of God’s-self in the self-revelation of the incarnation is first and foremost the God whom none have seen. In first century Judea-Palestine, this God revealed God’s-self in and through Jesus of Nazareth, however, this God’s first self-revelation was to Moses, and came by way of a mysterious burning bush, so as to initiate the delivery from bondage of God’s chosen people. Of this self-revealing, Exodic God, Kearney writes, “God neither is nor is not but may be.”30 Historically, this self-revelation of God, given to Moses in the desert and recorded in Exodus 3:14, has been translated as: “I am that I am.” As Kearney writes, “From the outset, the Greeks translated Exodus 3:14 in terms of the verb ‘to be,’ or einai,” and in so doing effectively ossified the inherent dynamism of the original Hebrew.31 Kearney makes clear that his opposition is in fact the same ontological and onto-theological metaphysicians and their systems, which Kant meant to debase by carrying out the “tribunal” of his Critique of Pure Reason. Once the Septuagint rendered this passage, which is in fact the very naming of God by God’s-self, according to the verb “to be,” God would forever be conceived of in terms of “Being” and inseparably bound to Hellenistic philosophy. “Already in the Confessions (13:31, 46),” writes Kearney, “Augustine turns the verbal ‘is’ of God into a substantive formula. And this move becomes more explicit when Augustine comments directly on Exodus 3:14… ‘Because he Is, that is to say God is Being itself’.”32
As history illustrates, this move became normative and orthodox, reaching new heights of expression during the burgeoning scholasticism of the Medieval period and forward, finally necessitating Kant’s decisive critique at the end of the eighteenth century that to assert the ontological status of a God whom none have seen bespeaks an audacious “thirst for knowledge,” which only “magical powers… could satisfy.” Moreover, such orthodox conceptions of God made it difficult to negotiate between the immutability required by the Hellenistic philosophy used to create them and the Hebraic scriptural inheritance which depicts a God who creates then regrets (Genesis 1-2, 6), is incited to wrath and anger only to later show mercy and forgive, and declares such an intimate relationship with the people of Israel that God can declare God’s-self to be “a jealous God” (Exodus 20:5). Indeed, it is this latter God, and not the God of Hellenistic metaphysics, that reveal’s to Moses, from within the burning bush, the name of the God who chooses to become self-revealing so as to occasion deliverance from bondage and offer the future of a Promised Land.33
This God, Kearney asserts, is an eschatological God, a God of promises and deliverance; and this God assumes the title of “The God Who May Be.” In a post-Kantian age where “the natural attitude” must declare the death of God, Kearney employs a phenomenological posture to reclaim the all but forgotten Exodic God, the God who resists being prescribed Being, evading the grasp of ontology, by proclaiming to be known only as the God of possibility. This God is not created (that is, this God stands outside Hellenistic ontological categories) and does not create, but instead, possibilizes.34 As Husserl asserted that there is an inherent exchange between the visible and invisible, the possible and the actualized even in the creation of one’s everyday experiential world, so too Henry spoke, not of “being,” but of manifestation, and the self engendering of life from Life.35 However, whereas for Henry, God is that invisible essence ingredient to the nativity of life from Life, Kearney alters this and instead speaks of God as that which stands outside of time and calls life futurely, allowing humanity to possibilize itself as God calls from the eschaton and draws humanity toward their more perfect futurity.36 This “more perfect” future, however, is not “perfect” in the Hellenistic sense, but is rather perfection in an ethical sense—a future always becoming, wherein lions lay with lambs. Moreover, just as Henry asserts that the God who reveals God’s-self can only be made known in and through life itself, Kearney asserts that this eschatological, possibilizing God calls to us from the persona, found within the face of the other, any other, which bids us come hither.
Kearney writes, “Each person embodies a persona. Persona is that eschatological aura of “possibility” which eludes but informs a person’s actual presence here and now.”37 For Kearney, the persona is precisely that which is not perceptible according to Kantian epistemology, or, “the natural attitude,” as Husserl would describe it. Indeed, the persona is not unlike the “I” of which Husserl writes, which intuits, re-cognizes, and has memories, and yet is not reducible to any of these. “At a purely phenomenological level,” Kearney states, “persona is all that in others exceeds my searching gaze, safeguarding their inimitable and unique singularity. It is what escapes me toward another past that I cannot recover and another future I cannot predict.”38 Within Christian scriptures, the persona is that which is revealed about Jesus to his disciples in his transfiguration upon Mount Thabor (Mark 9:1-8/Matthew 17:1-8), wherein Jesus is shown to be both recognizable and yet strangely other. Kearney interprets this to mean that “infinite persona of Christ is not exhausted in the finite figure of Jesus of Nazareth. The Messiah is distinct, if by no means separable, form the Nazarene.”39 What is revealed about Jesus the Christ at his Transfiguration however, is itself a dramatic representation of that which is true for all persons.
Thus, Kearney illustrates a perplexing inheritance of both Kant and the phenomenological tradition engendered by Husserl. Kearney presumes Kant’s denunciation of the right of the theologians and metaphysicians to ascribe ontological status to a God whom none have seen, which is only accomplished by way of the epistemological system Kant thus advances within his Critique of Pure Reason. However, as already discussed, the epistemological system advanced by Kant makes one categorically beholden to external physicalities, and thus only prizes actualities. Thus, Kearney strangely accepts Kant’s rejection of the ontological status of God while at the same time advancing a phenomenological interpretation of Christian events in terms of possibilities. Within the Kantian epistemological system, there is no place for expressing the valuation of possibility which is merely seen as a lack—a lack of presence, lack of intuition, and thus, ultimately, a lack of any ontological status. That is to say, Kant means to articulate that God cannot be known precisely because there is no external, physical actuality to which one can point.
To espouse a God Who May Be, however, means also to fundamentally privilege possibility, and to instead subordinate actuality, proscribed as it is within a teleology which predetermines certain things to be, by definition, impossible. Thus, the God of the eschaton, who became self-revealed by way of the incarnation, and through the persona of Jesus instructs humanity to live in anticipation of the coming Parousia does not declare a telos, but rather a possibilizing of that which is deemed impossible, according to “the natural attitude.” As Jesus instructs his disciples, “For humans it is impossible, but not for God; because for God, everything is possible” (Mark 10:27). Following a variety of phenomenology perhaps more indebted to Marion than Husserl in this regard, Kearney asserts his opposition to Kantian epistemology which can only account for possibility in terms of lack. Instead, proclaiming a God Who May Be, a God of Exodus’s and Eschatons, challenges “the classic metaphysical tendency to subordinate the possible to the actual as the insufficient to the sufficient.”40 “Instead of seeing possibility as some want or lack to be eradicated from the divine so that it be recognized as the perfectly fulfilled act that it supposedly is,” Kearney writes, the phenomenological-cum-eschatological God that he champions declares that it is in fact “divinity’s very potentiality-to-be that is the most divine thing about it.”41 As opposed to the God of Being, which lives by the ontological developments of history’s many theologians, suffers under Kantian epistemology and is thus declared dead along with the death of metaphysics itself, “the God-who-may-be offers us the possibility of realizing a promised kingdom by opening ourselves to the transfiguring power of transcendence… In this sense, one might even say that it is, paradoxically, by first recognizing our own powerlessness—vulnerability, fragility, brokenness—that we find ourselves empowered to respond to God’s own primordial powerlessness and to make the potential Word flesh.”42
Transgressing the Kantian distinction between philosophy and theology, Michel Henry and Richard Kearney both offer compelling examples of how to recapitulate Christian theological identity for a (post) modern world which exhibits a certain ambivalence in regard to this Kantian inheritance. That is to say, whereas the Kantian epistemological system has become so commonplace that one could simply refer to it as “the natural attitude,” as does Husserl, or describe as “the truth of the world,” as does Henry, the Enlightenment Project which Kant’s system epitomizes has not vanquished the so-called “baseless pretensions” of religious life as absolutely as it had hoped to. Thus, according to Michel Henry, what has been lost in allowing Kant’s epistemological system to govern the foundations of knowledge so absolutely is an inability to understand life itself, in all its truly subjective beauty. This elusive aspect of existence, which remains imperceptible within a Kantian epistemology, is what he terms Life, and according to him this is given the most unique expression in the Christian contention that Jesus is the “visible image of the invisible God.” By attempting to discern, not “whether Christianity is ‘true’ or ‘false’,” but simply “what Christianity considers as truth,”43 Henry understands the Christian claim that Jesus is God made flesh, the incarnate Logos, to be in essence a religiously framed articulation of the kind of interplay between visible and invisible proposed by Husserl to be ingredient to physical reality and thus subverts strict Kantian epistemology. Kearney navigates this double inheritance differently, however, as he presumes Kant’s denunciation of rational, onto-theology (a denunciation advanced only by way of asserting his epistemological system) while at the same time declaring a God whom none have seen and stands outside time and space to call creation forward into an unknown eschaton. For Kearney, what has been lost to Christian self understanding is not the result of the Enlightenment project, but predates it, beginning first with the translation of Exodus 3:14 into Greek, which effectively arrested the inherent dynamism of the Hebrew, imbuing it already with the fixedness of Greek philosophy.
Thus, conflating these formal categories of theology and philosophy, the works of I Am the Truth and The God Who May Be might perhaps be understood as essentially phenomenological interpretations of the Gospel of John and Exodus 3:14, respectively. Understood as such, interesting nuances can be perceived when one realizes that Kearney operates in terms of the picture of God derived from the Hebrew Scriptures, which is fundamentally the God whom none have seen and, conversely, Henry’s foundational symbol is precisely the visible image of this invisible God—Jesus as the Christ. Accordingly, when understood as primarily a difference in posture, the differences which obtain in these two works of phenomenological Biblical exegesis are already somewhat determined by consequent of their individual proclivities toward the Christian canon. That is to say, Kearney’s “God Who May Be,” the God who is “always becoming,” is derivative of a scriptural gaze which prioritizes the Hebraic legacy subsumed by Christianity, which speaks of Exoduses and Eschatons, and whose God only self-reveals so as to place one face to face with the needs of another. The horizon within which Henry’s conception of God as the “Truth of Life,” is however, a Johanine portrait of a Christ who is acutely aware of his divine origins, and brazenly asserts himself to be nothing less than God’s true Son, sent from the Father to reveal this Heavenly truth to humanity and thus offer salvation. Thus, Henry develops a phenomenological interpretation of a God whose self-revealing reminds humanity of the transcendent realities so fundamental and ingredient to life itself, which imbue it with the mystery and wonder that is overlooked, devalued even, according to the truth which governs the world, entranced instead, by the external, the tangible, and the physical.
Thus, the Christian phenomenological articulation evidenced in these two works conceives of two very distinct interpretations of core Christian symbols, both presuming a Kantian and Husserlian inheritance, and both claiming root within Christianities sacred texts. However, such distinctive points of departure seem quite appropriate for the continuation of a legacy which, according to its fundamental symbol and anchor of faith, has for centuries negotiated an identity in terms of an irreconcilable paradox, proclaiming the visible incarnation of an invisible God. According to Henry, this Christian paradox is the only apt way of expressing the Truth of Life, which lay inaccessible according to the truth of the world precisely insofar as it is not made manifest—it does not “come into the light” so as to become an object of scientific inquiry within the Kantian epistemological system. For Kearney, in offering us a Messiah who is also the incarnation of a God who possibilizes impossibilities by way of self-revelations which adjure us to position ourselves face to face with those who cry out in their suffering, Christianity proclaims a God that calls from outside life, and directs creation toward a more perfect future, not beholden to the perfection of Greek philosophy, but rather an inherently relational and ethical “perfection,” wherein lions lay with lambs.
1 Michel Henry, I Am the Truth: Toward A Philosophy of Christianity, trans. Susan Emanuel (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003).
2 Richard Kearney, The God Who May Be: A Hermeneutics of Religion (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2001).
3 Immanuel Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, trans. Werner S. Pluhar (Indianapolis, IN: Hackett Publishing, 1996), 8. Emphasis mine.
4 Ibid, 9.
6 Ibid, 45.
7 Edmund Husserl, The Basic Problems of Phenomenology, trans. Ingo Farin and James G. Hart (The Netherlands: Springer, 2006), 1. 8 Ibid, 2.
9 Cf. Edmund Husserl, The Phenomenology of Internal Time-Consciousness, Martin Heidegger, ed. (Bloomington, IN: University of Indiana Press, 1966), 54-64. As he writes, “perception is an act which brings something other than itself before us, an act which primordially constitutes the Object.” (Husserl, 63).
10Husserl (2006), 2. Emphasis in the original
11 Cf. Husserl (1966), 57-60, wherein Husserl problematizes the fact that the object in its essence is lost within the process of intuition and recollection, which puts the object as known to the self within the imagination at a remove from that which is intuited. Thus, there obtains an inherent disconnect/distortion between that which appears (or, “gives itself,” in Husserl’s terms) for intuition and that which is recollected within the imagination and acted upon within the mind by way of the intellect and the processes of cognition.
12 Cf. Husserl (2006), “The Natural Attitude and the ‘Natural Concept of the World.’”: 1-28.
13 As Henry has said elsewhere, in his “Critique of Knowledge. The Essence of Religion.” (Michel Henry, The Essence of Manifestation, trans. by Girard Etzkorn (The Netherlands: Martinus Nijhoff, The Hague, 1973): 399-410: “That such experience is in no way an experience of the absolute, according to Kant, that in contemporary ontology the effectiveness of the pure manifestation in no way exhausts all of reality but rather leaves out the original essence of reality, does this not show that finitude does not simply nor primordially designate the positive mode according to which all knowledge takes place… but that finitude rather designates the limit of knowledge, the inevitable referral of this knowledge to that which unavoidably escapes it?” (Henry (1973), 400. Emphasis Mine); Henry continues elsewhere to say, “The critique of knowledge is not referred to the determination of its internal structure, of its nature and of its possibility, neither is it the bringing to evidence of the necessarily progressive and indefinite characteristic of its task of clarification, but rather shows that this task is in principle incapable of dealing, not only with reality but with the essence which constitutes it.” (Ibid, emphasis in the original).
14 Henry (2003), 4. Emphasis mine.
15 Ibid, 19.
16 Cf. Husserl (1966), 35-47.
17 Henry (2003), 18.
19 Ibid, 6.
20 Ibid, 20.
21 Ibid, 10.
23 Ibid, 24.
24 Ibid, 25.
25 Ibid, 27.
27 Cf. Henry (2003), 33-52.
28 Ibid, 41 and 50.
29 Ibid; On this point, consider “Man as ‘Son of God’”: 94-111, “Man as ‘Son Within the Son’”:112-132, and “Forgetting the Condition of Son: ‘Me, I’/’Me, Ego’”: 133-151.
30 Kearney, 1.
31 Ibid, 22.
32 Ibid, 23.
33 Ibid, 20-38.
34 Ibid, 81-83.
35 Cf. Henry (1973), 211-218; and, Henry (2003), 53-68.
36 Kearney, 12-14, 25-31, 80-100.
37 Ibid, 10.
39 Ibid, 43.
40 Ibid, 2.
43 Henry (2003), 1. Emphasis in the original.
A Few weeks ago I was introduced to a fascinating documentary, directed by and starring Vikram Gandhi, entitled Kumaré. Adopting the persona Sri Kumaré (and appropriately thick accent), Gandhi modeled himself upon the plethora of Yogis he had discovered while filming a documentary of their lives, philosophies, and followers. Simply, Gandhi was convinced that there was something artificial to these Gurus, something that could be imitated to the same success by himself, with no formal training. Gandhi hoped that, by attaining a small group of loyal followers, leading them through a set of contrived practices, chants, and meditations, and finally revealing himself as a “false prophet,” he could reveal that the truth that they were seeking wasn’t to be found in any Guru or Yogi, but rather, that this truth was, in some sense, within themselves. [Read more]
Setting aside the (perhaps questionable) individualistic bent of the documentary, I was struck by the beauty of the film, the authenticity of the relationships, and the depth of the spirituality among Kumaré’s followers and Kumaré himself. I also could not help but wonder if there was not a more profound and unexplored theological depth underlying the film in general, but perhaps more specifically, the climactic “unveiling” scene (where Kumaré reveals himself as an American from Brooklyn, rather than an Eastern Guru). I wonder if this unveiling scene might perhaps offer a glimpse into the theological fecundity of Death of God theology.
In the early 1960’s, a theological movement, Death of God theology, emerged on the american scene with unprecedented speed and vigor, only to fall out of academic favor with nearly the same speed; “falling” so far that Adam Kotsko describes Thomas Altizer, one of the prime catalysts of this movement, as “the third rail of academic theology.” This movement, drawing upon the insights of Christian Mysticism, the dialectic of Hegel, and the atheism of Nietzsche, sought to articulate a theology built upon the primary intuition that “God is Dead.” While the precise understanding of what is meant by this “death of God” has been heavily debated–ranging from the metaphorical, through the performative, all the way to a quite literal understanding (of which Altizer appears to be a case)–there remains a consistent sense among Death of God theologians that, to a great extent, we are “on our own.” We can no longer rely upon a theological Big Other to guide our actions, declare right from wrong, and provide the Archimedean point of theological and philosophical reasoning.
Is it possible that the experience of the Death of God, the death of the Big Other, is precisely what Gandhi sought to offer his students at the momentous unveiling of his “true identity” at the conclusion of Kumaré?
For Gandhi, the essence of his teaching, both as Kumaré and at a meta-level through the unveiling, was “asking questions, breaking down icons and idols, and destroying the illusions our society is built on,” and presenting these deconstructive gestures as “highly ‘spiritual’ acts.” This reorientation of deconstruction as a spiritual act, perhaps even as the spiritual act par excellence, is precisely the motivation that underlies the reemergence of Radical (Death of God) theology in contemporary discourse. Caputo, Rollins, Zizek, Marion–these thinkers of the death of God, of the God who is not, who is “beyond being,” are not seeking to end religion, spirituality, or theology, but on the contrary, to revitalize it. Like Gandhi, they desire to break down the “idols” of thought. It is not coincidental that Marion’s God Without Being opens with a sustained treatment of the phenomenology of the idol. Anyone who wishes to follow the movement of the death of God, must first walk the path the includes a decisively critical/deconstructive gesture. The radical theologian, or any religious person who wishes to follow this path, must face the authentic trauma of the death of the idol, whether this idol be a clear conception of the “greatest possible being,” the moral big Other who guides moral reasoning, or the unveiling of the spiritual Guru as a mere brooklynite.
Of course, such a path has its risks. As Kumaré illustrates, anytime that one challenges these idols, idols that may be fundamentally orienting in ones life, there is a chance that this trauma will be unbearable. There are those who simply refused to speak to Gandhi after the unveiling, who stormed out of the room and never returned his calls. But there were also those who understood, who felt the freedom of his message, who recognized that there was no other way that his teachings could have concluded. And this is the risk of the the Death of God–it can be freeing, opening, empowering, and it can be devastating and destructive. This freedom, as Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra so beautifully illustrates, can inspire terror as easily as dancing. When one gazes into the abyss of the Death of God, or the Death of Kumaré, one does not know what one will find.
Some Conference acceptances started coming in, and it’s going to be a busy semester! Looks like I’m presenting:
(Anti-) Foundations, Duquesne University
“The Non-Foundation of Christian Theology: Non-Being in Jacques Derrida and Michel Henry”
Subverting the Norm II, Drury University
“Living Faith as Embodied Faith: Religious Practice After Merleau-Ponty’s Phenomenology of the Body”
College Theology Society, Creighton University
“The Ambiguous “Core” of Christianity: The Deconstruction and Phenomenality of Tradition”
Wish me luck!
“For the difference between a beautiful and a sublime work of art rests only on the fact that where beauty exists the infinite contradiction is resolved in the object itself, whereas where sublimity exists the contradiction is not unified in the object itself but is merely raised to a level at which it involuntarily removes itself in the intuition, which then is as good as if it were removed from the object.”
-Schelling, Deduction of a Universal Organ of Philosophy, or Main Propositions of the Philosophy of Art According to Principles of Transcendental Idealism
Schelling prefigures Marion’s conception of the Saturated Phenomenon by about a century and a half. In case you didn’t know, all of phenomenology’s best ideas can be found in 19th century German Idealism.