an international and interdisciplinary journal of postmodern cultural sound, text and image
Volume 9, July - December 2012,
ISSN 1552-5112
Philosophy, Theology and the Narrative of
Hope
Introduction
In the last few decades, the so-called ‘theological turn’ has emerged
as one of the most provocative themes within Continental philosophy. The theological turn has claimed for itself
thinkers as diverse as Heidegger, Levinas, Derrida, Ricoeur, and Marion. More recently, even committed atheists like
Žižek and Badiou have felt compelled to interact with Christian theology, if
only in an attempt to extract a purely materialist, revolutionary,
ethico-political Real from its otherwise “perverse core.”[1] Among theologians, the renewed rapport with
philosophy via the rather unexpected channels of poststructuralist and
postmodern thought has been met with a range of responses, from elation to
dismay. Nevertheless, many on both sides
agree that the turn has advanced genuine dialogue between the disciplines, and
the prospects of continuing interaction currently seem bright.
However, a new generation of speculative thinkers is attempting to
radicalize—indeed, even dismantle—this revived collaboration between theology
and philosophy. For example, here is a
quote from the introduction to a recent collection titled After the Postmodern and the Postsecular, edited by Anthony Paul
Smith and Daniel Whistler:
Both the
postmodern and the postsecular contamination are two sides of the same coin: a
one-way injection of theology into philosophy until what is proper to
philosophy becomes indiscernible. The
deconstruction of the philosophy/theology binary has resulted, not in a true
democracy of thought between philosophy and theology, but in the humiliation
and debasement of philosophy before the Queen of the sciences, theology… ‘[T]he
liberation of philosophy of religion’ is therefore to call for a critique of
such tendencies… in order to free a practice of philosophy of religion from the
constraints imposed on it by theological thinking.[2]
Smith and Whistler argue there must be a return to “the modernity, the
secularity, and the speculative intent of philosophy of religion.”[3] With Deleuze, they insist that if philosophy
is to retain its proper autonomy as a discipline, it must re-establish the
methodological atheism which is necessary for philosophical integrity. That is, “only by stepping back from the
‘insider perspective’ which informs theological study can the philosopher gain
the necessary freedom to exceed the representational.”[4] As evidence of the “theologisation” to which
philosophy of religion has been subjected, Smith and Whistler suggest that we
need look no further than Radical Orthodoxy.
It is, they contend, a contamination that blatantly and aggressively
challenges the possibility of philosophy maintaining its own sphere of legitimacy. Indeed, Radical Orthodoxy presumes that all
attempts to establish such a sphere ultimately end in nihilism.[5]
While I am sympathetic to Smith and Whistler’s desire to emancipate
philosophy of religion, so that it stands or falls on its own merits, irrespective
of its relation to theology, I wonder whether bracketing out all theological
claims will in fact lead to the independence which they expect. Might the presumption of methodological
atheism (or agnosticism) as a starting point involve an insider perspective of
its own? My worry is that such a
reactionary posture, if followed through to its conclusion, simply does not
allow for any potential affinity between philosophy and theology. Instead, it hypostatizes both philosophy and
theology, treating them as though they are identifiable objects rather than
fluid discourses. I would like to offer
here an alternative approach—admittedly, only a broad outline—for
consideration, trusting that any concerns about potential contamination will
certainly make themselves known.
Philosophy and Theology
as Form and Content
My thesis is fairly straightforward: we may be able to salvage, rather
than dismantle, the partnership between Continental philosophy and theology, by
viewing them not as competitors within a speculative field but instead as
dialogue partners within what might be called a narrative of hope. If we apply the general categories of form
and content to this narrative (recognizing, of course, the extensive debate
that surrounds the definitions of these terms and the nature of their
relationship), we may begin by hypothesizing that philosophy provides the
element of form. But without an
identifiable theological content, philosophy cannot make meaningful claims
about religion, other than in a purely speculative mode.
Perhaps, for some, such pure speculation is sufficient. But I suspect that for most philosophers of
religion, speculation per se is not
an end in itself. Speculation must
involve application, if philosophy intends to be meaningful. Inversely, theology may indeed provide
meaningful religious content. The
faithful certainly hope so. But, without
the formal acuity provided by philosophy, theology’s ability to describe the
meaning entailed in that content remains severely diminished.[6] We can already see this at work in the New
Testament book of Acts, where, regardless of the Gospels’ perceived status as
“foolishness to the Greeks,”[7] the Apostle Paul
nevertheless carefully makes use of Greek philosophy and poetry in an effort to
explain what Christianity means.[8]
Said another way, philosophy examines and clarifies the concepts and
the language by which one may posit a narrative of religious hope, while
theology, in providing the content (potentially both in doctrine and in
practice), offers the possibility of seeing that hope actualized. Of course, there will always be a blurring of
boundaries since we cannot determine absolutely where form or content begin and
end. And, alternatively, the philosopher
may decide to pursue a non-theological narrative of hope provided by, say, a
materialist vision of reality that rules out the divine. In such a scenario, philosophy could
certainly continue to provide the form as well as offering speculation about
meaning, but it would remain dependent upon the particular theological (or atheological) content given by its
predetermined vision of reality.[9]
Adriaan Peperzak helpfully, I think, suggests that we employ the term
‘religion’ as “the dimension… where the question of decisive or ultimate
meaning is asked and—at least tentatively and in an embryonic form—answered.”[10] Using this definition, we may describe as
religious all manner of reflective attitudes toward our existence in the world,
including many forms of agnosticism and atheism.[11] What we call faith is then understood to be
any “affirmation that existence (including the entire universe insofar as one
has to deal with it) has an overall meaning. Even if it is not full of meaning,
it must be more meaningful than nothingness…”[12] Peperzak continues, “Although, on this level,
a clear answer to the question of life’s meaning is not available, desire
darkly anticipates that it must be possible to discover it and that it is
already operative in the search. ‘Faith’ is thus linked with hope.”[13]
Does this mean that philosophy is forced to admit a transcendence
against which it makes and validates its claims? There is no a priori requirement that
philosophical form be wedded to specific content. Philosophy’s genuine autonomy stems from the
fact that it may be called upon to provide form for any content
whatsoever. Distinct speculation
regarding meaning will flow from each specific merger of form and content. But it is a mistake if one concludes that
philosophical form can be established as content in its own right, independent
of any other field of inquiry. This
results in the re-assertion of a transcendent philosophical subject which has
privileged access to a realm of thought in which it can make decisions about
itself absent all content. In other
words, if we accept the above definition, in the decision to bifurcate
philosophy and religion, philosophy itself becomes a religion. The alternative is that philosophy recognizes
“the particularity of its own bias.
This… does not necessarily preclude the task of speaking in a
universally recognizable way, but it entails the awareness that it cannot do
this in a non-particular language.”[14]
With Peperzak, I affirm that fraternity between philosophy and
theology is indeed possible and profitable.
However, this friendship can only be maintained if both sides admit
their limitations. This immediately
raises a concern regarding syncretism, since the boundary lines are often far
from clear. What troubles some
theologians, as well as philosophers like Smith and Whistler, is a concern that
the opposing side—already the friendship has become a battle!—will use that
lack of clarity to mount a sneak attack in which the autonomy of the other will
be compromised and contaminated. This is
admittedly a danger that can never be entirely eliminated. But, on the other hand, perhaps compromise is
not in itself entirely a bad thing, and makes available a field within which
hope might be cultivated.[15]
This leads to a second concern: does the employment of a category
through which philosophy and theology are affiliated then become a principle
that raises itself above both? This
would be as unpalatable for philosophy as it is for theology. This is precisely why the category of hope
may prove invaluable, since it is not only foundational to theology,[16] but also
resonates deeply in Continental thought, while avoiding the epistemological
baggage carried by the word ‘faith’, which is often employed as a synonym for
“my beliefs.” Rather than a term which
threatens either discipline, it is a vital term for both. And, since hope is fundamentally dependent
upon its correlate, the hoped-for, it is not easily bent to form an
over-arching principle. Any attempt to
do so would quickly reveal another universalized object. With this in mind, I now turn to offer some
examples of hope’s vitality within Continental philosophy.
The Continental
Narrative of Hope
The concept of hope has long been valued by Continental philosophy;
indeed, its articulation drives one of Kant’s guiding questions.[17] Here I only offer the briefest of outlines.[18] I begin with an instructive quote from Eugene
Long, who argues that a kind of transcendence is essential to human-being:
Our way of being
in the world is best understood in terms of possible ways of being… In this
sense we appear to be different from other beings in the universe. As beings of
potentiality, beings on the way, we are always transcending boundaries, moving
into new possibilities of being.[19]
While there are incessant and intractable boundaries, it is also
incumbent upon human-being to continually pursue the transcending of these
boundaries. Even the final boundary,
death, is not something we simply accept.
Indeed, many brilliant minds carry out research, and vast sums of money
are spent, in the hope of delaying—or even removing—this most defiant of
boundaries.[20] If this somewhat Heideggerian description of
our human situation is accurate, then the category of hope becomes a helpful
paradigm through which we can describe the human need for transcendence. We all hope for something. And to hope is to begin using religious
language, in the sense described above.
Nick Trakakis suggests that Continental philosophy not only tends to
rely upon literature as a catalyst for its mode of philosophical discourse, but
also views itself as deeply connected to political, socio-economic, and
cultural situations in the world, and feels compelled to respond to them.[21] Seen in this light, the flourishing affiliation
between Continental philosophy and theology makes sense: not only is theology
primarily developed within the context of a particular narrative (i.e. the
Bible for Christianity), but the increased recognition of the social,
political, and cultural implications of religion entails that theology need no
longer be viewed merely as a private sphere, but as a very real and powerful
motivating factor in peoples’ lives.
Trakakis notes, “The concerns, then, of the Continental philosopher are…
to provide a new vocabulary and a new vision that will inspire people… to take
up the struggle for ‘liberation’, however this is conceived.”[22] This new vocabulary and new vision are
consonant with various strands of theology and spring from a commitment to
hope, even if the content of that hope varies.
Hope’s indispensability has also been made apparent in recent French
phenomenology, where the theological turn is often said to have its most
distinct delineation. According to this
reading, the turn begins with Heidegger’s attempt to overcome the
onto-theological underpinnings found throughout philosophy since Plato. But Heidegger is then critiqued for leaving
the window to the divine open just a crack, which not only allows the return of
theology, but also ensnares Heidegger within the very paradigm he hoped to
escape. It is generally agreed that the
first philosopher to tread further along this path, at least implicitly, was
Levinas.[23] He was soon followed by Derrida, whose
formulations of ‘messianism without a messiah’ and ‘democracy-to-come’ radiate
hope and (ideally) shape our politics by encouraging our living into that
hope. As J. Aaron Simmons explains, “For
Levinas and Derrida, God’s coming is affirmed not necessarily as a religious
thesis, but as a political expectation lived out here and now.”[24]
John D. Caputo is perhaps one of the most energetic proponents of
Derridean hope. In The Weakness of God, Caputo announces:
My assumption, my
hypothesis, my faith… is that the name of God is the name of an event that is unforeseeable,
unimaginable, uncontainable, undeconstructible… an event, an advent, a future
and a promise, a call and a claim, a hope and an aspiration, which is why I
speak of a hyper-realism, which hopes in a being beyond or below being with a
desire beyond desire and a hope against hope.[25]
For Caputo, God names “an event, not an entity.” God is a name given to “the name of something
unconditional, the object and the subject of unconditional love and
unconditional hope, which concerns us absolutely.”[26] This is hope to the greatest possible extent,
hope that ultimately surpasses all the boundaries it meets. It affects both the past and the future,
inasmuch as it offers the possibility of redeeming the past by virtue of its
impossible future. According to Caputo,
this differentiates Derrida’s hope from that of Walter Benjamin: “Derrida’s is
not a ‘tragic’ view—the messianic is concerned not only with redeeming the
dead… but with redeeming the future… the ones to come, which is the more usual
meaning of hope. For Derrida, it is not
a question of choosing between the two.”[27]
But how far can a hope extend that has no guarantee? Here we encounter the difficulty of
attempting to articulate the boundaries of form and content. The terms are finally blurred in Caputo’s
account, and not without reason: he creatively pushes the boundaries and begs
us to consider what it means to think at the edges, where both philosophy and
theology find their most paradoxical expression. For Derrida, the sign contains a trace which
not only points to the fact that the meaning of the sign is not fully present,
but also leaves the way open to possible meanings still to come. It is this trace which not only becomes vital
for Derrida, but also for Caputo, in his description of the endless deferral of
the ‘to-come’ which is the hoped-for of his theology. At some point, speculation and
systematization must cease and we are left to encounter the impossible. Hope that is guaranteed is not hope at
all. Here it is only possible to pray and
wait. But it is difficult to look
forward to anything if there is no distinct ‘to-be-looked-forward-to’. If the meaning of the sign is endlessly
deferred, then it seems we cannot be assured of any meaning. Caputo appears to be moving in a direction that
would ultimately remove hope from any context, thus eliminating the hoped-for.
Although we can agree with Caputo, Derrida, and Levinas that there is
a real sense in which “Hope flourishes most when the situation is most
hopeless,”[28] we must also
acknowledge that without an object—that is, without the content, even if it
remains indescribable, of the hoped-for—hope will surely become a weaker and
weaker force, and not necessarily in the sense Caputo desires. And, while it is certainly true that hope is
for the present,[29] if “the true
object of hope is the Messiah,”[30] then it follows
that the more distance there is between us and the Messiah, the more difficult
hope will be to sustain. If the Messiah
never comes, it seems we have no eternal hope, and hope may easily become
nothing more than a coping mechanism.
This anxiety leads many to resign themselves to other methods of coping
with an endless deferral. Hope deferred
does indeed make the heart sick.[31]
This is why Caputo has no choice but to blur the lines, speaking
partly as a philosopher and partly as a theologian, when he says, “Hope is not
hope if you can see what you are hoping for on the horizon. We need hope when we cannot see the way out. Hope requires blindness.”[32] Here, we move in a thick fog. We begin to step outside the strict
systematic purviews of both the philosopher and the theologian. Here we reach Kierkegaard’s realm of the
absurd—faith[33]—and hope becomes
both a precursor to and a product of faith.
Kierkegaard was acutely aware of the vitality of hope. As he states in Works of Love, “to hope is to expect the possibility of the good,
but the possibility of the good is the eternal.”[34]
But Kierkegaard does not simply rely upon hope as a universal
principle; he subjectivizes hope in order to provide it with content. According to David Gouwens, Kierkegaard
therefore develops his ‘Christian hope’ (as opposed to ‘earthly hope’) through
a four-stage dialectic. These stages
are, first, “hope in youthfulness,” which is followed by disappointment and
disillusionment.[35] Second, there is “the supportive calculation
of understanding,” which is the despair that enables one to become “sensible
and calculating” in the face of hopelessness.[36] This would imply that all pragmatic,
utilitarian, or statistical approaches to ethics and religion are in fact forms
of despair. Third, one becomes fully
conscious of these hidden despairs and “everything comes to a standstill.”[37] But hope is not lost forever. This is the point at which the fourth stage
answers: eternal hope speaks, and announces that with God, the impossible—the
return of hope—is possible.[38]
How is this to be understood?
It is, says Gouwens, a hope “not based on ‘experience’ or calculations
of ‘sagacity’… Hope takes a different frame on life; one can ‘hope against
hope’, ‘by virtue of the absurd’, not in the sense of an irrational earthly
hope, but a hope in spite of a
realistic appraisal of the odds against earthly hope.”[39] This constructive interpretation of hope
tempers the tendency to conceptualize hope as an over-arching principle; it
resists the temptation to make hope into an end in itself. Hope exists within faith and beyond
faith. Nevertheless, it is only the content
of a theological vision that offers a reason to hope in such an absurd situation. To hope for hope’s sake implies that hope can
provide its own content and meaning.
It may sound like a return to the tired deus ex machina argument to say that the theologian has recourse to
revelational content, something that philosophy cannot access, given its
position as an autonomous field of speculative formation. But this must not be understood by either
side as a trump card. It is more like
clinging to a rope, while hanging over a chasm in the fog. The theologian cannot articulate content any
further, once philosophy has reached its limits, but she nevertheless can hold
to or, better still, be upheld by the content of hope, so that hope does not
simply fade away into a distant horizon until its promise is lost.
So, Caputo’s position is not invalidated by the appeal to revelation;
far from it. Caputo rightly recognizes
that all standpoints ultimately not only reach, but must step into, the
aporetic: it is the nature of both philosophy and theology to not only walk in
the borderlands,[40] but to
continually ask: Are these really the established boundaries, or can/should we
move further? In so doing, we reveal the
sources of our hope. Caputo’s hoped-for
is the event of God, the reason for any and all goodness in the world.[41] His articulation of this hoped-for may not be
synonymous with the traditional Christian conception, but it is nonetheless a
theological vision (even if a very obscure one) and operates within that realm
as a response to the call of the good.
This is, of course, an impossible risk.[42]
Conclusion: The
Call of Hope
As with all speculative thinking, reflection upon the above concept of
hope tends to become blunted by the pragmatic or reductive response. Even if we can never know the truth about the
religious or the transcendent, it seems we do have knowledge about many things,
enough to live our lives effectively and with relative fulfillment. Why add additional constructs to a
world-picture that performs quite well?
Why not let the effective structures remain in place and ignore the
rest? Such is, for example, the common
naturalistic challenge to both theology and Continental philosophy. Why bother with hope, which offers nothing
more than mere speculation?
Of course, the first response involves asking just how ‘effective’ the
current structures really are. A second
response might suggest that hope offers a way of thinking and speaking which
transcends our finitude and catalyses our possibility. Without concepts like hope, an entire
dimension of reality for human beings disappears. No doubt there are some who would welcome
that disappearance, since they don’t believe it was real to begin with. However, there are good reasons to think that
human existence would be greatly diminished without this dimension of
reality. For example, does anyone really
want to relate intimately to another person without any possibility whatsoever
of genuine love? It might be pleasurable
for a while on a purely sensual level, but there is something about human-being
that longs for more than the purely sensual.
We long for meaning, which involves the content of hope.
Even to ask for a rational or linguistic correlation presupposes that
we find meaning on multiple levels. And
it seems worth giving credence to more levels of meaning rather than fewer,
otherwise we may haphazardly base our decisions on nothing more than our own
preferences, which is precisely what the pragmatist asks us to avoid. So it is with hope; we must continually
remain open to the multiple dimensions of meaning which may be contained in
this little word. This involves allowing
both philosophy and theology to play their part, giving each its proper space,
and never allowing either one to claim finality in the realm of speculation.
an international and interdisciplinary journal of postmodern cultural sound, text and image
Volume 9, July - December 2012,
ISSN 1552-5112
Notes