Faith & Reason: Essays in the philosophy of religion by R.G. Collingwood. Edited with an introduction by Lionel Rubinoff

 

Early Collingwood on religion & philosophy

The essays in this book focus on pieces written by Collingwood early in his career. It borrows extensively from his first two books, Religion and Philosophy (1916) and Speculum Mentis (1924). The essays included were also written during this time period.

 
Rather than attempt an exposition of Collingwood’s thoughts manifest in this collection, I’ll simply proffer some observations. Having completed this collection, I’m now diving into Religion and Philosophy, which is the only work of philosophy by Collingwood that I haven’t yet read. My excuse for my tardiness is that it was an early work that commentators have generally slighted. However, my first observation is that it presages many of the themes that Collingwood will go on to explore in greater depth throughout his career. The several portions of Religion & Philosophy included in this collection reveal Collingwood’s concern with “forms of consciousness;” the mind as its activity; the importance of thought; distinctions between disciplines (art, religion, natural science, and history); and the relation of those disciplines to philosophy. We are also introduced to Collingwood addressing idealism and “the Absolute” more directly than what I recall in his later works. (“Realism,” on the other hand, while mentioned in these snippets from Religion and Philosophy and Speculum Mentis, gets a more consistent (critical) treatment throughout his career.)

Now for some more random observations and questions.

1. Collingwood reveals a significant depth of knowledge and appreciation of Christian theology in his writings. How much of this did he receive at Oxford in classes and seminars, and how much of it came from his reading on his own?
2. In reading Collingwood, one obtains the sense that these matters are not strictly a matter of professional interest and curiosity. And from probably the best single introduction to Collingwood now available, Fred Inglis’s History Man, we know that young Collingwood made a deliberate entry (Baptism and Confirmation) into the Anglican fold while a student at Rugby. I suspect this religiosity drives his formidable intellect in addressing the issues of God, existence, Atonement, the Absolute, and other theological and philosophical terms he considers in these selections.
3. Collingwood addresses philosophical idealism more directly here than in any work I’d read previously. In the late 1930s, Collingwood bristled at being labeled an idealist by Gilbert Ryle. (The accusation really riled up Collingwood.)
4. Collingwood refers to “the Absolute” on various occasions in this collection of works. It seems to me that the Italians, Croce, Gentile, and De Ruggiero, display their greatest influence on Collingwood during this early period. So far as I can discern, talk of “the Absolute” as a working term fades from Collingwood’s vocabulary after the early 1920s.
5. Collingwood’s reluctance to be caught up in dichotomies is revealed early in his career. Although it's not until Speculum Mentis that I think that he overtly references a dialectical method for this thinking, I find the seedlings of this attitude are on display here. Yet, while he avoids easy dichotomies, he also reveals his penchant for sharp distinctions. For instance, distinctions between thought and feeling; will and thought; art, religion, science, and history; and so on. Collingwood wields his logical scalpel to reveal distinctions, without intending to sunder relationships that constitute the reality he’s investigating. Collingwood uses anatomy to enhance our understanding of the more important physiology.

I will stop here, as I’ve already begun my plunge into Religion and Philosophy for a complete, careful reading. I intend to provide a more careful consideration of Collingwood’s ideas set forth in that book (and then, I think, back for a second reading and consideration of Speculum Mentis). Before closing, I should say that Rubinoff has done an important service by providing this introduction to Collingwood’s early work at the intersection of religion and philosophy. This collection and commentary enhances our appreciation of Collingwood’s life-long project, and it provides deep insights into philosophy, religion, and Christianity.

A Secret History of Christianity: Jesus, the Last Inkling, and the Evolution Of Consciousness by Mark Vernon

I came to this book through the back door; that is, it was not the “Secret History of Christianity” that grabbed me (not a unique title), but the subtitle “the Last Inkling and the Evolution of Consciousness.” This phrase no doubt referred to Owen Barfield and his line of thought about the evolution of consciousness. Barfield has been on my radar for years as I’ve sought to become more familiar with his deep insights. While Barfield is a lucid writer, his thought dives deep and sometimes can leave the reader adrift. And unlike his more famous Inkling companions C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, Barfield never reached great numbers with his works (which only included a relatively small amount of fiction and poetry). So, I thought, perhaps this work would reveal more about Barfield’s project to me.

Alas, it did not. After an initial cursory introduction to Barfield’s key notion of “original participation” followed by “withdrawal participation” and “reciprocal participation,” and a nod to French anthropologist Lucien Levy-Bruehl about his idea of “participation mystique,” Vernon plunges directly  into a history of the Hebrew Bible through the lens of the concept of “participation.” From that starting point, he moves on into a review of ancient Greek culture through the same lens. In both traditions, the earlier manifestations of those cultures were marked by “original participation” with the world around them. As Vernon describes it, the phenomena refer “to the felt experience of participating in life. Original participation dominates when there is little distinction between what’s felt to be inside someone and what’s outside because the boundaries of individual self - consciousness, which today we take for granted, are not in place.” (p. 3; loc. 264.) Or as Barfield describes it: “Early man did not observe nature in our detached way . . . . He participated mentally and physically in her inner and outer processes.” (p. 3; loc. 269.) Vernon proceeds to take the reader through a brief history of the Hebrew Bible to illustrate this phenomenon and the eventual shift away from a consciousness marked by original participation to one of “withdrawal participation,” which is marked by a shift away from immersion in the surrounding world into a greater sense of individuality. As Vernon describes it, “An awareness of separation, even isolation, is felt. A person will begin to sense that they have an inner life that is, relatively speaking, their own. (p. 3; loc. 273.)

After completing his brief but illuminating history of the Hebrew Bible, Vernon moves across the street, as it were, and does the same with ancient Greek culture, displaying the same dynamic at work. Like the Hebrew prophets, the emerging Greek philosophers (culminating in Socrates) promote a greater sense of individuality and individual agency. The world of Achilles in the Iliad is significantly different from that of Socrates. As Vernon points out, another way to look at this shift is to discern a growing sense of individuality and the use of introspection by individuals.

With the advent of the Hellenistic Age in the wake of Alexander the Great and his successors, these two lines of thought—Hebrew and Greek—begin to encounter one another and interact. Out of this mixture arises the life of Jesus and the coming of Christianity. It’s at this point that I must quibble about the first part of the title of this book, “the Secret History of Christianity.” What Vernon writes about in this section and the sources he draws upon is not Dan Brown material. Rather, the sources that Vernon draws upon are neither secret nor very unorthodox. (Although he does cite the Gospel of Thomas, which is outside of the sanctioned Scriptures, that’s about as far out of the mainstream that he goes.) Vernon’s portrait of Jesus draws upon the Four Evangelists and Paul to demonstrate that Jesus was taking his followers deeper into the interior life. Vernon demonstrates his argument with quotations from the Gospels and Paul that should prove familiar to any reader. He emphasizes the message of interiority preached by Jesus and the desire of Jesus to prompt a metanoia—a change of mind (or heart-mind, as I’m persuaded may prove a more adept translation). Vernon argues that Jesus didn’t intend to set down new sets of rules to follow, but instead, he intended to change our awareness; to find the root of our conduct on the inside. (I can’t help but recall the scene in Monty Python’s Life of Brian where the supposed messiah (Brian) loses a sandal while attempting to flee the crowd and the crowd takes this as a directive to shed their sandals--or something. Ah, literalism.) In short, Vernon provides a convincing and attractive portrait of Jesus that comports with Barfield’s theory of “participation” and that comports with sound Biblical scholarship. Sorry, no lost gospels or secret societies here.

Vernon continues his tour of Christian culture and belief through the early Church on to Augustine, whose interiority further expands this Christian insight and who develops the idea of the will to better understand an individual’s volition. Vernon follows this path continuing up through the Renaissance, which—contra Burkhardt—Vernon argues does not provide a definitive break with medieval culture and belief. But the Reformation, which follows upon the Renaissance and does alter the course of the evolution of consciousness. The Reformation, in the words and works of Luther and Calvin and their followers, placed a significantly increased emphasis on the individual’s conscience. The Reformation, along with the Scientific Revolution, altered the ways that individuals saw themselves and their world. The advent of the printing press, like the advent of literacy and private reading in earlier times, greatly facilitated (or perhaps more it’s more accurate to say, helped cause) this change in consciousness. Humanity became more aware of how to manipulate the world around it and gained an increased sense of individual agency. But these gains came at the cost of losing much (and in some cases all) of the sense of belonging to the cosmos that had survived through the Renaissance. Christianity, as a result, tended more toward literalism and faith as belief rather than trust. This trend has continued up through the present, but Vernon identifies signs that humanity may be ready to move into a mode of “reciprocal participation.”

Vernon identifies “imagination” as the key to reaching a state of reciprocal participation. In this argument, Vernon echoes many of the themes that Gary Lachman identified in his 2017 publication, Lost Knowledge of the Imagination. As both authors note, imagination is not another word for fantasy; both authors draw upon Samuel Taylor Coleridge for guidance in describing the role and function of imagination and its distinction from what Coleridge labeled as “fantasy.” Also, Vernon discusses the body of poetic and visual works of William Blake as a master of informed imagination.

Thus, while I didn’t experience an in-depth dive into Barfield’s thought (although Barfield’s work does resurface prominently toward the end of the book), I did receive a persuasive application of how Barfield’s perspective can apply to the history of Western Christianity. An for those who want a helpful introduction to Barfield’s project, one can turn to Gary Lachman, who refers to Barfield frequently, and at depth in his works ASecret History of Consciousness and Caretakers of the Cosmos. And as to having a not-so-secret history of Christianity added to the piles of books written about the history of Christianity, Vernon’s effort is worthwhile. The fact the sources that Vernon draws upon are not occult doesn’t mean that the project isn’t valuable; it is. While not secret, his understanding of Christianity is not widespread so far as I can discern. The description that he provides is one that could prove useful as we go forward to meet the challenges ahead. He hopes to see Christianity (along with other wisdom traditions) bridge the gap between our alienation from the world around us (and ourselves) and the gifts that individuality and science have brought to us. This is a noble and vital enterprise, and one that deserves our thanks—and our reading time.

St Paul: The Misunderstood Apostle by Karen Armstrong

Karen Armstrong is among my favorite writers on the topic of religion, and this book only adds to my admiration. Armstrong is not a Biblical scholar nor an academic student of religion, but she’s someone who’s dived deeply into religious traditions and who brings her findings and observations back to the rest of us through thoughtful, carefully researched, and considered books. This book only adds to my admiration for her work.

Armstrong is no stranger to challenging topics: the monotheistic tradition from its Judaic origins to the present (A History of God), Buddha, Mohammed, the Bible, the Axial Age, and religion and violence. But still, St. Paul can present a unique challenge. As Armstrong reports at the beginning of this book, she’d tackled the subject of St. Paul early in her career as a journalist and student of religion. She began that project, undertaken in the late 1970s, with the assumption that Paul took Christianity in a wrong direction, away from the legacy of Jesus. But as she learned more about this enigmatic and fascinating man (although in some ways we know little about him), she changed her opinion. Thus in 1983, she published The First Christian about Paul, whom she initially thought of as the source of misogyny, authoritarianism, and anti-Judaism in the Christian tradition. She reports that she changed her perception in the course of producing that book (and accompanying television series). This work, published in 2015, updates her quest to come to grips with this “misunderstood apostle.”

No one can doubt Paul’s influence. Indeed, I remember some years ago seeing a poll of scholars about the most influential persons in the Western tradition. In that poll, to my surprise at the time, some of the respondents rated Paul’s influence as greater than that of Jesus. I was shocked, but the explanation provided was that without Paul, the nascent tradition surrounding Jesus would have remained within the existing tent of Judaism. Paul, the Pharisee turned apostle after his vision on the road to Damascus, brought the “Good News” to the Gentiles. Paul's ministry caused chagrin to the Jesus movement in Jerusalem, led by James, the brother of Jesus, who intended to remain within the Judaic tradition, or who at least would have required Gentile converts to adhere to Jewish law and custom.

Another intriguing aspect of Paul’s story is the fact that his letters are the oldest documents to be included in the New Testament canon. (Aand I do mean his letters because some letters were later attributed to him by tradition.) Armstrong undertakes a vital project for her readers, in working to separate out what are certainly authentic Pauline letters and words from those later (inaccurately) attributed to him. Also, his authentic letters, epistles, were scrambled in what came to be the official versions, sometimes mixing letters and dates and subjects. Also, later editors would occasionally interject their own words. The Acts of the Apostles, attributed to Luke, comes after Paul’s letters and provides a different (and not especially accurate) account of Paul’s mission. In fact, some of the most controversial (by contemporary standards) passages in Paul’s letters are later interpolations, such as the injunction for wives to be submissive to their husbands, or (maybe) his injunction to defer to the political authorities. (However, Paul, like Jesus and other earlier followers, believed the end times were imminent, and therefore any injunctions were for a transitory period.) Armstrong notes that Paul’s real value was in his proclamation of the Good News to those outside of the Judaic tradition (although Paul was very much a part of that tradition and was never anti-Jewish). Paul's injunctions about love, justice, and equality became fundamental (if all too often ignored) aspects of the Jesus Movement and then Christianity. 

Even misreadings of Paul, such as those of St. Augustine and Martin Luther, have shaped the course of Christianity. How Christians understand, appreciate, and use the legacy of St. Paul remains as vital as ever to the Christian tradition, and Karen Armstrong provides a trustworthy guide to continuing that quest.  

The Nature and Destiny of Man: Vol. 2 Human Destiny by Reinhold Niebuhr

He's looking to us to carry the torch

Reinhold Niebuhr’s The Nature and Destiny of Man: Human Destiny (vol.2). Human destiny seems an almost absurdly immense topic, but Niebuhr brings formidable learning and perspective to his self-imposed task. When he wrote and delivered these Gifford Lectures in1939, the Second World War loomed on the horizon. Soon Nazi armies would run rampant through Europe. Hitler and Stalin had entered into a pact that allowed for the division of spoils in Eastern Europe. Western Civilization and the values that it had cultivated for centuries were under attack. In this half of the project, Niebuhr directs us to think profoundly about our heritage. Of course, thinking and lecturing don’t win wars, but stating and examining our ideas and ideals help us to understand and define ourselves and to discover what we value. This Niebuhr does magnificently. 

Mining Christian tradition

Niebuhr began his career at a Lutheran parish in Detroit after completing divinity school at Yale. In Detroit, he experienced the injustices and problems of working people, and these experiences shaped his thoughts and attitudes about social justice and politics. He also mined the Western tradition of Christian and secular thought. This book (and its predecessor) reveal an impressive understanding of the Christian traditions. In this book, like all of his works, he deploys his knowledge of the Biblical tradition. But he also understands and explicates Catholic, Lutheran, Calvinist, sectarian, mystical, and (to a lesser extent) Orthodox positions on issues like sanctification, justification, grace, and so on. One may think that this sounds like a rather dry history of various Christian doctrines that most Christians, not to mention non-Christians, would find dull and irrelevant. To the contrary, Niebuhr brings these issues and their implications to life.

In all of Niebuhr’s writings, you find a persistent endeavor to recognize and grasp the implications arising from the paradoxes of human existence. Salvation by works or by faith? A transcendent or an immanent God? Pride or sensuality as the foundation of sin? Deference to government or defiance? For each set of issues, some of which have caused the greatest divisions—including torture and warfare—are carefully exposed, explicated, and critiqued. Niebuhr provides no easy answers; no “do this, do that” recipes. Instead, he provides insights into the human predicament.

Someone might ask why they should spend time reading a now long-dead (1971) 20^th century American theologian, especially if one is not a Christian.  The answer is that Niebuhr provides abiding perspectives on the human condition, into our attempts at political life, achieving justice, dealing with pride and sensuality, and understanding international relations—to list some of this most prominent themes. For each great challenge that he addresses, he provides his reader with observations that capture the paradoxes and folly of human action. In this time of growing uncertainty and fear, Niebuhr, along with Hannah Arendt and George Orwell, writers from my grandparents’ generation, provide wisdom so sorely needed now.

Buddha, Jesus & Socrates Need Help: Part 2 via Reinhold Niebuhr

Reinhold Niebuhr, 20th century American

In my prior post on this topic, I touched on the history of Christian political thought up to the time of St. Thomas Aquinas, after which (roughly speaking) the weight of thought veers in a different direction after Machiavelli and Hobbes. I now want to jump forward to the 20^th century and to the thinker whom I’ve found most informative and persuasive in his analysis of politics and the problems of ethics: Reinhold Niebuhr. Taking a cue from Protestant ministers who would announce the text upon which they would base their homily, my text for this blog post will be Niebuhr’s The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness: A Vindication of Democracy and a Critique of Its Traditional Defense, published in 1944. 

Niebuhr was an American theologian and political thinker active in public life from the 1920s to the 1960s. In a very helpful introduction to my edition of The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness, Gary Dorrien (Reinhold Niebuhr Professor of Social Ethics, Union Theological Seminary, and Professor of Religion, Columbia University) provides a useful account of Niebuhr’s thinking over his long career. Dorrien also provides a succinct statement of some of Niebuhr’s most important themes and insights about politics and ethics: 

 

• the problems of human “fallibility, sin, and ambiguity”;
• the understanding that human groups will always place self-interest first and foremost and therefore a struggle for power will ensue;
• occasionally individuals could overcome self-centeredness when motivated by love; and
• Jesus provides no direction with the issue of political ethics. 

This last proposition severs Niebuhr from the Social Gospel proponents with whom he once shared allegiance. In arguing that Jesus taught no political ethic, Niebuhr identified a central lacuna in the Gospels that later tradition sought to rectify. Thus, Niebuhr takes up issues that St. Augustine struggled with near the beginning of Christianity in Late Antiquity. Following the lead of Augustine, along with influences (theologically) from Luther and Calvin, Niebuhr develops a realist stance of Christian (and secular) ethics toward the political world. In his Introduction, Dorrien describes The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness, as “written at midcareer as Niebuhr was coming fully into his own, is the most comprehensive statement of his political philosophy.” Niebuhr, Reinhold, The Children of Light and the Children of Darkness: A Vindication of Democracy and a Critique of Its Traditional Defense. University of Chicago Press. Kindle Edition (Introduction by Gary Dorrien). A careful consideration of this work suggests ways in which we can think about bridging the gap between individual ethics that require love and eschew violence against the realities of political power. 
 

In a quote that should rival Churchill’s for its pithy and ironic defense of democracy, Niebuhr wrote: “Man's capacity for justice makes democracy possible; but man's inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary.” Id. (Forward to the First Edition (1944)). Niebuhr identifies democracy with the rise of the bourgeois in Europe and then in America. It arose because individuals wanted to protect themselves and their property. So a new balance was struck, one in which freedom from constraint and arbitrary exercise of power became of the utmost importance. But Niebuhr also realized the larger issues of freedom and community that arise from this background. He writes: 

Democracy can therefore not be equated with freedom. An ideal democratic order seeks unity within the conditions of freedom; and maintains freedom within the framework of order. Man requires freedom in his social organization because he is “essentially” free, which is to say, that he has the capacity for indeterminate transcendence over the processes and limitations of nature. This freedom enables him to make history and to elaborate communal organizations in boundless variety and in endless breadth and extent. But he also requires community because he is by nature social. He cannot fulfill his life within himself but only in responsible and mutual relations with his fellows.

 Id. (pp. 3-4)

Niebuhr is not a simple cheerleader for bourgeois democracy; to the contrary, he is a sharp critic of it and of capitalism as a social and economic system. He states: 

Bourgeois individualism may be excessive and it may destroy the individual's organic relation to the community; but it was not intended to destroy either the national or the international order. On the contrary the social idealism which informs our democratic civilization had a touching faith in the possibility of achieving a simple harmony between self-interest and the general welfare on every level.

 Id. (p. 7)

But it is this faith that Niebuhr spurns, the belief in progress and the inevitability of social improvement endorsed by those he terms “the children of light”. Niebuhr describes the children of light: 

Those who believe that self-interest should be brought under the discipline of a higher law could then be termed “the children of light.” This is no mere arbitrary device; for evil is always the assertion of some self-interest without regard to the whole, whether the whole be conceived as the immediate community, or the total community of mankind, or the total order of the world. The good is, on the other hand, always the harmony of the whole on various levels. Devotion to a subordinate and premature “whole” such as the nation, may of course become evil, viewed from the perspective of a larger whole, such as the community of mankind. The “children of light” may thus be defined as those who seek to bring self-interest under the discipline of a more universal law and in harmony with a more universal good.

Id. (pp. 9-10)

He then describes the “children of darkness”: “The children of darkness are evil because they know no law beyond the self. They are wise, though evil, because they understand the power of self-interest.” Id. (p. 10). Where the children of light are naïve, the children of darkness are knowing. Niebuhr argues that for the children of light to succeed in bringing about a better world, they must learn the ways of their cynical counterparts. And in what may shock some contemporary readers, Niebuhr includes Marxists (at least some) among the children of light: idealistic in believing self-will and conflict can be finally resolved. He writes: 

The Marxists, too, are children of light. Their provisional cynicism does not even save them from the usual stupidity, nor from the fate, of other stupid children of light. That fate is to have their creed become the vehicle and instrument of the children of darkness. A new oligarchy is arising in Russia, the spiritual characteristics of which can hardly be distinguished from those of the American “go-getters” of the latter nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. And in the light of history Stalin will probably have the same relation to the early dreamers of the Marxist dreams which Napoleon has to the liberal dreamers of the eighteenth century.

Id. (pp. 32-33)

Note that Niebuhr wrote this during the war, when Stalin led one of our allies in a great titanic struggle and when Roosevelt believed he could woo Stalin into joining a liberal post-war world. While Niebuhr’s equivalence of American “go-getters” with the leaders of the Kremlin seems far-fetched, his comparison of Stalin to Napoleon and crushed dreams is prescient.  

Niebuhr sums up his brief for the children of light: 

The preservation of a democratic civilization requires the wisdom of the serpent and the harmlessness of the dove. The children of light must be armed with the wisdom of the children of darkness but remain free from their malice. They must know the power of self-interest in human society without giving it moral justification. They must have this wisdom in order that they may beguile, deflect, harness and restrain self-interest, individual and collective, for the sake of the community.

Id. (pp. 40-41). 

Niebuhr recognized the modern nation-state as the primary actor in international politics. About it, he writes: “The morally autonomous modern national state does indeed arise; and it acknowledges no law beyond its interests. The actual behaviour of the nations is cynical. But the creed of liberal civilization is sentimental.” Id. (p. 33). Thus a conflict, especially open and obvious (and continuing) in American history between the idealists (Wilsonians we may say) and the moral realists (of whom Niebuhr is perhaps the most articulate). This dichotomy in American practice runs all through American history in the twenthiecentury. Our most “Machiavellian” president[i], Richard Nixon, admired Wilson and saw himself carrying on the Wilson legacy while he proved himself a master of geopolitical realism in the American interest. President Obama, who cited Niebuhr as his “favorite philosopher”, walks a fine line between brutal realism, Niebuhr-like caution, and American idealism, sentimentality, and nationalism. 

Lest one think Niebuhr too pessimistic, we should note that he supports efforts to limit conflict and build institutions: “The problem of overcoming this chaos and of extending the principle of community to worldwide terms has become the most urgent of all the issues which face our epoch.” Id. (p. 153). In fact, that we may think of a “world community has two important sources that allow such a concept to enjoy any reality. The first source is religion. Niebuhr writes: 

While the religions of the east [earlier referring to the Confucian and Daoist traditions of China and the Hindu and Buddhist traditions of India] were generally too mystic and otherworldly to give historic potency to universal ideals, their emerging universal perspectives must be counted as added evidence of the fact that there has been a general development in human culture toward the culmination of religions and philosophies in which the meaning of life and its obligations were interpreted above and beyond the limits of any particular community.[ii]

Id. (pp. 156-157).

Niebuhr identifies the developments in the technical realm as the other impetus toward a world community. Taken together, the reality of a single world community is more than a liberal pipe dream. Yet, against this, Niebuhr identifies the centrifugal force and predicts that “international politics of the coming decades will be dominated by great powers who will be able to prevent recalcitrance among the smaller nations, but who will have difficulty in keeping peace between each other because they will not have any authority above their own powerful enough to bend or deflect their wills.” Id. (p. 171). 

In making these observations, Niebuhr criticizes realism in international relations almost as harshly as liberal institutionalism: 

It is indicative of the spiritual problem of mankind that these realistic approaches [to international relations] are often as close to the abyss of cynicism as the idealistic approaches are to the fog of sentimentality. The realistic school of international thought believes that world politics cannot rise higher than the balance-of-power principle. The balance-of-power theory of world politics, seeing no possibility of a genuine unity of the nations, seeks to construct the most adequate possible mechanism for equilibrating power on a world scale. Such a policy, which holds all factors in the world situation in the most perfect possible equipoise, can undoubtedly mitigate anarchy. A balance of power is in fact a kind of managed anarchy. But it is a system in which anarchy invariably overcomes the management in the end. Despite its defects the policy of the balance of power is not as iniquitous as idealists would have us believe. For even the most perfectly organized society must seek for a decent equilibrium of the vitalities and forces under its organization. If this is not done, strong disproportions of power develop; and wherever power is inordinate, injustice results. But an equilibrium of power without the organizing and equilibrating force of government, is potential anarchy which becomes actual anarchy in the long run. The balance-of-power system may, despite its defects, become the actual consequence of present policies. The peace of the world may be maintained perilously and tentatively, for some decades, by an uneasy equilibrium between the three great powers, America, Russia and Britain. [iii]

Id. (pp. 173-175)

Niebuhr goes on to consider the histories and practices of particular nations: the U.S., Britain, Russia, and China, and how they will relate the new order in the post-war world, displaying prophetic insight through his observations. He also notes (again) the tension between individual morality and political realities that create tensions: “Hypocrisy and pretension are the inevitable concomitants of the engagement between morals and politics. But they do not arise where no effort is made to bring the power impulse of politics under the control of conscience. The pretension that it has been brought completely under control is thus the hypocritical by-product of the moral endeavour.” Id. (pp. 184-185). He sums up the quandary with this pronouncement: “The field of politics is not helpfully tilled by pure moralists; and the realm of international politics is particularly filled with complexities which do not yield to the approach of a too simple idealism. Id. (p. 186). In the end, Niebuhr concludes that we must strive for the impossible: a community where none is fully realized peace where it is never final. 

This book is less fundamental and comprehensive than Niebuhr’s Moral Man and Immoral Society, but both works give us guidance as far as guidance can be found. As with Buddhism, we have to conclude that we have no definitive standards for conducting political life from the founders. The Christian tradition has built theories (often conflicting), but none can fairly claim to have arisen directly out of the Gospels or the New Testament. And we cannot turn to Niebuhr for rules of ethics: he provides none. He opposed Roosevelt’s arms build-up before Munich, and then he rallied in support of the fight against Fascism. In the early 60’s he supported the U.S. effort in Vietnam, but he later became a vocal critic of the war. Niebuhr’s thought is marked by ambiguity, irony, and equivocation. One shouldn’t turn to it if you are looking for the answer to whether a particular policy or course of political conduct meets a given test of morality or ethics. There are no easy answers. For instance, should the U.S. use drones on known Islamic terrorists plotting the death of Americans when we know that innocents will be killed? Should we arm rebels and bomb because Americans have been murdered, even though the “collateral damage” (so Orwellian) will claim innocent lives? The litany of tough practical and moral choices could continue indefinitely. There is no existing answer book unless one takes a position of absolutism. 

Does the liberal-secular tradition provide a more reasoned, easily identified set of answers? I hope to explore that in a future post, perhaps considering Max Weber, Michael Ignatieff, and Michael Walzer. And for a completely different take, I hope to consider the ideas of Gandhi about war and peace, which may prove more nuanced than many would have thought.

---

[i] This designation mischaracterizes both Machiavelli and Nixon. For a convincing understanding of Machiavelli that goes beyond branding him a mere cynic (as Niebuhr does), see Bobbitt, Garments of Court and Palace: Machiavelli and the World That He Made, which argues that Machiavelli’s The Prince was a step on the road to a republic and the unification of Italy and therefore a provisional ethic. As to Nixon, he was more Shakespeare’s Richard III, who sought to “set the murderous Machevil to school “(3 Henry IV, 3.2.16) with his personal ambition. Nixon had a mixture of both. Kevin Spacey’s character Frank Underwood in House of Cards, likewise, is almost all Richard III and no Machiavelli, at least in motive.

[ii] This is an over generalization of “eastern” religions, and it overlooks that fact that Christianity was—and is—an otherworldly religion.

[iii]See Henry Kissinger's just published World Order for a consideration and defense of a balance of power stance.

Jesus, Buddha & Socrates Need Help--Part 1: Through the Lens of William (Patrick) Ophuls

 Actually, the title is erroneous. Jesus, Buddha, and Plato don’t need help—we do. Whether one follows the way of salvation set for in the Gospels, the path to enlightenment offered by the Buddha, or the way of wisdom explored by Socrates, unless one dives in head-first via a monastic or hermetic life, one must remain in a sinful and imperfect world. This is the world of politics, of deciding who gets what, when, and how. It’s a world of compromise, imperfection, and—quite often—dirty hands. It’s a world marked by corruption and decay, punctuated with periods of growth in wealth, knowledge, and well-being. The worm is always in the flower. How do these avatars of love and wisdom expect us to live in this imperfect world? 

Jesus, in the traditional view, would have us defer to a world to come. Some argue that his vision was of this world, and that a social upheaval would reveal the Kingdom of God is among us. But a New Heaven and a New Earth have not come to pass. The parousia has not occurred. Life has gone on. Politics has gone on, and Jesus left no theory of politics. Only from the scraps, such as “Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and render unto God what belongs to God”. Any Christian theory of politics arises from scraps of scripture that give us some inkling of how Jesus and his New Testament followers came to think about this world. Only long after the time of Jesus and Paul did Christianity attempt to come to grips with the continuing reality of the world and the need to address the demands of social, political, and economic life. As to politics, the work of St. Augustine and his idea of the City of God and the City of Man, of dividing divine reality from human reality, became the most significant statement of how Christianity would address the demands of this world. Medieval political thinkers developed the theory of the Two Swords—the need for both religious and secular governance—and St. Thomas Aquinas folded Aristotelian thought and its political insights into the Christian worldview. But thoughts of a coherent and compelling union of political insights with Christianity never worked in a fully logical, coherent manner. Finally, Niccolò Machiavelli in Renaissance Florence turned the Christian “Mirror of Princes” literature upside down. Instead of promoting the cultivation of Christian virtues by rulers, Machiavelli called for a divorce of religious ethics from political ethics. Notwithstanding a great deal of resistance and disdain, the divorce occurred. What Machiavelli might have left standing, Thomas Hobbes finished off.

I learned most of what I wrote above by the time I finished college, well versed in both Christianity and the Western political tradition. But what about the Buddhist tradition that has taken hold in the West and that has influenced me? What is the Buddha’s theory of politics? It turns out, like Jesus, he didn’t have a theory of politics. (Plato, creator of “Socrates”, leaves a more ambiguous legacy.)

I had occasion to raise this issue with a man who seemed to be the perfect person to address it: William (Patrick) Ophuls, former Foreign Service officer, Yale-trained political scientist, Northwestern University professor, author of four books on the politics of scarcity and long-term trends in history—and most significantly—a long-time practitioner of Buddhist insight meditation. Ophuls directed me to an essay he’d written entitled “The Politics of Meditation” (contained as an appendix in his book The Buddha Takes No Prisoners). In it, he considers these issues and compels us to think more deeply about them. 

In his essay, Ophuls argues that the Buddha, despite his admonitions against “false speech” and violence, implicitly condones political choices that may—at least to some degree—entail deception or violence. Ophuls recounts Buddha’s encounter with King Pasenadi of Koasala, a warrior-king who made decisions of life and death. But the Buddha did not rebuke him or condemn him; in fact, after the King left, the Buddha remarked to followers “that the monarch’s views were ‘monuments to the Dhamma.’” Ophuls, Patrick (2012-05-29). Buddha Takes No Prisoners: A Meditator's Survival Guide (Kindle Locations 1758-1759). North Atlantic Books. Kindle Edition. Ophuls also points out that Buddha maintained good relations with rulers, which given the significance of his movement (he gained many followers and altered the social fabric) is no small feat. (Contrast these successful dealings with rulers and the Buddha’s long life with the collision course with political authorities, both Roman and Jewish, that Jesus embarked upon from the beginning of his ministry and that led to his execution after only about three years of activity.) Based on Buddha’s remarks and history (and remember that Buddha was the son of a king trained to serve as a king), Ophuls concludes “there indeed exists an implicit politics of dharma— a politics that contradicts many contemporary attitudes and opinions, because the Buddha taught a way of personal liberation, not a political ideology.” Id. 1752-1754. So what does this “implicit” politics of dharma look like? And even if not a “political ideology”, it contradicts “many contemporary attitudes and opinions” (but not all). So how do we practice it? Ophuls does not provide a direct answer, but he goes on to explore the contours of the issue: 

Thus although he was an exponent of nonviolence, the Buddha was not a pacifist as we would understand that term. Nor did he oppose the death penalty.

. . . .

How could this be? How could the Buddha, who made nonharming the foundation of his morality, seemingly condone the king’s violence? The answer is simple, if unpalatable to contemporary sensibilities: men are not angels, so government is a necessary evil; but government rests on coercion; ergo, those who govern must be willing and able to use violent means to keep the peace and defend the realm. The Buddha’s praise of King Pasenadi tacitly acknowledged that those who rule must employ force when necessary.

Id. 1754-1755; 1759-1763

Ophuls also describes the actions of Hadrian upon his appointment as Trajan’s successor: Hadrian directed the assassination of three would-be rivals who would likely have fomented civil war in order to challenge Hadrian’s claim. Many lives and great losses would have resulted from another Roman civil war—three lives to allow two decades of peace and prosperity. A fair trade or an unmitigated evil deed? Along similar lines, Ophuls recounts the tale of the Bhagavad Gita and Arjuna’s lament at the death and destruction that he has asked to rain upon his teachers and kinsman. Krishna rebukes Arjuna and directs him to follow his karma, his destiny. From this line of thought, Ophuls concludes: 

So the Buddha’s penetrating intelligence took in the whole panorama of human existence, seeing it in a dispassionate light and from an ecological perspective. Different personalities at different stages of spiritual development have divers social roles and responsibilities. Only a minority is called to be ordained as a monk or nun— and therefore to a vow of absolute nonharming in this lifetime. And a good thing too, because if the majority tried to devote their lives to full- time spiritual practice, then who would grow the crops, tend the cows, and weave the cloth?

Id. 1774-1778

Ophuls enjoins us to follow our karma. If we are called to serve as monks, we must follow a monk’s ethic; if called to rule, we must follow a ruler’s ethic. The “good” is thus not defined by the act itself, but by its intention—the how and why of an action count more than the physics of the action. Ophuls writes: 

To put it another way, the key to morality is volition; it is intention, not the deed itself, which creates karma. Hence, the karmic fruit of executions motivated by cruelty or vengeance will be quite different from those motivated by a sincere desire to preserve civil society from criminal depredation. This does not mean that there is no karma attached to being a ruler— as King Pasenadi, who had attained some wisdom precisely by fulfilling his royal dharma, himself acknowledged. But it does mean that we cannot apply absolute standards to the relative world. From the absolute standpoint proclaimed by the Buddha, the relative world is just what it is: radically imperfect. To try to perfect it is futile and will only entangle us in suffering.

Id. 1787-1792

Bringing his focus back to the contemporary world, Ophuls notes that the insights of the meditation cushion often seem inapplicable to the world of the marketplace and politics. As he so aptly notes, “the Buddhist perspective on politics is not easily reconciled with the political ideology of Berkeley.” Id. 1800-1801. He goes on: “[I]f you wish, you may continue to vote the straight Democratic ticket and to revile wicked Republicans at every opportunity (or vice versa). You can also oppose war, because violence is always bad, while approving abortion, because sometimes it is not (or vice versa). And so forth. But these are worldly positions, not spiritual truths, and your attachment to them will cause suffering in exact proportion to the degree of your attachment.” Id. 1801-1804. Here we see Buddhism meeting political realism, skepticism, and a dash of American pragmatism. We can only work the edges, the intentions. We come to appreciate that logical consistency is rarely found in politics. Although he does not write it, he might have also noted Emerson’s adage that “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds”, thereby revealing how we are truly caught between the Scylla and Charybdis of unworkable logical consistency and self-serving inconsistency. 

Because Buddha and Buddhism eschew any political ideology (certainly a form of mental attachment), we must lighten-up about our political views. Ophuls writes: “[W]e need to let go of all fixed or partisan political views. For a mind stuffed with obstinate opinions and driven by obscure obsessions will not see the world as it truly is: indelibly marked by anatta, anicca, and dukkha. Id. 1804-1806. We have no models for such probity and insight that can serve us as political models, Ophuls concludes. The sangha (community of Buddhist monks) cannot provide a model because of its otherworldly orientation. Ophuls argues, “the dharma is not, nor can it ever be, political in the usual sense—that is, concerned with reconciling contending interests, instead of fostering wisdom and virtue”. Id. 1825-1826. 

Ophuls suggests that the Buddha’s ideal of the political would be like that of Socrates in Plato’s Republic: “[L]et wisdom and virtue reign over humankind. However, like Socrates, the Buddha knew very well that philosophers would not be kings nor kings philosophers, so this ideal state of affairs—hard enough to achieve within the sangha itself—could not be imposed on entire societies.” Id. 1811-1813. What Ophuls does not say (and what I find implicitly troubling in his book title, Plato’s Revenge) is that Plato, at least in the Republic, is profoundly anti-political. Whether Plato intended the Republic as only a thought-experiment or as an actual political blueprint, he, along with Buddha and Jesus, leaves us without a working political theory. We have to continue to construct our political understanding in light of these profound insights but without explicit guidance. For more explicit guidance, we must turn elsewhere. 

Ophuls opines on further on the limits of politics from a Buddhist perspective, writing that: 

A further blow to idealism in politics is the deeply conditioned nature of existence. Because everything arises dependent on the arising of other things, social and political reality is the product of a long chain of causes and conditions. These causes and conditions produce very different realities at different times and places, and these distinct realities place strict limits on what is possible. Thus wisdom and virtue cannot be imposed by fiat on a recalcitrant world. Nor can we specify the one best political system for all people, everywhere, at all times, because what is appropriate at a given time and place depends on circumstances.

1826-1830

As an example of his assessment, he notes that

 “contemporary belief to the contrary notwithstanding, liberal democracy is no panacea. Without the right intellectual, cultural, and social foundation, it will fail. Imposing its trappings in defiance of conditions creates a sham democracy at best; at worst, it produces rampant corruption, ethnic conflict, and a host of other evils.”

Id. 1831-1833

Ophuls moves to a conclusion stating: 

So it may be that the best and noblest political act is to forget politics and to devote ourselves primarily to training our minds in wisdom and our hearts in compassion , even as we continue to live as householders . The above is not a call to apathy or passivity. But the Buddha’s way is to be clearly aware of the world as it actually is— not as we conceive it to be or would like it to be— and then to respond accordingly. For instance, since dukkha is intrinsic, we are never going to get rid of worldly suffering, only mitigate it to some degree . As Jesus said, “The poor ye shall always have with you,” so don’t look to Caesar to end poverty (or any other social evil) anytime soon. There is no political remedy for what ails this world, and if we imprudently try to inflict one, the inevitable result will be more of the inquisitions, gulags, revolutions, reigns of terror, and wars-to-end-all-wars that disfigure human history.

Id. 1835-1842

Add the unreality of annata (non-self), the workings of karma, and the realities of entropy and political decay, and Ophuls seems to be saying “fogetaboutit”. He writes: “Politics is also a vast and utterly impersonal process indelibly marked by dukkha, anicca, and anatta—a process that we poorly understand and can only pretend to manage, except at the margins”. Id. 1850-1852. Ophuls concludes: “Better to devote ourselves to acquiring wisdom and virtue instead of contending for wealth and power, even vicariously. This way, and this way alone, is the real political revolution and the sole remedy for human suffering.” Id. 1853-1855

But while Ophuls denigrates the possibilities for satisfactory action in politics, his actions betray his words. He has written four books about politics and social change. Ask Keynes: ideas, whether for good or ill, deeply affect us, and I doubt Ophuls would have taken the time and effort to write his books about politics if he hadn’t intended to effect political thinking and political action. And as he writes above, we can hope to affect politics “at the margins”. Is marginal control worth it? Yes, it is. Politics is about the future of the nitty-gritty world that we share outside our immediate family and friends, and one that effects our well-being and all of those with whom we share this Earth. So while Ophuls correctly notes that liberal democracy won’t work for all polities, it works for some (and for some better than others). Thus, it is worthwhile to struggle against the corruption of American democracy by the dominance of Big Money. Will we perfect it? No, but we can correct it and thereby create something better for our future. 

The quality of life we live is this world has improved because of politics (and despite it, too). The quality of life has also declined because of political decisions. But with all of the ups and downs, we enjoy a better quality of life than our ancestors. Humanity has progressed. It could fail miserably, and our current civilization certainly will and must undergo some profound changes. Those changes could go completely awry, or, as Ophuls implies in Plato’s Revenge, a changed world could retain a worthwhile quality of life with the right models of politics, ethics, and economics. We don’t know how our decisions will play out, but we will be making decisions that will shape our future, and the most important of those decisions will be made in the political arena. So while Platonists focus on the lure of appearances, Buddhist monks on Mara, and Christian monks on the “Kingdom come”, we have to live our lives in this world. 

Generation after generation, we have attempted to make life better: better by less pain, better by less violence, and better by more opportunities to explore human potential. Social and political change is a very messy process with many instances of backsliding. It’s also a process fraught with ethical dilemmas and traps that can increase our own delusion, hatred, and clinging. That’s why we must constantly seek guidance—wisdom. 

From this work by Ophuls and my other readings about Buddhism, I conclude that Buddhism has no political theory. It has no doctrine of political ethics. Yet it remains relevant to political actors because of its profound insights into human reality. As a master ethic based on the deepest insights into the human mind, the insights of Buddhism have the ability to profoundly effect any decision, whether personal or political. It doesn’t provide rules; it provides insight. While I’d like clear rules and bright lines, I find none. But my more mature self (such as it is—or isn’t) appreciates the importance and reality of the lack of timeless guidelines or fixed rules. Reality and the Buddha impose freedom and choice upon us, and we must embrace it. 

In a future essay, I’ll explore a Christian outlook on these issues. By exploring, we learn.