Paul Tillich’s Gift of Understanding

I have never fully understood Paul Tillich, either his theology or his private life, but I have always had the feeling that he would understand me. When I look back at my own history, I see that he came to my rescue at precisely the right time. It was almost as if I were waiting in the right spot when he came along, or as if he were waiting for me as I hurried along trying to reach a destination. The destination I sought was a place of theological certainty, a kind of City Which Has Foundations, and along the way to this Celestial City I was looking for signposts that would help me in my search for the way. I have never found that which I sought (and still seek), but I believe I have found (or have been found by) something or Someone better.

Two years ago in these pages I wrote about Reinhold Niebuhr’s influence on my ministry ("Reflections on ‘Leaves from the Notebook of a Tamed Cynic,’" May 16, 1979). Niebuhr’s little book must have influenced many other people as well, to judge from the mail I received on the article. The Niebuhr book helped me gain some sense about my pastoral practice. But the books of Paul Tillich gave me the courage to shape my own theology and he assisted me in the search for a viable faith of my own. I knew Tillich only from his books. Except for a tape he made during the Sprunt Lectures at Union Seminary in Virginia back in the ‘50s, I never heard his Teutonic rumble. I never sat in his classes. It was the books that coincided with a particular period in my life and that helped make kairos out of terrifying chronos.

I

When I came out of the seminary 20 years ago, I went to a two-church field in a semirural area. It was an ideal setting. The people were responsive, two church additions were built and there was membership growth such as I have never seen since. There was time for reflection on my long drives out in the county to visit parishioners, and ample time for sermon preparation. I read a great deal.

Long after many of my friends had left their first pastorates, I stayed on, and for five years did satisfying work. My children were born in the country hospital nearby. Now and then we still make trips to Virginia’s eastern shore, where we made many friends.

It might seem a bucolic, ideal way of life. But while I was doing all those things and working hard and being happy, I was immersed in an engulfing Red Sea of funerals, personal tragedies, severe illnesses and other happenings common and uncommon in my congregations. Because of the departure of my two colleagues from the county, I was left with the pastoral care of five congregations. Some days I had two funerals on one plot of ground just hours apart, and it was not unusual for me to drive more than 25,000 miles a year doing my work. In one short period one congregation’s session. (governing board) was halved by deaths either lingering or sudden.

All during this time, I was trying to fit my seminary theology and the bits and pieces of my personal faith into some kind of meaningful pattern. It was when John Kennedy was struck down in Dallas that my journey was seriously interrupted. I can still remember the ashes in my mouth as I tried to say something to my congregation during those days of death. It was a trying time when the meaning of existential anxiety was actualized in me. When I came to read Tillich, I had the questions for which his theological method supplied some direction, if not answers.

I think that Dr. Tillich would have been amused to know that now and then a sentence from one of his sermons would be taped to the sun visor in my car so that I could "take a read" at a crossroad. I did the same with Reinhold Niebuhr and David Roberts. I still remember where I was on those country roads when, for the first time, something one of my mentors had written made sense. I can also recall times when the sense they made was sobering, and moments when the insights I received made me rush back to my writing desk to revise my Sunday sermon. I wonder if my congregations ever knew how much they were taught by great theologians through me.

What had happened was that Tillich and others became preachers to me. Lacking opportunities to hear proclamation, I read. Lacking times for formal education, I listened as others struggled, perhaps more successfully than I, to make some sense of the faith. From Tillich, in particular, I gained understanding. That was his gift to me. Through him, I was able to hear the Word of God in a new way, and to be freed from some of my dogmatic assumptions.

II

Out of a plethora of understandings, I select the following four -- those that enabled me not only to preach, but to remain a preacher during the times when life seemed cruel and sometimes meaningless.

1. Tillich’s theology revealed a human being involved in a human struggle to understand. Now that some aspects of his personal life are known to me, my conviction of his humanity is strengthened, and my understanding of his theology is greater. Even then, two decades ago, I perceived that his was a struggle of the soul. The method of correlation, so basic to the systematic approach Tillich developed, revealed that he was always involved in seeking answers implied in the questions of his own existence. I still carry with me the power of words in Volume I of his Systematic Theology, published 30 years ago this year: "The Christian message provides the answers to the questions implied in human existence."

It might be legitimately asked whether it is our question or God’s that must be answered. But on the human side, we are the ones with the questions. We are allied with Sarah, Jesus, Mary, Job and unknown psalmists, sinners and saints in asking the questions implied in existence. The answer might not be Tillich’s answer, based as that was on German idealism and his own psyche, but Tillich, in his method, gave me hope that there might be some answer and that silence was not the only response to my needs.

With all due respect to his critics, many of whom are well grounded in their own methods, I fail to find in some academic theologians the passion found in this correlative method when one seeks a response to the words beginning with the windy coupling of "w" and "h" -- who, where, what and why.

Tillich seemed always able to cross the bridge of words, stand by me in my study, and give me the courage to seek correlation between my own agony and the agony of the Crucified.

2. Then, too, Tillichian theology contained a concern with the person of Jesus. I believe that the christological controversies of the present age wilt be with us for a long time, and that we will see considerable change in the way we talk about Jesus, once women and Third World people and minorities come on board with their formulations. It was Tillich in his own time who showed me that there was a range of ways in which a preacher could deal with the figure of the Christ in preaching and in pastoral care.

More important, Tillich helped me see that I had to deal with Jesus. My tendency toward rationalism and my flirtation with theistic naturalism had left me with a rationalized Jesus who suited me right well. I was forced, by the reading of Volume II of the Systematic Theology, to add to my prophetic, kingly Christ the crucified Christ revealing the heart of the Father.

Tillich’s Christ, as presented in his sermons and formal theologies, was one who could ask questions, whose death was real and whose resurrection (however understood) could bring with it the power of life over death. Today, without going to the books, I can remember whole sections of such sermons as "Born in the Grave," "Universal Salvation" and "She Has Done a Beautiful Thing" -- all of which proclaim that even in stinking cemeteries there is a Christ who participates in our lives.

Tillich knew very well that language was a poor instrument for conveying the reality of the Christ. That, I believe, is why he loved to direct students to paintings, and most especially to Picasso’s Guernica and the great Crucifixion of Matthias Grünewald. Here, when words fail, is the whole of our suffering carried about in the Other. Here is the baptizer with his bony finger proclaiming to the untutored that this Crucified is the Lamb of God.

Existence and the Christ, Volume II of the systematics, has within it this confession of linguistic inadequacy: "The inadequacy of the tools is partly due to the inadequacy of any human concept for expressing the message of the New Being in Jesus as the Christ,"

But the fact of inadequacy did not mean for Tillich, nor does it mean for us, that words cannot be useful tools in presenting realities about existence. With care, stout houses can be built with primitive tools. Conversely, in the hands of a wretched carpenter even the most finely honed planes and chisels can do a terrible job. Tillich was able to use the slippery language of humans to convey the vision of a God who brings new things out of old. The fact that he was not totally renewed himself gives proper emphasis not only to inadequate tools, but also to the difficulty of being what we would like to be -- craftsmen who need not be ashamed.

III

3. Tillich encouraged me to take a new look at the church. Much has been said about his difficulties with the church, and in particular the American church, which expects its theologians to be pious and present. It has been revealed by the angry words of Hannah Tillich and the much more irenic approach of Wilhelm and Marion Pauck that Tillich found it difficult to attach much importance to the institutional life of the church.

All this being so (although I did not know it then). I must also testify to the strength of his approach to the Spiritual Community in the last parts of his theology represented by Volume III. Perhaps this volume was completed by a mellowed old man. Perhaps it is self-serving. But when I received Volume III from my wife as a Christmas gift in 1964, I was beginning to seek some kind of theology of the church that I could live with. Tillich’s view that the church is a spiritual community in which the Spiritual Presence is living and communicated was powerful to me at a time when the sickness of the institutional church, and particularly of my own denomination, was a sickness near to death.

Though I doubt that Tillich could have confessed the Spirit as "personal," he wrote of a church that might nurture its members and that could bring its younger persons into a sense of the presence of the Spirit, and thus into the Kingdom: "The Church’s task is to introduce each new generation into the reality of the Spiritual Community, into its faith, and into its love."

This is, of course, not a whole theology of the church, but at the time I needed it, it was an explication of the church as a family, and I have held on to that reality since. I began to realize that the church was Mother to the Word, that it was in the church that gestation and birth had to take place, and that it was needed in order to make theology possible at all. Over against my virile, armed-camp theory of the church, Tillich’s was warm, loving, nurturing, profoundly feminine.

4. Then, finally, when I was trying to push aside the demons that seemed to be most present on Sunday morning, Tillich came to my rescue.

Preaching has always been hard for me, and there have been many times when I would have liked to dash out the door just as the congregation began the final stanza of the sermon hymn. Many, many times I wondered, right up to the moment of beginning, whether I had anything at all to say that would be of use to the congregation. Many times the truth was that I did not have anything to say. The pain of sermon preparation is with me still. During my first decade of ministry Tillich’s little chapel sermons published as The Shaking of the Foundations and The New Being furnished the basis for much of what I did say.

Recently, a friend came to me seeking help on a sermon on forgiveness, and I lent him my copies of the sermons. Rather, I lent him sections and parts of volumes now stuck together with 20-year-old tape and easily divided into many parts. They, along with a few other volumes, are precious to me.

As I read the sermons now, I realize that they came out of considerable personal struggle -- the same struggle that birthed Tillich’s theological method. They are richer for that. Now I realize that any preaching I do which does not come out of agony, out of my own experience, and from my own life as lived, is academic in the worst sense of the word. Through the preaching of Paul Tillich, I heard of the New Being in ways that made me want to appropriate it for myself. Because he preached, I too could preach many Sundays.

Other understandings surface: Tillich’s love for nature, his passion for painting and music, his understanding of architecture, his sense of the need for sacred space. All of them were additional gifts to me in my search for understanding.

Now I am entering my third decade of ordained service to the church. This year Volume I of the Systematic Theology will embark on a fourth decade. Will I, will Tillich, be as useful to the church in the coming time? I ask this question with considerable hope, since together we have been useful, if imperfect, servants in the past. In regard to Tillich in particular: Have the revelations of his tangled personal life and his hectic marriage obscured his greatness? I hope, rather, that by them his greatness is enhanced.

A Tale of Two Sundays: Liturgical Reform Gone Astray

Recently I was invited to preach in a middle-class United Methodist church in the San Francisco area. Our ecumenical era permits such invitations to Catholic theologians, whether lay or clerical. During the service, I was struck by the profound differences between the liturgies of Methodists and Catholics, and not simply because Catholics are high church and Methodists are not. I sensed that there is something deeply amiss in our own eucharistic celebrations, a liturgical identity crisis that has escaped our attention.

My first clue was the music. I sat in a red velvet chair at the right of the sanctuary beside a serious young organist who smiled supportively as I fidgeted while awaiting my turn in the pulpit. The pastor had listed three hymns for the day. During the first hymn, I realized that this is one facet of Catholic liturgy that has gone wrong: we lack enthusiastic singing, music that resounds of transcendence.

Putting my nervousness aside, I lifted the hymnal with excitement. The singing was unpretentious, personal, spirit-tilled and majestic: ‘Father all-glorious, O’er all victorious, Come, and reign over us, Ancient of Days." How splendid an image: Ancient of Days. I have heard very little like it in a Catholic church for two decades. What I have heard instead are choruses such as "Be like the sun and shine on ev’ry one," sentiments more attuned to "Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood" or "Sesame Street" than to an act of divine worship. Where have we Catholics gone astray liturgically? Is it only in our choice of music, or is there a deeper malaise afflicting our liturgy? What does this situation say about our life in the church and the spirit of our theology?

Hopes Unrealized

Liturgy is not only the theological language of the church’s worship; it is a lens through which one can see the sustaining mood and spirit within the community.

Much has happened to Catholic liturgical form in the past three decades. The traditional Tridentine mass, unchanged and universal since the 16th century, survives now only as a remnant of the Catholic traditionalists’ program. First came dialogue masses, with all the energy required to teach the faithful in the pews the traditional Latin responses of the altar boys. It was considered radical for a layperson to read the epistle in English simultaneously with the priest’s sotto voce Latin recital. Liturgical experimentation abounded in university communities and among progressive Catholics: altars were turned around so that the priest could face the people; the order of prayers was changed; new canons were written and employed at the most sacred part of the mass. There was a certain lightheaded enthusiasm about it all. Liberal Catholics of the ‘50s had triumphed: Vatican II would fulfill all that they had hoped for liturgically and theologically. The most significant changes spread to the parishes after the Council: mass said in English, active participation by the whole congregation, folk hymns and so on.

The widespread hope that the liturgical changes would add new life and spirit to the church were never realized. Some of the clergy failed to prepare the laity emotionally and intellectually for the revisions. They also mistakenly presumed that the laity were as firmly attached to the traditions as they themselves were. Liturgy changed its form with some confusion, and not a little anguish. Classical missals became throwaway missalettes. Venerable hymns, reflections of an older piety, were replaced by contemporary songs, many of them forgettable, gimmicky and trivial.

Today, though conditions vary from parish to parish, we encounter less ferment, more continuity and participation, and sometimes downright enthusiasm at Sunday mass. Ever present amid this enthusiasm, however, is disaffection, apathy, a sense that we paid a terrible price for rescuing the Eucharist from mumbled "per omnia secula seculorums," and restoring it to its primitive, more relevant form. At a Catholic liturgy today, one is aware not of those present but of those absent; of the on-going futile effort to save the saved and enthuse those already enthusiastic (or those who fake it well).

Catholics under 35 are conspicuously fewer at liturgies today, as are those who are confused and uncertain of the meaning of their faith. Having had little contact with the older liturgy, or good liturgy of any type, young Catholics are rootless, lacking historical anchors for critically evaluating their present liturgical experience. They are hungry and thirsty for what they do not know and cannot name: the transcendent in liturgical form, an objective sense of the Holy in the eucharistic drama.

An Eroding World View

What caused this loss of transcendence? Part of the answer lies in the cross-movement of theology and historical consciousness in this century. The changes in the liturgy are rooted in the theological stirrings after World War I: the gradual breakdown of neo-Scholastic metaphysics, the beginning of Catholic biblical scholarship, and a return to the study of the church fathers. Fresh interest in the nature of liturgy and sacraments, especially the Eucharist, inspired theologians from as early as the 1920s to create a new theological perspective that reached fruition at the Second Vatican Council.

The liturgical changes of the 1960s were intended primarily to restore the sacramental rite to its true and full meaning for the whole church: participation as a community not in the performance of rituals or in the fulfillment of requirements but in the mystery of God’s love. Such reforms, long overdue for the renewal of Catholic life, should have succeeded splendidly. Such were the expectations of liturgical liberals of the late ‘50s and early ‘60s, progressive Catholic intellectuals who encouraged reform and were involved in liturgical experimentation. What the reformers could not see, however, was that the philosophical and theological world view upon which the liturgical changes depended was passing away. It was as if a house had been freshly painted and renovated just before those who lived there decided to move out. This world view had been eroding slowly over the years; when the liturgy finally moved in one direction, the church’s whole frame of reference moved in another.

Liturgy, the entire sacramental rite, is a profound metaphysical reality. At the heart of baptism and all the sacraments, especially the Eucharist, is personal participation in mystery in the death and resurrection of the Lord. Liturgy touches not only the outer person, one’s appearance and function in daily life; it also affects our inner selves, what we actually are in our innermost beings. Liturgy speaks to the depths within us, to the world we share beyond that of ordinary life, what Peter Berger has so well described as "an infinitely vaster and ‘more real’ world, in which and through which human life receives its ultimate significance." This transcendent world, which is real and objective, the horizon of our meaning and destiny that liturgy makes present in celebration, is losing its power to take hold of human consciousness. The liturgical reforms have taught us to participate, but the reality we are to celebrate together no longer vibrates within us.

This loss of transcendence -- which Peter Berger, Avery Dulles and others have discussed in the Hartford Appeal -- has various names and guises. Some have described it in negative terms as the process resulting from the final breakdown of classical metaphysics. Metaphysics has been a field of study on its deathbed since Kant, its few intellectual life-support systems having finally been unplugged by the very caretakers of the profession that gave it birth -- philosophers of the positivist and linguistic schools. Such a breakdown is one thing in the shifting academic sands, but quite another when rendered democratic and made culturally universal.

Hence, few people today can comprehend reality from a metaphysical or ontological perspective. While they must live and cope with realities of ontological import daily -- suffering, love, death, the meaning or meaninglessness of their existence -- they do so from an almost exclusively pragmatic and utilitarian perspective. A primary vision permitting them to comprehend reality in its wholeness and coherence is beyond their grasp. "Reality" in itself has meaning only as "real" things of ordinary life. This process of segmentation mutes the primary religious act which liturgy celebrates: to stand before the Real with gratitude and accept it as grace.

The Notion of Secularization

Others have described this loss of transcendence in positive terms as the process of secularization, which frees the world to be itself on its own terms. Secularization, however, is a very ambiguous notion. From a positive viewpoint, secularization results from a deeply Christian impulse. Christianity, with its doctrine of creation and redemption that posits the world as all good and all God’s, is not a world-denying religion. Despite some excessive enthusiasm over this point by well-meaning Teilhardians of the ‘60s, no one can deny the central fact of Christianity: God enters into history and into matter in Christ, rendering relative all distinctions between matter and spirit, sacred and secular, before the primal fact of God’s redemptive grace in all things.

Secularization, however, can also mean the process that either makes ordinary life ultimately significant or denies such significance altogether. This attitude reduces the meaning of the world to what appears and what functions, and nothing else. To absolutize reality in these terms is, as a number of theologians have suggested, the heresy of modern times. The secularist, who sees the transcendent as an intrusion into the immanent world, insists that the world must function on its own, free from "supernatural" constraints. Thus, the religious fundamentalist who reduces the natural and the supernatural, the transcendent and the immanent, to two exclusive, antagonistic categories is no more naive than the secular fundamentalist who, in the guise of "worldly" wisdom, either reduces the transcendent to subjective fancy or dismisses it entirely.

Repressing the Mystery

The immanentist, nonmetaphysical, secularist mind, increasingly dominant in the broader culture, is all the more powerful and insidious because of its insistence that its interpretation of reality is not only the best one but the only one. No other options exist; the only world is a self-contained bubble of indeterminate human choices -- in Peter Berger’s terms, "a world without windows." This view has also infected theology, most visibly in the church’s liturgy. Christians continue to affirm with great enthusiasm that the Eucharist is their mysterious participation in the Lord’s death and resurrection, but the meaning of these words has been imperceptibly yet significantly altered.

Because people in our culture, including those who fill our churches, no longer see the world in metaphysical terms and are more secular in their orientation, the idea of mystery as an objective fact, inaccessible to empirical study, has less of a hold on their consciousness. Since we by nature must seek out mystery and live with what philosophers call a sense of wonder, the. weakening of the mysterious element at the center of our life forces mystery into the dark corners of our psyche, emerging sometimes in the bizarre and the demonic. Mystery can be repressed and distorted but never destroyed. Cultural patterns in recent years -- in the arts, mores, life styles -- all bear witness to this fact. In the history of Christian liturgy, we can observe three distinct interpretations of the relationship of the self and the sacramental rite. First, through the death and resurrection with Christ in the sacraments, the self participated in the fullness of Christ’s life. Such a sharing did not deny an individual’s subjectivity but completed it; by embracing and being embraced by the mystery of grace which transcended objectification as well as one’s subjectivity, the person lived fully in the Spirit of the Lord.

This ontology of participation gave way to a gradual reification of the mystery so that it appeared over and against the subjective self -- that is, as an object. Because this mystery retained an ontological and psychological prominence, its objectivity seemed to subdue rather than fulfill subjectivity. Finally, subjectivity reacted, individualizing and relativizing the nature of mystery, thus reducing the personal encounter with mystery to a process interior to the self. The subject no longer discovers mystery from without but produces the effect of mystery from within by what sociologist Philip Rieff calls "psychologizing interminably" about its own interiority.

Liturgy today is too much like this third interpretation. The sacramental encounter with the transcendent mystery of Christ’s Paschal self, which nourishes and transforms our own sinful selves, has evolved to a plunge into our own mysterious selves where we, not Christ, are the primary points of reference. In philosophical terms, we have moved from an ontology of participation to an ontology of distinction and finally to an absence of ontology altogether, with persons and things accepted only on the basis of appearance and function. We are unable to comprehend the meaning of death and resurrection without metaphysics -- not as an intellectual discipline, but in its capacity to deepen and enrich life in its wholeness, beyond all of its individual manifestations.

A Trendiness That Underwhelms

No one is suggesting a return to the pre-’60s world of Catholicism and liturgy as if that were the only proper norm. What before the reforms passed for transcendence in liturgy was cast in a hardened ritualistic shell that muted the profoundly personal reality taking place in the sacramental act. Transcendence must always have the quality of the personal rooted within, engaging and beckoning one to deeper levels of personal communion. The mutation of this personal quality into external ritual made the Tridentine mass a symbolic object of rebellion for literally millions of Catholics growing up in recent decades.

At the same time, what today passes for transcendence in liturgy is illusory. The quality of the personal was too quickly. translated into a self-centeredness. Liturgy evolved from the encounter with divine mystery to the solution of human problems. Philip Rieff was indeed correct in his conclusion that the therapeutic has triumphed. Two years after the close of Vatican II, he wrote:

Nor does the present ferment in the Roman Catholic Church seem so much like a renewal of spiritual perception as a move toward more sophisticated accommodations with the negative communities of the therapeutic. Grudgingly, the Roman churchmen must give way to their Western laity and translate their sacramental rituals into comprehensible terms as therapeutic devices, retaining just enough archaism to satisfy at once the romantic interest of women and the sophisticated interest of those historical pietists for whom the antique alone carries that lovely dark patina they call faith [The Triumph of the Therapeutic, pp. 253-254].

Over the past decade, mostly on college campuses, I have participated in countless liturgies devoted to the therapeutic. Students talk about "getting something out of the liturgy" (or not getting it), as if Eucharist were some sort of spiritual gas station where one could fill up on spiritual high-test or at least get some fresh oil in one’s crankcase of guilt. The shift from boring, spectatorial, objective, irrelevant masses to liturgies filled with relevance and sensitivity was a dramatic one.

I tell students a story that almost all, even the younger ones, agree with. Sometime in the late ‘60s or early ‘70s you were in a grammar school or high school religion class, and on Friday the nun or brother, dressed in habit or clerical garb, was demanding verbatim catechism answers that were fully self-contained and highly rational. By Monday, the nun had put on makeup, retired her habit in favor of a chic blouse and skirt, put Simon and Garfunkel or the Beatles (preferably "Let It Be") on the stereo and pronounced the new kerygma, "You’ve just got to feel it." Religious teaching, dry as dust and heavy in books, became mushy and shallow on colored wall hangings. The world had changed almost overnight, but no one knew the full implications. Catholicism, mercilessly immobile for years, became hopelessly trendy on the spot.

This trendiness often underwhelms rather than overwhelms. Subtle and deceptive, its infiltration is at first undetectable. But soon it permeates the music, the homilies, the entire mood of the community. The first clue is prolonged pre-mass music rehearsals. Homilies, invariably on the theme "What does it mean to you?," convince me that they are the scattered and unpolished ramblings of a man, regardless of his spiritual insight, embarrassed to take his work too seriously. Why do we defer and apologize awkwardly as if to deflect some unknown criticism from those who hide within the fortress of feeling and relevance?

Our present liturgical malaise results from the fact that while the content moved toward the trendy, the formal thought patterns underlying the older orthodox mind prevailed. The Catholic mind at Vatican II was emerging from a vision of faith as an everlasting fortress against a changing world. The initial enthusiasm after the Council belied a craving for security, for a "pinning down" of reality into intelligible categories. Hence, everything new, regardless of its provisional nature or its shallowness over the long run, was set in concrete too quickly, thus frustrating, especially at the popular level, the real essence of the reforms, which was to introduce an authentic historical consciousness into the Catholic tradition. Too many people today are bored at mass because they are celebrating a transcendence that is vague and too quickly transformed into categories immanent and psychological. They are celebrating the most serious element of their human lives in forms that trivialize the mystery rather than support and expand it into ever-widening horizons both personal and cosmic.

A Sacramental Tradition

Admittedly, I am portraying only part of the current liturgical picture. While I learned a great deal in preaching to our United Methodist sisters and brothers, I certainly would never want to be less a Catholic or more a Methodist than I am now. Perhaps I was touched by something in the Methodist service that is quite "Catholic" in spirit: a substance in which the Holy could be truly, fully experienced as objectively present. Despite the absence of a formal sacramental ritual, God’s word in the lessons, my own words in the sermon, and the voices of the people in song possessed a quasi-sacramental character. Their actions -- gathering in community, singing hymns, attentive listening -- were visible signs of God’s invisible presence in a way that, while it was fully Protestant, could also touch a Catholic’s heart. I felt that I had worshiped God in spirit and truth.

Worship for the Catholic, however, in its fullest sense, must always mean Eucharist, the breaking of bread and sharing, by sacrament and sacrifice, in the inner life of God. The United Methodist service, though appealing, seemed strangely incomplete, as if everyone were dressed for a wedding and either bride or groom had failed to appear. I do not mean to criticize the great tradition of Protestant spirituality. Rather, I want to remind Catholics of the import of their own sacramental substance, of God’s presence in visible symbols and rituals. Such sacramentalism is the central tradition of Christianity.

Liturgy is God’s gift to us, as well as our own activity, something we do and share together. The Eucharist celebrates that night when "heaven is wedded to earth and [humanity] is reconciled with God." Such a celebration must therefore be filled with prayers and songs which speak not only of humanity but of our relationship to God, not only of our accomplishments but also of our sinfulness.

I commented to a friend recently that the prayer "Spare us" or "Have mercy on us" has almost disappeared from liturgical language, and with it a vital element, fear before the goodness of the Lord, has been lost. The liturgical encounter with the pure holiness of God can fill us with new life and hope only if it also creates in us an understanding of our own unworthiness and sinfulness. Transcendence can fulfill and transform only if it first judges. Those in the New Testament who were deeply attracted to Jesus also felt great awe before him, a sense of distance between their sinfulness and his utter goodness. This awareness of sin cannot be explained in mere psychological terms, nor transformed into good feelings about oneself. Madison Avenue jingles are no substitute for the worship of God in spirit and truth by the whole person.

I am not proposing a new otherworldly piety in our liturgy but simply a re-creation of holiness and transcendence in liturgical form. Without a sense of the Holy, we cannot pray, ask forgiveness, worship, be filled with gratitude before God’s grace or, most significantly, know each other as brother and sister, which is God’s gift in everyone to everyone else. If my comments seem excessively negative, I have outlined the problem as I see it without suggesting any practical solutions. I don’t believe solutions are simple when they involve a corporate spiritual consciousness. Most of all, I’m afraid of the gimmicky; I think we’ve been bombarded with too much of that.

Solid Food

Perhaps the solutions are closer to us than we think. The Catholic tradition remains abundantly rich and filled with immense resources, consistently moving persons to call the church their spiritual home. The tradition states that we always remain children of God, that his transcendent holiness pulsates within us. This living holiness is what people wish to celebrate in any liturgy, regardless of its form. What must be transparent to this reality, however, is precisely the form. The church must have the courage not to reduce the liturgy to what people think they want on the basis of superficial cultural patterns but to make of it what they really want at the deepest levels of their being. If the liturgy has been hurled at us like a stone -- an obligatory stone -- for too many years, the solution is not to transform it into an action dependent upon our participation as a prerequisite for its meaning, rather than a response to God’s meaning already present.

Many in the church, even those who rebelled against the static, obligatory nature of liturgy, are aware of the problems with the present situation. Let me quote a Catholic college senior who speaks with great sincerity and wisdom in an open-ended final exam question:

I know that I cannot reach God on a person-to-person level without struggle. Having recently returned to church, I have found I’m not being told this at all. It is as if the church is trying to bribe us into staying with God -- look see how personable God is -- he’ll fit right into your lives as a warm fuzzy. And yet I come away feeling I want more -- I know I believe in God in a much deeper, possibly traditional manner, and they are feeding me milk toast as if I’m not able to handle any solid food.

Transcendence is surely the "solid food" of our lives, and this is precisely the "more" my young student speaks so candidly of desiring.

Before Vatican II, liturgy was out of touch with modern experience; now, however, the pendulum has perhaps swung too far in the opposite direction, reducing the liturgy to a product of such experience. Today we need a new orientation, a centered-ness, an awareness of how God can be present in human life through symbol and sacrament. Those who are apathetic and no longer participate in the sacraments, as well as those who attend half-heartedly, need a form of Eucharist neither cerebral nor emotional, neither isolated from daily life nor reduced to one component within it.

Liturgy, after all, celebrates the heart of human life, and even the young quickly learn that this heart is a strange mixture of suffering and struggle, accomplishment and joy, bondage and liberation, beauty and pathos, meaning and emptiness. Only the transcendent lies at this heart and draws persons to itself; the transcendent alone is the authentic source of hope within life, the only real power of transformation. Without it we are left to ourselves, to our own goodwill, often to our own shabby devices and crafts. Without it, we must daily create whatever meaning we can by ourselves, thus exhausting our psyches and enervating our weary, restless spirits.

Liturgy makes the power of the cross and resurrection visible and effective in life and history. Such power, never a matter of common observation, lies hidden in the depth of human life where the Divine Spirit cuts across the human spirit and makes it most itself. This transcendent mystery is intelligible to us only in terms of immanence, but even more, of what is completely immanent, so fully at home with all things that it cannot be identified with this or that. This reality, which appears so "other" to our own individuality yet is so close to us, can be addressed, by only one name: the Holy. The cross and resurrection manifested the utter holiness of God, revealed the outpouring of his love into all creation and into every human life. We share this holiness in the breaking of the bread. It must be palpably present in a substance that can grasp the hearts and minds of those at the altar and challenge them to a more perfect form of Christian love.

A Mid-Reform Correction

In re-evaluating the present state of our liturgy, perhaps we Catholics could learn a great deal from our United Methodist and other Protestant friends. We who proclaim that we are bearers of the mainstream of the Christian tradition should not reduce the heart of that tradition to shallow whim or fancy. We can learn perhaps from a more rigid piety that our efforts to make doctrine and liturgy relevant to modern experience ought not to dilute the forms of God’s liturgical presence to what is easiest for human experience to accept and integrate. Reality is much too rich to be reduced to what individual consciousness can grasp at any point. Liturgy must address human experience and summon it out of its self-seclusion. The mystery of God’s grace, not human experience, is the norm for defining and building the liturgical act. Otherwise, the result is a liturgical narcissism: when experience is bankrupt, the mystery also dies. To paraphrase Philip Rieff: experience can be a swindle; ask those who have experienced.

The Holy must transcend any form that embodies it, call into question any self-satisfaction with our own experiential awareness of it; most important, we must not see too much of our own face in the mirror of the sacramental forms that mediate its presence. The liturgical reforms in Catholicism have, for the most part, been good and necessary; but wherever they have gone astray, the distortion is subtle yet dangerous. We need a mid-reform correction to deal with the current liturgical malaise. I thank the "Ancient of Days" for reminding me that I must be more than a "little Mary Sunshine" as I seek to enhance what is good and struggle with what is evil in this God-created but also God-redeemed world.

Atom, Duration, Form: Difficulties with Process Philosophy

Whoever comes in contact with process philosophy today encounters it more often than not in the form of Whitehead’s philosophy. This was the way it was for me when I was guest professor in 1963 at the University of Chicago and ran into an entire school of Whitehead adherents in the theological faculty (not, I must say, in the philosophical faculty). Consequently, for the sake of my own intellectual survival I had to come to grips quickly and intensively with the writings of this philosopher, who was at that time hardly known on the continent of Europe.

The experience was enriching. It supplemented the great tradition of German Idealism in the latter’s serious lack of a philosophy of nature or metaphysic adequate to the demands of our century, one that, from the outset, integrates the horizon of consciousness as mediated by contemporary knowledge of nature with experience as disclosed by the humanities and social sciences. The more time I spent with Whitehead the more I was shocked, however, by the very dogmatic way in which he is read in the U.S.A., in the school of process theology -- which has in the meantime become quite influential. In that school Whitehead is taken to be an entirely self-sufficient systematic thinker and, as such, authoritative, like Aristotle in the high scholasticism of the 13th century. Many people fail to see Whitehead as an exponent of a wide stream of process thinking, in the context of which his philosophical approach represents only one of the possible and, to some extent, actually explored options.

If one sees Whitehead’s philosophy in the neighborhood of thinkers such as Henry Bergson and Samuel Alexander, to name only these two, then one becomes aware of different versions of the process philosophical perspective. It becomes clear that a process philosophical approach, which dismisses the thought of a timeless, identical substance, must not necessarily be bound to specific hypotheses of Whitehead, such as his doctrine of discreet emergent "occasions" or elementary events,1 as the ultimate realities, and his doctrine of eternal objects as potentials for these "occasions’" self-realization.

Let us turn to the first hypothesis: namely, that actual "occasions" or "actual entities" form the final real things which constitute the world (PR 18/ 27). This thesis implies an atomistic ontology; Whitehead himself says: "Thus the ultimate metaphysical truth is atomism" (PR 35/ 53). He calls his philosophy "an atomic theory of actuality" (PR 27/ 40). The continuum he takes to be derived from the discreetly emergent actual entities. Taken by itself, the continuum is only possibility, "potentiality for division" (PR 67/104), and it is by the actual entities divided. Whitehead thereby enters into conflict not only with Newton’s theory of absolute space and absolute time but also with Bergson. For in the type of process philosophy developed by Bergson, "duration" and with it a form of continuum is fundamental. Bergson’s "duration" is the continuum of becoming itself, while for Whitehead becoming is not continuous; in line with the paradoxes of Zeno, he asserts: "there can be no continuity of becoming" (FR 35/ 53).

On this question, Samuel Alexander sides with Bergson; although Alexander, anticipating Whitehead’s somewhat later remarks (PR 321/ 489f.), criticizes Bergson’s opposing space to time. The "spatialization" of time, which Bergson judges to be the result of the intelligence and which he goes so far as to blame for the errors of traditional substance metaphysics, Alexander takes to be the essence of time itself (STD 1143; cf. 149). It is only space that makes continuity possible, because an instant can be common to different places; above all because, inversely, many consecutive events can occur at the same place (STD I 48f.). A succession of instants in themselves would lack continuity; it would consist of perishing instants (STD I 45). Continuity, which later Whitehead secured by his subtle theory of "eternal objects" and their ingression into the world of actual occasions, is still guaranteed in Alexander by a space which had not yet been relativized. To this extent we can understand Alexander as Whitehead’s precursor.

However, Alexander’s conception of the infinity of space-time, as the condition for the determination of finitude, is opposed to Whitehead. Following Samuel Clarke and also Kant’s transcendental aesthetic, Alexander thinks of finitude and, above all, individual points/instants as limitations of infinity. "The infinite is not what is not finite, but the finite is what is not infinite" (STD I 42).

Like Levinas today, Alexander appeals to Descartes for the constitutive meaning of the infinite with regard to the thinkability of the finite as such. But then, naturally, atomism cannot be the final metaphysical truth. Alexander shares Bergson’s conception of the primordiality of movement as always holistic and continuous (STD I 149). "Motion is not a succession of point-instants, but rather a point -- instant is the limiting case of a motion" (STD I 321). The discrimination -- of point-instants is the product of intellectual abstraction. "They are In fact . . . inseparable from the universe of motion; they are elements in a continuum" (STD I 325). Alexander consequently moves close to Spinoza; space-time is the whole of existing, the infinite, which precedes all finite actuality (SID I 339ff.).

In view of Bergson and Alexander, on the one side, and Whitehead’s event-atomism, on the other, therefore, one has to do with two fundamental and alternative approaches for process thinking. To be sure, Alexander attempted to distinguish infinite space-time both from the category of substance and also from a whole of parts (STD I 338ff), the latter because such a whole in his view is always to be thought of as composed of parts. However, with regard to motion, at least, he spoke indeed of the whole of motion as prior to its individual space-time instants (STD I 321). Conversely, Whitehead proceeds from the ontological priority of discrete events or their components. Does he not thereby fall into the logical aporiae of every atomistic metaphysic? They have already been formulated in the concluding parts of Plato’s Parmenides (Parm. 165ff): without the One the others can be neither one nor many and there would be absolutely nothing.

Many ones are many of the same (in the sense of the abstract One), but also many in relationship and so parts of a whole; if they do not form a totality, then they cannot be thought of as exemplifying the same One. In any case, an enveloping unity must already be presupposed, if atoms are to be thought as unities at all.

If I am not mistaken, Whitehead nowhere discusses the logical difficulties attending the systematic concept of atomism: although he discusses in Adventures of Ideas (1933) different forms of atomism (AI 159ff.), and in so doing opposes the types of atomism that can be traced back to Democritus, Epicurus, and Lucretius, and from which the positivist interpretation of modern natural science is derived: here the atoms are only externally related, i.e., according to the principle of randomness. These relations are no less external in Newton’s mechanics as expressions of laws imposed from without by the will of God. In contrast, Whitehead sees Plato as the originator of a way of looking at things which understands laws (AI 162) and therefore the relationships between things as regulated through them as immanent in the things (AI 156ff.). Whitehead himself is inclined to this conception.

Correspondingly, Whitehead already in Science and the Modern World (1925) opposes the description of relations between events solely in terms of external relations, which he finds in the usual accounts of space-time relations (SMW 180). Insofar as the individual events are constituted by the relationships in which they stand, these are internal to the events: ". . . the relationships of an event are internal, so far as . . . they are constitutive of what the event is in itself" (SMW 152). The acceptance of such inner relationships demands, according to Whitehead, the acceptance of a subjectivity of the individual event, as integrative of the manifold relations which constitute it (SMW 180). To that extent, these internal relations represent themselves as acts of the event itself and as such are called "prehensions." In Whitehead’s main work, Process and Reality, this concept stands in the center of his analyses, while the discussions of external and internal relations recede to the background.2 (Yet the concept of prehensions is even here still defined as "concrete facts of relatedness" [PR 22/ 32].)

Now each individual event prehends all other events of the world, which it encounters and which it must appropriate as its own: "each actual entity includes the universe, by reason of its determinate attitude towards every element in the universe" (PR 45/ 71f.).3

It may appear that the one-sidedness of atomism is thereby counterbalanced. Indeed, with the thesis that every individual event is conditioned by the totality of all the others, justice is apparently done to the constitutive meaning of the whole for the individual. Still it should be observed that Whitehead does not speak directly of a meaning of the universe for the individual, but only indirectly, on account of the relationship of every event to every other "element" of the universe. Only in this sense does he say: ". . . every actual entity springs from that universe which there is for it" (PR 80/124). Since the universe or the space-time continuum is not given as a real whole to the individual event, it is always only this individual event which must integrate into a whole the manifold relationships into which it enters. Consequently, as many perspectives of the universe arise as there are events that emerge. It is no accident that one thinks of Leibniz here. Whitehead explicitly appeals to Leibniz’s doctrine of the monads: " I am using the same notion, only I am toning down his monads into the unified events in space and time" (SMW 102). Leibniz, however, with his thesis of the "windowlessness" of monads, would have denied the concrete reality of internal relations. The monads, for Leibniz, do not stand in real relationships to each other but only mirror the primary monad and the universe created by it in refraction of their own respective finite positions.

In consequence, according to Leibniz, natural laws are as much externally imposed on the world as they were in Descartes (AI 170f.). Whitehead, on the contrary, wants to understand the laws of nature as emerging out of the reciprocal relationships of the things themselves, as expressing these reciprocal relations. Hence individuals appear to him not only as reflections of the universe but also as subjects of the creative integration of the manifold relations which constitute them, while the spatiotemporal continuum is taken to be the result of an abstraction from the concrete eventness, out of which the relationships among the actual entities" emerge (cf. already CN 78).

We must therefore hold that in the end Whitehead’s theory of prehension does not really counterbalance the onesidedness of atomnisn,, because the whole of the universe or of the spatiotemporal continuum, on his account, has no ontological independence over against the monad-like events. Leibniz felt otherwise, because the universe is pregiven to each individual creature as grounded in the thinking of God and is only mirrored by the creature. In Whitehead, however, God is not the creator but only the cocreator of the actual occasion; consequently the elemental events, as self-constitutive are at the same time the ground of the continuum expressing their nexus, and this continuum is "derived" from these events.

Through the concept of the subjectivity of individual events, seen as the integrating centers of the manifold of the relationships which constitute them, Whitehead wanted to oppose a more profound vision to the materialistic description of the natural processes, which settles for mere external relationships (SMW 151f.). But the concept of a self-constituting subjectivity of actual occasions leads into new difficulties. On the one hand, the actual occasion or entity ought to be the ultimate constituent of the physical universe. On the other hand, these final constituents of the universe are taken to be still further analyzable into the relations or "prehensions’’ which constitute them. Now, Whitehead says, the analysis of an "actual entity" is only feasible in thought. "The actual entity is divisible; but it is in fact undivided" (PR 227/ 347). If, however, the analysis of the actual occasion into the prehensions (or internal relations) which constitute it is only feasible by virtue of mental abstraction, then we are faced with a problem. How is it possible to continue to interpret the actual occasion itself as a process with different phases, in which it generates itself (PR 26/39), while asserting that the end phase of this process, on the other hand, ought to be identical with the complete duration of the event (PR 283/ 434)?

When Whitehead, in Process and Reality, presents a genetic analysis with its differentiation of various phases in the self-constitution of the event (cf., e.g., PR 26f./ 40, 248f./ 380f.), he becomes liable to the suspicion of confusing the abstract and concrete, thereby committing the "fallacy of misplaced concreteness," which he has often astutely criticized in other thinkers. If we cannot, in fact, really divide the actual occasion further but can only abstractly differentiate the relationships which constitute its identity, then we cannot, by the same token, characterize the actual occasion as being the result of a process in which these aspects which can only be distinguished in the abstract are actually integrated. This is even more difficult since these relations themselves are said to be constituted only by the actual occasion.

Whitehead assuredly needs this way of looking at things, if he wants to be able to affirm the subjectivity of actual occasions as causae sui (PR 86/ 131, 88/ 135, cf., 25f./ 38). If one conceives of the actual occasion as merely determined by the happenstance of the relations which constitute it, then it is only thought as an object, which as such cannot be separated from its field but is nothing other than the systematically adjusted set of modifications of the field (CN 190).4 It seems, however, that Whitehead must assume the subjectivity of the event in order to be able at all to assert its autonomy. It is therefore the condition of Whitehead’s atomistic interpretation of reality. If, however, the independence of actual occasions is thought of as self-constitution, then it seems to follow that the actual occasion itself must be reconceived as a process which integrates that which precedes it, thus constituting its own identity. This conception remains self-contradictory because the actual occasions are claimed to be the ultimate components of reality, not integration of more primitive components. This basic thesis cannot be reconciled with the assumptions of the actual occasions’ self-constitution.

Now Whitehead’s "genetic analysis" of the actual occasion, doubtless, amounts to an extrapolation which forces onto the interpretation of actual occasions the experiential structure of more highly organized forms of life. Whitehead himself described this procedure of his speculative philosophy as the method of imaginative generalization (PR 5/ 8, cf. 4ff/ 7ff.); it is precisely the principle of self-constitution as creativity which forms, in his own philosophy, the central instance of applying this method (PR 7/11). Whitehead’s doctrine of the subjectivity of actual occasions shares many individual features with the philosophical psychology of William James. More specifically, Whitehead’s doctrine deals, on the one hand, with the momentary character of the I and, on the other hand, with the description of each I-instant as being a momentary integration of experience and especially of the past of such I-instants. Presumably, Whitehead’s theory of the subjectivity of actual occasions can be interpreted, to a very large extent, as a generalization of this idea of the I in William James’s psychology, a generalization achieved by applying this idea to the (interpretation of the) foundations of physics.

It was not for nothing that Whitehead considered William James alongside Bergson and Dewey among the thinkers to whom his chief work is especially indebted. In Science and the Modern World he even compared James to Descartes as a founder of a new era of philosophy (SMW 20Sf.).

The demonstration of such connections is certainly not enough to substantiate our objection to Whitehead’s claims. The procedure of imaginative generalization obviously plays a considerable role in any formation of philosophical concepts. Whitehead himself says, however, that such procedure has the character of tentative formulations (PR 8/ 12) and that it requires, along with inner consistency and coherence, confrontation with facts.:" Speculative boldness must be balanced by complete humility before logic and before fact" (PR 17/25).

Measured by this yardstick, it would seem illegitimate to extrapolate the structures of subjectivity in order to interpret actual occasions, because in contrast to James’s psychology of subjectivity, which has to do with a real succession of moments of experience, Whitehead’s thought cannot claim such real succession in the genesis of the individual actual occasion. James’s psychology of the self can conceive each individual moment of experience as a new integration of previous experience, because the successive moments are really distinct and because the relation of the later to the earlier, as their integration, constitutes the special quality of human, subjective relations in the medium of experience, reflection, and memory. Whitehead, for his part, can only use the factual universal relationship of all events as a basis for applying the Jamesian model of subjectivity to the relationship that obtains between newly emerging events and all the other events and so also their predecessors. It is very questionable whether there exists here a sufficient measure of analogy. The I, which according to James always emerges momentarily, relates itself in no way to all preceding events but only to the earlier experiences made present to it by memory. The human faculty of memory, however, is a highly specialized function which cannot, without further ado, be attributed to all natural processes.

Moreover, the integrating performance of the momentarily emerging I is, in James, conditioned by the fact that neither the human body, on the one hand, nor the "social self" the sum of social expectations concerning the individual’s performance, on the other hand, emerge instantaneously; they both, rather represent continua, in relation to which each momentary synthesis of the I (die punktuelle Ichsynthese) can function as the principle of novelty and creativity.

Whitehead’s speculative extrapolation of the principle of subjective integration, momentarily achieved, may overestimate the measure of uniformity encountered in the real world. (The generalization of the structure of the human I, as understood by James [but disengaged from the problematic of the self as distinguished from the I], leads paradoxically to the reduction to the place of elementary processes.) These more complex forms of natural evolution are merely described as diversely ordered series, societies, of actual occasions, which, because of the abstract structural moments reproduced in their sequence and systematically modified, appear as stable unities without finally being such. In Process and Reality, the comparatively brief treatment of this topic already suggests that the ontological dignity of stable and perduring forms is considered secondary in contrast to the structure of actual occasions. If we were to suppose, however, that the formation of higher forms were already deciphered, in principle, with the correct description of actual occasions, of which all higher forms consist, then we would repeat the style of thinking characteristic of materialism, the very thing to which Whitehead wanted to offer an alternative.

The fact that the emergence of form cannot be derived from the actual occasions of which they might consist shows once again that the unity of the field cannot be reduced to elementary momentary events which appear in it. In view of the metaphysical relevance of the form as actuality, not merely as structure in the sense of Whitehead’s "eternal objects," we see once more how onesided the atomistic interpretation of reality is; it cannot do justice to wholeness as a metaphysical principle of equal dignity with that of individual discreteness.

Curiously, however, it is precisely Whitehead’s genetic analysis of actual occasions with all its paradoxes which offers new points of view that could help at this impasse. According to Whitehead, the phases of concrescence are not to be thought of as temporally successive, since the event is what it is as an undivided unity. Therefore, the representation describing a process of genesis appeared to us as paradoxical. But Whitehead’s analyses illuminate the understanding of processes whose phases certainly must be thought of as temporally successive, in which, however, the final aim (das Werdezeil) of the form is already present.

In any event, all life processes seem to be of this nature. In the process of its growth the plant or animal is always this plant or this animal, although its specific nature indeed comes fully to light only in the result of its genesis. By way of anticipation it is in each instant already that which it only becomes in the process of its growth. The identity of its being is assuredly not that of a momentary event but resides in the identity of its nature, of its essential form, which perdures throughout the course of some particular time. By anticipating its essential form in the process of its growth, a being’s substantial identity is linked together with the notion of process.

In Whitehead’s genetic analysis of elementary processes, the concepts of "subjective aim," and "superject" play a similar role. Already in Process and Reality Whitehead himself spoke occasionally of anticipatory feelings with respect to subjective aim (PR 278/ 424f.; cf. 214f./ 327f.). He did so above all in Adventures of Ideas (AI 25 (M). To be sure, Whitehead does not go so far as to describe the significance of anticipation for the formation of the subject, as constituting its subjectivity out of a future which already determines the present by way of anticipation. Rather in Whitehead, anticipation means that the subject, constituting itself in the present, includes also its future relevance for others (its "objective immortality") in the act of its self-constitution.

Whitehead did not exhaust the theoretical potential of the element of anticipation implied in the concept of "subjective aim." Aristotle’s analysis of motion, which forms the background to all teleological descriptions of processes, went much further in that direction. Aristotle interpreted the very anticipation of the final state of natural movement in the moved as entelechy. Although this resulted in turning the action of the future end upon the present becoming into the effectiveness of a living organism’s seed with respect to its future end, he nevertheless spoke of an effect of the end upon the process of becoming. This does not happen in Whitehead, because he sees becoming in each of its stages as self-constitutive. That is why, despite his use of telelogical language, the element of anticipation cannot really become constitutive in his interpretation of subjectivity.

The idea of the radical self-creation of each actual occasion is the reason why Whitehead’s metaphysics cannot be reconciled with the Biblical idea of creation nor, therefore, with the Biblical idea of God. To be sure, American process theology has attempted to interpret Whitehead’s concept of creativity in terms of the divine activity of creation.5 In Whitehead himself, however, the constitution of each actual entity’s subjectivity remains always a self-constitution, and this despite the dependence of each actual entity upon God, who provides it with the conditions of its self-realization through its "initial aim." This shortcoming follows from the fact that Whitehead relates the teleological structure of becoming to the elementary level of actual occasions, which are called processes but do not allow for temporal extension in the sense of a succession of phases in time, since actual occasions, of which everything else is supposed to consist, are indeed said to be momentary and undivided.

The matter would be otherwise if we limit the applicability of Whitehead’s genetic analysis to processes that take place in time, instead of using that analysis to explain the constitution of actual occasions. Then the "subjective aim" of the process would have to do with the future of one’s own essential completion in the future, a future which would be still to come. This completion could not simply be in the power of the present decision but would eventually be reached or not reached by such a decision. Correspondingly the anticipation of one’s own essential completion in the future would gain greater significance for the constitution of subjectivity; the latter could not be identified with the self-creation of present decisions but would be dependent on the manifestation of the whole of one’s own essential completion in each present.

Certainly such a conception would no longer be that of an atomistic metaphysic. It would no longer attribute subjectivity to the simplest actual occasions. Rather from the impossibility of such attribution (because it implies the paradoxical assumption of a nontemporal process), there would arise an argument to the effect that the autonomy of finite being and subjectivity can increase with the complexity of forms rather than being fully pronounced as early as in the elementary occasions. The unity of the field from which actual occasions proceed would no longer be traceable to a network of relations which is itself constituted only by these occasions. Rather the unity of the field would have to be seen along with the unity of the forms which appear in increasing differentiation on higher levels of natural processes, keeping in mind that such unity of the forms cannot be derived from actual occasions although it consists of such occasions.

Such a view of the matter would be, as I said, no longer atomistic, because it does not limit reality (in the sense of what is actual) to the undivided elementary actual occasions.

For that reason alone, however, it would not step outside the circle of process philosophies, although it would hold to the idea of an essential identity of the being which becomes in the process of its genesis, as an idea encompassing this whole process; thus it would link the fundamental intention of the concept of substance with the process perspective. It is precisely in that direction that Whitehead’s analysis of genetic processes, with his concept of the subject as "superject’’ of one’s own process of formation, has developed important impulses, even if these impulses bear fruit only after they have been liberated from the limitation to momentary actual occasions and its attendant atomism. They are thereby also liberated from the aporiae which burden them in the theoretical context of such assumptions.

 

References

STD -- Samuel Alexander. Space, Time and Deity. 1920; New York: Macmillan, 1966.

NOTES

1More precisely "actual occasion," designates the primary constituents of events: an actual occasion is the limiting type of an event with only one member (PR 73/113).

2 This may be connected with the fact that now relations may be characterized as reciprocal (the complex of mutual prehensions, (PR 194/ 295) while SMW still distinguishes, in an Aristotelian sense, between internal and external relations (analogous to the difference between relatio realis and relatio rationis in scholastic philosophy). Cf. also PR 222f / 340 and 50/ 79.

3 Cf. 123: "each actual entity is locus for the universe", as early as The Concept of Nature (1920) 152. Later Whitehead relates this idea to the concept of a physical field (PR 80/123f.).

4 In The Concept of Nature Whitehead still did not view, one must remember, the point-flash or event-particle as the ultimate real component of the natural world: "You must not think of the world as ultimately built up of event particles," he expressly says there (CN 172 cf. 59). The world is rather "a continuous stream of occurrences which we can discriminate into finite events forming by their overlappings and containings of each other and separations a spatio- temporal structure’’ (CN 172f.; cf. also AI 161).

5 So, especially, John Cobb, God and the World (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1965).

God’s Presence in History

Anyone engaged in the systematic construction of ideas should react with puzzlement to an invitation to report on the change of his or her mind. As with any other human being, it is only natural that such change occurs. But in the constructive thought of a systematic thinker, admission of change seems to indicate an acknowledgment of inadequacy and error.. Therefore, it often occurs that such persons overestimate the degree of continuity in their own thought -- and the reader may find me guilty of a similar fault.

On the other hand, even systematic human thought develops in time and can never be complete. An awareness of this fact and of the limitations it entails is itself a condition of the credibility of any system of ideas, and that may finally be so because time belongs to the essence of truth and of reality itself.

Nevertheless, when I search my memories and other evidence, I find it difficult to discern any fundamental change in my theological perspective since 1959, when I published an article on "Redemptive Event and History." It was the first public evidence of the project that had gradually taken shape in my mind during the preceding years: to work out on the level of systematic theology the ancient Israelitic view of reality as a history of God’s interaction with his creation, as I had internalized it from the exegesis of my teacher Gerhard von Rad, after I had discovered how to extend it to the New Testament by way of Jewish eschatology and its developments in Jesus’ message and history. When I began to understand that one should not set history and eschatology, nor (therefore) history and God, in opposition to one another, the general direction of my further thought was determined.

And yet, it never occurred to me simply to draw conclusions from such a premise. Rather, I found myself attracted to the searching study of the actual world of human experience and of the Christian tradition in the confident expectation of retrieving there the evidence of God’s action that I assumed to be constitutive of all finite reality. Thus there were many occasions for changes of opinion in later years, but these changes were not in the least comparable to those that had occurred before.

To Probe the Christian Tradition

The most incisive change of mind happened when I became a Christian. Since I had not enjoyed the privilege of being raised in a Christian family, commitment to the study of Christian theology could not come about by a smooth and imperceptible process. Nor did it follow from a unique experience of conversion. Rather, it was the result of a series of experiences.

The single most important experience occurred in early January 1945, when I was 16 years old. On a lonely two-hour walk home from my piano lesson, seeing an otherwise ordinary sunset, I was suddenly flooded by light and absorbed in a sea of light which, although it did not extinguish the humble awareness of my finite existence, overflowed the barriers that normally separate us from the surrounding world. Several months earlier I had narrowly escaped an American bombardment at Berlin; a few weeks later my family would have to leave our East German home because of the Russian offensive. I did not know at the time that January 6 was the day of Epiphany, nor did I realize that in that moment Jesus Christ had claimed my life as a witness to the transfiguration of this world in the illuminating power and judgment of his glory. But there began a period of craving to understand the meaning of life, and since philosophy did not seem to offer the ultimate answers to such a quest, I finally decided to probe the Christian tradition more seriously than I had considered worthwhile before.

When I began to study theology as well as philosophy at Berlin in 1947, I was not yet certain that I wanted to become a theologian rather than a philosopher. But I was impressed by the Barthians’ emphasis on the sovereignty of God in his revelation, and it seemed self-evident to me that God was to be conceived of as utterly sublime and majestic if there was any God at all, and when I came to Basel in 1950 to study under Karl Barth himself, I was almost convinced of the appropriateness of his approach.

On the other hand, I was troubled by the dualism involved in his revelational positivism. It seemed to me that the truly sovereign God could not be regarded as absent or superfluous in ordinary human experience and philosophical reflection, but that every single reality should prove incomprehensible (at least in its depth) without recourse to God, if he actually was the Creator of the world as Barth thought him to be. Increasingly it seemed to me inconsistent with that assumption that Barth presented God’s revelation as if God had entered a foreign country instead of "his home," as the Gospel of John tells us (1:11). Therefore, I felt that my philosophy and theology should not be permitted to separate, but that within their unity it should be possible to affirm the awe-inspiring otherness of God even more uncompromisingly than Barth had done, since he returned to reasoning by analogy.

After I transferred to Heidelberg to complete my studies, my inclination to combine philosophy and theology was greatly encouraged by closer acquaintance with patristic thought. At the same time I came to realize that history presents that aspect of the world of our experience which, according to Jewish and Christian faith, reveals God’s presence in his creation. In this discovery, I owed much to Karl Löwith’s lectures on the theological rootage of modern philosophies of history as well as to Gerhard von Rad’s interpretation of the Old Testament.

Turning Point

It was a decisive turning point. Until that late period in my theological studies I had been unable to make much sense of biblical exegesis. The subject matter that fascinated me was the reality of God and the consequences to be derived from the affirmation of that reality in philosophy and in dogmatics. But now historical experience, tradition and critical exegesis, together with philosophical and theological reflection on their content and implications, became the privileged medium to discuss the reality of God. That meant that there is no direct conceptual approach to God, nor from God to human reality, by analogical reasoning, but God’s presence is hidden in the particulars of history. In the regular meetings of a circle of friends at Heidelberg, after almost ten years of discussions, we finally arrived at the conclusion that even God’s revelation takes place in history and that precisely the biblical writings suggest this solution of the key problem of fundamental theology.

Before that conclusion could be reached, a new way of relating the person and history of Jesus to the Old Testament’s theology of history was required. That approach was found in apocalyptic thought, then commonly despised; further in a reassessment of the terminology related to "revelation" and of its history; and finally in an integration of all that with the problems of the philosophy of history. A new systematic category had to be explored (prolepsis) in order to describe the place of Jesus’ history and especially of his resurrection within this framework, and in the end it became discernible that it is in history itself that divine revelation takes place, and not in some strange Word arriving from some alien place and cutting across the fabric of history.

This result, of course, could not fail to arouse violent and malign reactions from the leading schools of the day, Bultmannians as well as Barthians. It was as if we had committed a sacrilege. We were naïve enough then not to have expected any such reaction, but rather some enthusiastic acclamation.

Other Fields of Learning

Since that time, change and development have occurred on a different scale. The obligation of covering the entire field of systematic theology in my academic lectures brought to my attention not only new facts and perspectives, but also complete fields of learning that I had scarcely noticed before. They helped to put my theological project in a broader and more differentiated context. Thus I started to work out its implications for anthropology in an attempt to integrate the different disciplines of secular anthropology into a Christian interpretation of human nature and destiny that, in the context of contemporary thought, seemed to present the inevitable starting point for any attempt at theological reconstruction.

This concern alarmed some of my friends, as it seemed to indicate a shift in my general outlook, and in some way there was indeed a new picture emerging. But it was more a matter of methodological considerations in developing a systematic theology, together with explicit discussion of the implications involved in a program of "revelation as history." These implications being philosophical as well as theological in character, I spent considerable time and energy in exploring what the new concept of revelation meant to the problems of truth and knowledge in general as well as to the problems of a general theory of being and reality that, among other things, had to take account of the importance of the natural sciences in any serious concept of reality.

When I finally postponed the project of a comprehensive theological interpretation of human reason in order to confine myself to a particular section of it -- the philosophy of science with special attention to the place of theology -- there were again comments to the effect that a complete shift in my theological position had occurred. Many friends asked whether I could still identify with the position of my book Jesus -- God and Man, the most obvious development and exposition of the program of Revelation as History. In my own mind, there was no question. I simply felt the obligation of working my way through those other regions in order to substantiate my claims concerning history, and especially that of Jesus as God’s revelation.

Ecumenism and Universalism

Nevertheless, there were also real changes in the design itself. In the first place, I should mention the ecumenical experience. Since my early days as assistant at my teacher Edmund Schlink’s Ecumenical Institute at Heidelberg and afterward during many years of regular ecumenical discussions, especially with Roman Catholic theologians, I became increasingly aware that Christian theology today should not limit itself to some narrowly defined confessional loyalty inherited from the past but should help to build the foundations of a reunited, if to some degree pluralistic, Christian church that should become more and more visible within the foreseeable future. This vision seems to match other universalistic aspects of the Christian tradition, especially its claim to universal reason, and it constitutes the most important practical application of my theological project.

Second, strong claims in some of my earlier statements concerning the universal intelligibility of God’s revelation in Jesus Christ have been replaced by more restrained formulas that take more account of the intricacies of human language and belief. Of my original assertions, none encountered more uncompromising rejection than did my claims concerning the rationality of the Christian faith in God’s revelation. Therefore, I felt obliged to ponder these criticisms with particular care, even if their polemical form made that more difficult than necessary.

What was the element of truth in such criticism? The result of my reflections was not a surrender of my claim to the rationality of faith but a revision of its form. If some of my early assertions sounded a bit triumphalistic, it may have been because of a too naïve way of referring to Scripture as fulfilled in Jesus Christ. As I revised my use of the idea of fulfillment of the Old Testament promises in Jesus Christ, I also developed more scrupulous ways of accounting for the truth-claims of the Christian tradition, including a more critical attitude toward the faith’s tendency to dogmatism. This task also induced me to be more careful in my description of the relation between Christianity and Judaism.

To the degree that there was a change in my attitude, however, it meant an increase in critical rationality, rather than its limitation in order to make room for faith. I could never understand the argument that faith was in danger if it was in agreement with the judgment of true reason. I rather suspect that the real danger for faith lurks in its estrangement from rationality. But precisely the concern for rationality induced me to emphasize the provisional character of the knowledge of faith more than I did in earlier days.

Religious Language

Closely connected with this point is another: my sensitivity developed as to the functions of religious language that are not open to definitive proof or falsification, but nevertheless indicate in symbolic form the presence of the ultimate. Even in my early statements I emphasized that revelational history is always connected with language, and I tried to relate it to the ultimacy of the meaning claimed for a revelational event. Only on that assumption does it seem understandable why later interpretations can miss the meaning inherent in the events themselves. But my view on religious language was too narrow, and I too readily assumed that all religious language was transferred from secular use. Today I think that the religious dimension of human life is one of the irreducible roots of language, and I suspect that quite a few of our words developed from religious origins.

In recent years, the doctrine of God has taken more and more definitive shape in my thought. Whereas in earlier years God to me was the unknown God who came close only in Jesus Christ and could be approached only in him, "from below," but could not be adequately characterized in human language, I increasingly realized that there is other than conceptual language which nevertheless is not noncognitive.

Hence today I feel much more confident to develop a doctrine of God and to treat the subjects of Christian dogmatics in that perspective. That doctrine will be more thoroughly trinitarian than any example I know of. For many years I felt that the doctrine of God constituted the final task of Christian theology, although, of course, everything in it is related to God. Such a doctrine, however, seemed to presuppose a sufficient degree of clarity in many other areas, because talking about God involves everything else. Therefore, the appropriate way to present it will be in the form of a Christian systematic theology.

Religion Outlasts Ideology

I should not close without noting a change in my political attitudes. In my earlier years I had little doubt about not only the moral superiority but also the historical future of the values of the liberal democratic tradition. A little more than 15 years ago, I became considerably less optimistic. The course of the students’ revolution in Europe, especially the unexpected susceptibility to Marxism on the part of many educated youth, made me more keenly aware of the unpredictability of irrational factors still shaping the course of history. In another way the political decline of the West in recent decades suggests similar conclusions.

However, the more insecure the future of a liberal, secular society appears to be, the more confident I feel about the future of religion -- not a future in relation to emancipation and economic and/or political liberation. Much of the enthusiasm in such movements seems to me an unintentional contribution to accelerating the spread of oppressive regimes. But religion in the strict sense of the word can feel more secure today than it has for a long time. It will outlive every ideological regime. And the only serious challenge to Christianity will not be secular society, which is badly in need of religious support in our days, but rival religions.

The Closet, the House and the Sanctuary

After our local church’s session wrestled with the question of whether to ask the congregation to be quiet during the prelude, I tried to step back and review the sanctuary as a locus for prayer and worship. People, I discover, bring needs to express in worship and prayer which are impossible for the corporate sanctuary service to satisfy. We have promised more through the "go to church" admonition than we can deliver.

The locus for prayer/worship is threefold: the closet, the house and the sanctuary. Each has its unique place within the disciplines of the faith. Each has its own limitations if allowed to stand alone. And each offers reinforcement when exercised in concert with the other two.

Picture them as forming a three-legged prayer/ worship stool. If one or two of the legs are taken away, the result is a precarious balancing act. To overemphasize or place more importance on one of them will elongate that leg. To minimize, discredit, misuse or ignore another will shorten that leg. A tilted stool does not provide a solid foundation on which to trust one’s weight.

Since the professional clergy have such visibility and stake in the Sunday sanctuary setting, we should not be surprised at which leg of the stool has been elongated.

Jesus’ prayer/worship life extended to the primary, face-to-face group of Twelve (the house). Their worship grew out of their experiences, their feelings and their life as a community of love and trust. This corporate offering culminated in the Lord’s Supper and is projected in Jesus’ promise, "Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst."

The early chapters of Acts reveal some emerging patterns for the church. "They spent their time in learning from the apostles, taking part in the fellowship, and sharing in the fellowship meals" (Acts 2:42, TEV). For several centuries house churches served as the locus for small groups of Christians to pray, hear Scripture, sing praise, eat meals, celebrate the Eucharist and share offerings with the poor.

Jesus also celebrated in large crowd settings (the sanctuary). He taught the masses and healed their sick. He went to the synagogue ("as was his custom") and to the temple (he insisted that it be a house of prayer). His teaching about destroying and rebuilding the temple did not dissuade his followers from frequenting it; temple worship and festivals were central expressions of their Jewish faith. "The believers . . . met daily in the temple (along with other Jews) and had their meals together in their homes . . . continuing together in close fellowship" (Acts 2:44-46, TEV).

Toward the end of the second century, Justin Martyr describes the gatherings of Christians in house churches (25 to 45 members) and adds: "On the day called Sunday there is a meeting in one place of those who live in cities or the, country" (The Early Christian Fathers, edited by Cyril C. Richardson [Westminster, 1970], p. 287). This general, probably open-air, sanctuary type of gathering included the celebration of the Eucharist.

Being alone with oneself can precipitate anxious feelings. Silence conjures up both fear and power. Yet it is surely the path that the saints of the church have trod. Solitude is like a body of water at ease -- not a running stream or a wave-whipped lake but a reflecting pond. When allowed to settle, the sediment in the water falls to the bottom, making clear sight possible. The Scripture admonitions "Be still and know that I am God" and "In quietness will be your strength" suggest a way to pursue prayer in the closet.

As I look back on my own spiritual development, I see that the closet for me during my formative years was a large, open field in Nebraska. For 12 hours a day I drove a John Deere tractor back and forth, or round and round. In that enforced solitude I came to be comfortable with myself. I pondered sermons and Scripture that I had heard. I created and sang songs to the pop-pop-pop rhythm of the tractor. I pictured what creative ministries would look like. I clarified values. Although I did not realize it then, in my own way I was working out some of the basic disciplines of the interior life -- the journey inward.

The current interest in prayer and meditation, especially the recovery of those neglected disciplines that lie within our own Christian tradition, is producing an increasing number of persons who have the skills and insights to provide spiritual direction. Christians do not have to journey to the East for direction. Understanding those paths, as well as taking the wraps off our own Judeo-Christian tradition, has provided rich resources that can help a person go to the depths -- through the conscious mind, through the world of feelings, through the unconscious to deep wisdom and inner knowing.

Protestant pioneers include the Shalom Institute in Washington, D.C., under the direction of Tilden Edwards; the Institute of Advanced Pastoral Studies in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan, directed by Jack Biersdorf; and the Journal Workshops and Process Meditation efforts of Ira Progoff. The Church of the Savior in Washington, D.C., continues a strong emphasis on silence and solitude through the Day-spring retreat center. Of special interest to me is the participation of action-oriented people who are finding rhythms that link active and passive modes of being. Both inner and outer change are important to them.

Much has been made of the relaxation potential of meditation: lowering blood pressure, slowing the heartbeat, and changing the body temperature to cope with stress. I would not discount this factor but would say that the purpose of closet prayer is one of surrender to God -- of "letting go" of one’s agenda and concerns into the very heart of God.

Closet prayer is found not so much in doing as in being. While meditation paths may help one along the way, they are the structures for releasing.

The house includes those who have committed themselves to a loving and trusting community: to be the body of Christ, learning his love as they learn to love one another. It is a place for disclosure, for confessing -- telling how it is with me. It is a community of empathy, being "with" one another. "Weep with those who weep and rejoice with those who rejoice" (Rom. 2:15). Gifts are recognized and called forth. Support for ministry and outreach is maintained.

Community can be a scary place as well. People live with the paradox of having hunger for intimate community and at the same time fearing it. The house is the place of honesty, of teaching, of exhorting and even of rebuking. Here members are held accountable for their lives and witness. There are few hiding places; the masks are off.

Within the community, the prayers offered are distinct from those of closet and sanctuary. Here, the two or more who are gathered agree to ask in the Lord’s name. Here prayers accompany the laying on of hands for the healing of the sick. Here one is well enough known and free enough to ask for prayers related to a specific concern.

In one house church with which I worked, the participants struggled to identify their worship life. Their previous church experience had sent a message that real worship happens on Sunday, in a sanctuary, and under the control of a professional pastor. We began to identify the major components of sanctuary worship: praise, admission and release, thanksgiving, grounding in the Word and sacrament, affirmation of faith, offering of gifts, intercessions and petitions, and a parting blessing. Then I asked those present to identify what they did in house church -- even though loosely structured -- that was like the components of worship with which they were familiar. They were surprised that so much worship, in fact, was taking place!

House worship is more spontaneous, more oriented to experience/reflection. Participants learn to identify moments when confession, affirmation, call, healing, reconciliation or risk takes place -- then to lift the moment up for identification or reflection. In addition, some basic structures for "gleaning" the group or gathering up prayers of thanks, petition and intercession can be used. One-word prayers, simple phrases, or brief sentences allow all to participate. If a person chooses to release a concern to the group, it can be offered in prayer.

The sacrament of the Lord’s Supper has always been a moving event for me in a house-group setting. Is there something about the sacrament that makes it possible to experience the community as gift? Or does the love/trust covenant in which people have experienced brokenness and poured out self-giving love for one another make the sacrament come alive? Perhaps both. But let me observe that confining the Eucharist to the sanctuary and shut-in list denies its grace to the house groups. The Eucharist did, after all, originate in the setting of a table fellowship.

Some who object to this public recital say: "You are manipulating me and putting words in my mouth which I do not believe, have not experienced, or do not feel." I understand that and acknowledge the diversity within unity. Yet we do recite the church’s common beliefs. Pentecost Christians who are described in the book of Acts worshiped wholeheartedly in the public celebrations at the temple, even though they were a sect of Judaism whose views were at some variance.

The limitations of house worship come at the point of its potential for isolation of a comfortable elitist group that resists any impinging agenda from the outside. There are groups with great power for healing and growth, and there are groups with power for destruction, manipulation and oppression. The group that cuts itself off from the larger Christian community and sets its behavioral norms out of its own limited experience will be like the hand that is cut off from the body. Moreover, we have discovered that groups have life cycles. Many groups that become isolated fall victim to the death-and-decay end of the cycle, leaving their participants even more isolated and alone, often bewildered and angry that the group experience did not live up to its original billing.

People who major in small-group worship often miss the music of the sanctuary as well as the liturgical drama related to the church year and the celebration of the church’s festival days.

And the sanctuary has its limitations. It cannot provide the setting for solitude. Our attempts to create silent zones in corporate worship services have invariably been bombed out by the distractions of coughing, a fussy child, or shuffling feet. Attempts to counter the one-way communication patterns by introducing interaction among people also meet with resistance. For many, the "passing of the peace" feels like an awkward intrusion into worship. I recall the storm that brewed after a pastor invited people to subgroup into threes or fours to discuss his sermon. The pew-filled floor and front-facing layout are simply not conducive to fellowship interactions. The sanctuary cannot be the closet or the house.

If the worshiper does not experience house or closet worship elsewhere, he or she will bring certain expectations to the church and then, lacking fulfillment, will be frustrated or bored. The person who says, "I go to church to be quiet and get away from people," will feel invaded. The person who says, "I go to church for the friendly atmosphere," will leave incomplete. Unless these needs are met and developed elsewhere, the worship service will have a hollow ring.

My own experience testifies to the need for a balanced worship/prayer life. When I give an inordinate amount of time and energy to one of the three modes, I feel a greater hunger for the others. When they are experienced in concert, I discover that each reinforces and lends great energy to the others.

What does the closet bring to the sanctuary? It brings fallow ground! How many distractions, outer or inner, does one’s mind pursue in a typical corporate worship service? I would be afraid to count! But people who know how to let go, to release and center, are the ones who are in a position to listen. "He who has ears to hear, let him hear": Jesus suggests that readiness is the key to receiving. The closet frees one to give full energy to the corporate recital.

What does the house bring to the closet? It brings aloneness (in contrast to loneliness). Faith is always personal, but never private. The person in community belongs. One’s identity as person is established in community, contrary to the fears of some that participation in intensive group life will blur and diffuse one’s individuality. The person who belongs can risk going to the inner depths of the soul.

What does the house bring to the sanctuary? It brings the laboratory of honest life. The house is a microcosm of the church or, as St. Augustine suggests, "a church within the church." The rubber hits the road first in the intensive group. Reports from several house-church consultations in the early ‘70s revealed that significant issues for the larger church were first felt and identified in the house groups. The pain, joy, struggle and success of the house are immediate and visible for all to see.

The house brings the material -- the substance -- for corporate confessions, thanksgivings, intercessions and petitions, especially if the groups express the full marks of the church (including ministry).

What does the sanctuary bring to the closet? It brings to bear the rich tradition of the church, which becomes food for thought. Many of the meditative phrases or sayings which I attach to the rhythms of breathing come directly out of the Scriptures (especially the Psalms) and prayers of the church. The week-after-week rote recital of the liturgy often has its greatest effect in the closet of personal struggle. How well I remember author Gert Behanna’s personal story: broken by alcohol, unfulfilled by wealth and education, and disillusioned by marriage failure, she entered an empty Episcopal church to pray. Suddenly the words of the old confessional prayer which she had "rehearsed" years earlier came rolling off her lips. The sanctuary had entered into her closet with its purging and healing power.

What does the sanctuary bring to the house? It brings the unity of the church. The congregation’s power and effectiveness are not to be found in the size of its membership alone, but in the number and efficiency of the living cells within it. These cellular groups will come and go: be born, flourish and die. But like a body where cells live and die, there are some constants. There is a bone structure on which the cells hang and interrelate. There is a central nervous system, which correlates command and response, pain and pleasure.

Let the congregation see itself as the cathedral which gathers groups for celebrations and overall coordination. The rich diversity of groups can then function’ in unity.

Some churches have created worship teams to plan the service, as an attempt to counteract one pastor "doing unto" the congregation. But who is to say that a team of ten persons will not also "do unto" the congregation -- and even more so as they add up their creative ideas? Inviting such participation is really an attempt to rope the house and drag it into the sanctuary.

In any renewal, let the sanctuary stick to its role of the public and corporate recital of the drama of grace. Then let us find ways to train sensitive lay leaders who can enable house worship. And let us also encourage and support those persons and groups that are providing spiritual direction for solitude, seeing that their efforts are vitally linked to renewal of the total worship life of the church.

Where Are We Going in Pastoral Care?

For all practical purposes, my transition to becoming a theologian of pastoral care began with an invitation to attend the International Congress on Pastoral Care and Counseling, held in Scotland in mid-August 1979. The Congress was an extraordinarily representative gathering, bringing together more than 400 practitioners and theoreticians in the pastoral care and counseling field not only from North America and western Europe, but also from eastern Europe, Africa, Latin America and Asia. The excitement of Third World participation was evident from the start of the meetings: "indigenization" was an important catchword, and we waited eagerly to hear reports about the fashioning of distinctive pastoral theology models for non-Western contexts. As the reports came in, I found myself both impressed with and grateful for the information which confirmed that highly competent, specialized forms of ministry in pastoral care and counseling were in various stages of development everywhere. But my disappointment increased daily over the gradual discovery that the models and hermeneutics were anything but "indigenous"; all were part of a repetitive sequence of Western theological imports. Most of what needs correcting in the present pastoral care and counseling discipline -- overreliance on the literature of psychotherapy and underresourcing in theology -- appears to be shaping the second generation of programs springing up all over the world.

However, I also came to be impressed with how widespread and intense, among pastoral counselors, is the yearning for new models of integrating theological reflection, psychological literature, and clinical practice into a transforming vision of the church ministering in the world. Only once or twice did I hear at Edinburgh a posttheological voice proclaiming boldly the identity of salvation and the achievement of psychotherapeutic insight and change. As a whole, the conversation was overwhelmingly in the other direction. My subsequent reading in recent pastoral counseling literature bears out this trend. There seems to be nothing less than a massive shift of orientation beginning in the pastoral care and counseling field.

One possible new form for the discipline would represent pastoral care and counseling as oriented by ecclesiology, concerned for elucidating the structure and dynamic of human being-in-the-world by means of plurality of methods of inquiry, and especially informed by the rapidly proliferating literature, experimental and theoretical, on the human life cycle. Within such an approach, several themes would play especially important roles: pastoral care as the ministry of the whole congregation in the world; the identity of the ordained minister in his or her pastoral office as both enabler and representative of the calling of all Christians to minister in the world; and a threefold focus of pastoral care, including the person or persons in need, the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the faith of the Christian church as represented in Scripture and tradition.

Hunter relates his understanding of Moltmann’s theology to the critical assessment of pastoral care principles by reference to an incident in his own ministry, which he discusses with refreshing candor.

Hunter brings to bear on the situation in question those concepts he calls "the most basic and most widely accepted" principles of pastoral care today, five in number. The first is an emphasis on listening: the minister is to be responsive primarily to what the parishioner himself or herself wishes to say, and is to be sparing in sharing the interests, enthusiasms and moralisms of the pastoral office. Second, the minister is to attend to the underlying affect as intently as to the verbal content: what the parishioner "means," frequently unaware, is as important as what the parishioner says and is aware of saying. Third, the minister is encouraged to be accepting of negative feelings, especially those of conflict and ambivalence: the experience of acceptance, particularly of one’s otherwise unacceptable feelings, is especially conducive to personal growth. Fourth, the ministry of pastoral care is to be carried on in an atmosphere of exploration, with emphasis on discovery and growth: an open-ended, conversational, collaborative style is the watchword. Finally, a relatively high degree of emphasis is placed on personal involvement and self-disclosure on the part of the minister, rather than on the neutrality emphasized by a number of traditional psychotherapeutic schools.

One may raise questions about this list of pastoral care principles; while few may wish to quarrel with the five enumerated, at least some may be inclined to add to them, even though the respective additions might not in all cases be congruent. (For me, Hunter’s list lacks a principle for "confrontation.") But his judgment is sound in that something like this congeries of pastoral care principles, widely if not universally adhered to, has contributed in a fundamental way to the shape of present pastoral counseling practice and theory. This development in turn has given rise to the increasing plaintive cries, including Hunter’s own, for more attention to theological reflection in the exercise of this ministerial office.

As Hunter reflects critically on his own pastoral actions, he becomes aware that what characterizes most pastoral interchanges is a pattern of this sort: "I heard Mrs. B., and Mrs. B. heard me." Both Hunter and Moltmann rightly affirm the importance of pastoral action which strives for just such hearing. Moltmann’s caricature of certain traditional models of pastoral care makes plain the advance demonstrated in Hunter’s practice: the pastor visits from house to house, and from hospital room to hospital room, with Bible and prayer book in hand, reading a few verses from each to his parishioners, before moving on. An observer might characterize the whole in the following terms: "We listened together to the gospel, but I did not hear him and he did not hear me."

The careful and sensitive attention Hunter reports in his transcript is strikingly in contrast to such traditional models, and constitutes a more effective witness to the transforming power of God in personal life. But the question with which both Hunter and Moltmann became preoccupied aptly represents the fundamental theological question currently being raised about the theory and practice of pastoral care. With reference to the dramatis personae of the critical incident, the question is: "Granted that the chaplain and Mrs. B. heard one another, did they, together, also hear the gospel?"

As Hunter seeks to deal with the question in reference to his own pastoral practice, he concludes that there is indeed something of a witness to the gospel in interchanges named by his five principles, but that it is an incomplete witness at best, and one which may also profoundly distort the gospel message, at least as that message is clarified by means of Moltmann’s theology. Hunter comes to express his discovery in an interesting way. As he thinks back on the empathy expressed toward a hospital patient, he sees that what the patient received from him was an encouragement to continue trusting in the order of things. The changes which the patient was experiencing, with much travail, are nonetheless precisely those sorts of changes predictable throughout the human life-cycle, about which the fundamental task is to maintain an affirmation of the natural order, with all its vicissitudes. Moltmann puts the matter with characteristic succinctness: as he sees it, what is involved here is "primal trust in the natural course of things," a reduction of the gospel to a form of creation faith only.

But while the trinitarian structure of Moltmann’s theology gives high priority to the doctrine of creation, the central motifs of his system most germane to pastoral care ministry are to be found elsewhere. Especially important is his articulation of the Christian gospel in reference to Jesus Christ’s identification with God in his humiliation and abandonment: "the crucified God," who, only in the hopelessness of his situation, can bear the divine promise of a future Kingdom. The eschatological tension of this situation, constituted essentially as the denouement of a ministry of suffering love, implies for ministry something other than mere encouragement to persons who are suffering.

The kind of empathic support which Hunter offers, though commendable in the light of present pastoral care theory and practice, nonetheless is oriented to the horizon of life, and to the overcoming of suffering. Acceptance of negative feelings about suffering, along with changes in life style and orientation and in attitude toward dying, aim at liberating the sufferer to retrieve primal trust. But Moltmann’s theology, Hunter believes, impels a different kind of pastoral strategy, attuned to the possibility of hoping in spite of the irreversibility of suffering and dying, and of calling others to hope in the midst of their own suffering rather than taking false hope in their recovery and restoration. Pastoral care is not to look beyond abandonment and hopelessness, but rather to confront the hopelessness itself as the primary, although not exclusive, setting in which the Kingdom of God and its promise are to be apprehended. Moltmann pays particular heed to the plight of the terminally ill and the irremediably retarded as representing the depths of that hopeless suffering in which the crucified God becomes the bearer of a significant promise. Contemporary pastoral care theory and practice, by contrast, seem to bear the message of hope, liberation and the coming Kingdom of God only as alternatives to hopeless suffering rather than as a horizon of meaning within hopeless suffering.

In my judgment, the fundamental issue here is that, for Christian faith, the trustworthiness of things in general, and most specifically of events within a fallen world, can be affirmed only paradoxically, from hope which arises out of situations of suffering, abandonment and exile. Only this kind of hope is a sign of God’s future. "Hope against hope" expresses a different kind of trust in the order of things than that of the infant, who is called upon to trust that nature will indeed minister to him or her. Hope against hope, which it is one task of pastoral care to discern and elicit, raises instead the possibility of a form of life which, precisely in its unrelieved and unrelievable suffering, can be the bearer of the gospel message of the Kingdom. Is it possible to envision pastoral care that is both empathic to the actuality and the horror of unrelievable suffering, and courageous in calling the sufferers themselves to ministry? Can those otherwise abandoned to hopelessness become, in their being and in this bearing, heralds of the graciously offered future of God?

It is important to reflect on the aim and form of pastoral care. As we look again at Hunter’s "basic principles," what stands out is the way in which the recipient seems to determine both the acts and the theory of pastoral care. Pastoral care and counseling theory has been, and not without justification, person-oriented (or, in the technical vocabulary of one school of psychotherapy, "client-centered"). Generally, the primary aim has been understood in terms of restoration of "health" and "wholeness" to the client. Just how the restoration process itself is understood depends to a large extent on the theory of personality and psychotherapy being integrated with a theology of ministry. Hence, restoration can be understood as relief from symptoms, strengthening of ego functioning, acquisition of self-esteem and interpersonal relations skills, recovery of unique potentialities or identity formation. That these specifications seem wholly indebted to secular psychotherapies is itself a problem demanding theological examination. The most important problem, however, is that of conceptualizing "health" and "wholeness" as functions of the individual organism, when, and by contrast, the Christian tradition has tended to speak of the salvation-health linkage within a larger understanding of the destiny of the whole people of God. For Christian faith, individuals within the laos tou theou derive their own health and wholeness in faithfulness to the ministry and the mission of the called-out people.

This means that "functioning" is to be understood in terms including but also transcending those pervading secular psychotherapeutic theories. A person’s functionality is to be understood in reference to that ministry to which all disciples of Jesus Christ are called. In this light, the aim of pastoral care needs reformulation in terms which speak of restoring persons’ capacities to function as ministers within a community of faith and mission. Whatever would constitute removal of blockages to functioning and, as necessary, even reconstruction of personality itself needs to be understood in the light of this larger end: equipping the saints for their ministry.

How, then, might the form of pastoral care be specified, given a reformulation of its primary aim or goal? Moltmann’s theology may be especially germane here. From his perspective, equipping the saints for ministry will require a form of pastoral care which is oriented toward incorporation (and reincorporation) of persons into communities of love and service. This means that no pastoral care can be complete which does not assume a form including a call to renewed discipleship to those capable of actively witnessing to the Kingdom of God in their own lives, as well as a call to affirm respectfully the incapacitated as themselves signs of God’s gracious presence and identification with those deemed hopeless in the world’s sight.

This is a double call to discipleship, really; it seeks to enlist persons in ministering to others, and it also asks from those ministering their cultivation of a capacity to be ministered to by others who can only "be," and whose "being" seemingly never can include genuine receptivity, response or mutuality. The call itself -- to whomever -- must issue as much from the serving community as from the "pastor" alone, to both the pastor and the whole community. What this, implies, finally, is that the future of pastoral care rests not only with clinically competent and theologically informed professionals, but also, and more crucially, with committed and effective lay-persons. Developing caring congregations, as well as effective, professional counselors, in the words of scholar Howard Grimes, is the "missioned task for pastoral care in today’s church."

The Last Word: A Good Friday Meditation on Luke 23:46 (Luke 23:46)

What happens when we die? An unsettling question, but this way of posing it does keep it at arm’s length, a subject for theological or philosophical or medical discussion. What happens when you die? What happens when I die? Surely the question cannot come closer to home than this. But it can. The Christian gospel abandons all evasions, short-circuits all subterfuges, and probes beneath even our personal encounter with what some call blessed release and some call the Grim Reaper. The Bible faces the question: What happens when God dies?

God became a human being. The doctrine of the incarnation is a relentless assault on everything that makes sense. A baby whose swaddling clothes are dirty and need changing, a man being executed as a deterrent to other potential criminals: Can this really be God?

Since Christianity’s beginnings, fastidious souls have been turned off by the messiness of incarnation. They have kept God spotless by surmising that Jesus only appeared to be a human being, or that the divine nature and the human nature operated in parallel, even in synchronization, but independently and without ever touching. Some have supposed that Jesus ate food, as the Gospels say he did, but he did not digest it, for digestion leads to defecation, and surely the toilet is outside the range of God’s experience. Indeed, experience itself as we know it -- the chances and changes of this mortal life -- has been thought by many to be precisely what distinguishes the world from God. In this view, to talk of God’s experience is to talk of God ceasing to be God.

We would like the Bible to be tidier. Why must it confuse our minds with "I and the Father are one" and "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit"? Isn’t it simply preposterous for God incarnate to ask why God has forsaken him? Couldn’t God, while dying, think of something more edifying to say than "I thirst"? How can our minds stretch enough to take in "They know not what they do" and "All these things were done according to the Scriptures"? Why doesn’t the Bible go away and leave us alone?

I

Yet here is another Good Friday -- the 1,950th Good Friday, give or take a year or two -- and we work our way through God’s, dying words, finally reaching the last of the seven: Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit." I was surprised to discover how readily my memory of the text had accommodated itself to my sense of what would be fitting. I instinctively thought of this last word as being spoken quietly. Here Jesus has come through the emotional wringer of the other six words to a full and confident resolution, and he steps quietly through the gates of death.

But that is not what Luke says. He does not tone down what he found in Mark. He does not write simply that "Jesus said," or even that "Jesus cried," but that he "cried with a loud voice, "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit." Surely, we suspect, God would have come to terms with death. How can we bear the terror of our own death if there is even the slightest hint that God did not go gentle into that good night? Why this "crying with a loud voice"? Why won’t God pull himself together and be God?

There is an easy way to restore God’s serenity. Since Luke wants to impress a Greek audience with his skills as a historian, we can argue that, had Jesus’ last word been a whispered prayer of resignation, the skeptical reader would immediately ask: "How did Luke know what Jesus said? Luke himself tells us that Jesus’ acquaintances, from whom the story would have had to come, were standing at a distance when these things were going on." But Luke has an answer for that one: the "loud voice" could have been heard at the foot of Calvary. The decibels of Jesus’ cry bridge the initial gap between the event and the report of it. In other words, when God died he was not distressed; he was simply taking care that history be a record of what actually happened. He was disarming the skeptics in advance.

To read Luke this way, however, is to domesticate his Gospel. We like to trim the Bible to the dimensions of what we think is fitting and respectable. With Luke, that exercise is fairly easy, since his own editing of Mark pulls the sting out of many events and sayings. But for just this reason we have to listen sharply for the offense of the gospel in Luke’s pages. What he has to say may be all the more monstrous for its apparent congeniality.

II

Luke does not report the cry of dereliction, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?," but there can be as much message in the stage setting as in the dialogue. We are obsessively word-conscious, and assume that all meaning resides in the content of what people say. We are surprised when a psychologist enters a Sunday school room and instantly explains that the teachers’ exasperating discipline problems can be solved by painting the walls a different color. What do we see when we pay attention to Luke’s story, not just to the seventh word of Jesus?

Notice the isolation of Jesus. It is not so drastic as the Garden of Gethsemane in Mark’s and Matthew’s account: "Then all the disciples forsook him and fled." Indeed, it is not so drastic as the crucifixion scene itself in those other two Gospels. They report the presence only of certain women who had followed Jesus from Galilee; Jesus’ other disciples were apparently still in hiding. Luke does not use the term "disciples" here, but does have "all Jesus’ acquaintances" standing at a distance as onlookers. Still, given Luke’s general portrayal of the close relationship between Jesus and his followers during the years of ministry, the scene at Calvary is one of stark loneliness. The one who the night before had shared an intimate meal is now all by himself, dying.

There is no more devastating curse than loneliness. If a person is radically lonely and fears there is no remedy, faith, hope and love -- the things that abide -- are not simply inaccessible; these ultimate, sustaining realities are literally unbearable to those whose penultimate realities, including their own identity and relationships, are in total disarray. They pray to God for guidance and then curse God for guiding them. They imagine utopias and then abandon all hope. They suspect all love is coercion. To speak of God to someone in the despair of unrelieved loneliness is to engage in an unintentional act of bludgeoning. It is like the well-meaning and theologically orthodox but unfeeling ramblings of Job’s friends, who richly deserve his outburst: "I have heard many such things; miserable comforters are you all" (Job 16:2).

III

The Apostle Paul, in one of his most daring challenges to how we think things ought to be, said that Christ became a curse on our behalf (Gal. 3:13). "Sick, sick, sick," one might say -- and many in our time do. How neurotic, even psychotic, can you get?, they ask. Nietzsche speaks for such critics when he writes with disgust of the New Testament: "These little men are fired with the most ridiculous of ambitions; chewing the cud of their private grievances and misfortunes, they try to attract the attention of [God], to force him to care!" (The Genealogy of Morals).

What Nietzsche cannot stand is what the church proclaims as gospel. The good news is for those who are sick. It is for you and it is for me. It is concocted of repentance and forgiveness, of judgment and grace, and it is warranted by a God who has become a human being who has become a curse. The Bible tells us that God cares, not because he has a sense of moral obligation or feels a sentimental pity, but because he knows. God instinctively sides with Job, not with the comforters.

Imagine Peter present at Calvary. He hears Jesus cry out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" Always the intervener, always the one who knows what to do, Peter immediately reassures Jesus: "No, God has not abandoned you; in fact, Jesus, remember you are God." Peter would then surely have heard a rebuke he had heard once before: "Get behind me, Satan." Just as the prophet Hosea portrays God’s excruciating knowledge of love -- God cannot abandon a wayward, faithless Israel even though he would very much like to -- so Luke and the other evangelists portray God’s knowledge of loneliness: God knows the absence of God.

It is because God incarnate knows bitter loneliness that "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit" rings true. God’s death is no easy passing over, no falling asleep, no pie in the sky. Jesus "breathed his last," Luke tells us: just the way you will breathe your last, the way I will breathe my last, the way our fathers and our mothers, our husbands and our wives, our brothers and our sisters, our daughters and our sons, have breathed, are breathing, or will breathe their last. The gospel is no neurotic refusal to face death. It is just the opposite -- a refusal to evade it. God died. "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit" is spoken from the other side of despair. Our minds boggle at the thought that God has got to that other side by going through the despair to get there. It cannot be helped. The Bible is a mind-boggler.

Luke does not belabor the point. If we were writing the story, we could not withstand the temptation to explain everything, to lay out exactly what is implied in the words "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit." But the Bible is not the sort of book we would have written. The crucifixion narrative, like nearly everything else in the Bible, finally puts us on the spot. We come for answers, and the Bible rivets us with questions that we thought could safely go unasked.

IV

Persons in despair -- and doesn’t that, at one time or another, include us all? -- turn frantically to others in hopes of finding the answer, despite their own impenetrable conviction that there is no answer. The trouble is, in a sense they are right. No one else has an answer to impose on them. Truth which comes from outside bears all too easily the aspect of wrath. The answer which is promise, and not threat, is locked away inside each of us,, and it is an unexpected answer -- the only kind, after all, that can do an end run around an unanswerable question, The answer is the discovery that the question "What happens when I die?" is not the ultimate question, as our culture has tried hard to persuade us it is. Not even death, the gospel tells us, separates us from God, for God has died.

The last of the seven words -- "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit" -- is not the conclusion of a bargaining process. Jesus does not say, "I give you my spirit in exchange for the resurrection day after tomorrow." In this part of the story Luke leaves it at "he breathed his last." The ultimate question is not "What happens when I die?" but "In whom can I trust to the end?" The Christian is called to trust in God who sides with Job, who will not let his people go, who dies alone.

To take the full measure of this gospel, of this good news, is to suffer a rude shock to our sense of propriety. We do not like it when Paul asserts that God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise. We do not like it, and we do everything we can to forget it. Good Friday is an unwelcome aid to our memory, a yearly reminder that we have not even begun to figure things out. The seven last words deliver a severe beating to our pride.

If the gospel makes sense, it makes a very odd kind of sense. It makes the sort of sense that can be found in two "Resolutions" written by Jonathan Edwards three days apart in the year 1723 (from Jonathan Edwards: Representative Selections, with Introduction, Bibliography, and Notes, edited by Clarence H. Faust and Thomas H. Johnson [American Book Company, 1935], p. 42):

50. Resolved, That I will act so, as I think I shall judge would have been best, and most prudent, when I come into the future world. July 5, 1723.

51. Resolved, That I will act so, in every respect, as I think I shall wish I had done, if I should at last be damned. July 8, 1723.

Can we imagine what it means for these two resolutions to come to exactly the same thing? -- for that is just what they meant to Edwards. How he would try to live was quite without regard for whether he would be spending eternity in heaven or hell. His trust in God lay far deeper than the question "What happens when I die?" In whom shall we trust to the end? -- that is the question. "Father, into thy hands I commit my spirit.

Bell’s Theorem and Stapp’s Revised View of Space-Time

In much recent philosophy, including mine hitherto, space and time have been considered primarily as they appear either to common sense or to relativity physics. But quantum physics suggests important qualifications. This should not surprise us. For it is only in quantum physics that science arrives at long last at the true idea of single "happenings," events not reducible to a series of subevents. This corrects or qualifies the idea of space-time as continuous. Actual happenings are discrete, not instantaneous or indefinitely extended temporally or spatially, and only the potentiality of happenings is continuous. In general (as Peirce saw, but in his "Synechism" partly forgot) continuity is the order of possibility, rather than of actuality. Pure geometry deals with possible, not actual events. Heisenberg seems to have seen more clearly than some, e.g., Schroedinger, the importance of the idea that a quantum "jump" is a single event, not a continuous series of events. Before the jump occurs, there is only a probability of its happening, and the wave function gives this probability.

The attempt to reduce probability to a mere matter of our ignorance has led nowhere in the fifty years since Heisenberg’s famous paper. The future is the aspect of reality that is definite only as probability, while the past is definite -- period. What happened happened, whether we know it or not. Becoming is creation of definite actualities. Peirce and Bergson had said this before the discovery of quanta, and for good reasons, but in quantum physics science discovered factual evidence that, if it did not prove these philosophers right, at least made it much easier for such views to get serious consideration.

Nature keeps making what amount to decisions (mostly not conscious as such), each causally conditioned but not causally determined. Every event has a cause if "cause" means necessary condition; no concrete definite event has a cause if "cause" means sufficient or determining condition, for that would make the result as necessary as the condition. Only for certain more or less abstract or approximate features of events, for instance statistical uniformities, can there be sufficient or necessitating conditions. Since the classical view that ultimately equates necessary and sufficient conditioning is no longer operative in science, there is no point either in affirming the compatibility of human freedom and classical determinism or in introducing ad hoc exceptions to determinism in the case of human decisions. Relevant also is the truth noted by Bohr that quantum physics applies strictly only to isolated systems, which at best are idealizations, and is not without further qualification applicable to organisms. Thus even quantum statistical determinacy is not absolute.

Quantum physics of course limits the precision with which spatiotemporal localization can be assigned to events, or to world-lines, that is, event sequences or careers. In 1964 a more radical correction of traditional views was discovered by J. S. Bell.1 In a personal communication Stapp writes:

What Bell’s theorem shows is that, contrary to the suggestion of relativity physics, it cannot be assumed that events controlled by an experimenter in one spatial region can influence events in a distant spatial region only after sufficient time has elapsed for some form of radiant energy to pass with the speed of light from one region to the other. Rather there are situations where quantum effects require that certain changes in events controlled by experimenters in one region be accompanied by changes of events in a distant region at times prior to the arrival there of any signal that travels at the speed of light from the location of the controlled events.

Whether or not this result reinstates absolute simultaneity is another question. What does follow, again in the words of Stapp, is that "spatially separated parts of reality must be related in some way that goes beyond the familiar idea that causal connections propagate only into the forward light-cone." Thus the famous Einsteinian concept of the space-time structure, standard for nearly sixty years, receives at last some qualification.

Peirce’s or Popper’s fallibilism, or Whitehead’s dictum, "seek simplicity and mistrust it," should have led us to expect something like this. To quote Stapp once more, "causal effects can be transmitted over large distances without the possibility of material conveyance. Admirers of Whitehead will recall his qualification, "provided physics keeps to its denial of action at a distance." It has not kept to it. Only so far as nonquantum effects are concerned is causal influence confined to the forward light cone, leaving a mass of contemporaries for any given event E, although most of these contemporaries of E are not contemporary with one another. ("Contemporary with" here means "mutually independent of.") This relativistic conception is quite different from older concepts not only of simultaneity but also of contemporaneity. It is one of the strangest ideas ever introduced by science. No wonder some physicists almost went out of their minds trying to assimilate it. By accepting it as ultimate, Whitehead rendered the great doctrine of events as summing up the influences of the past distressingly ambiguous. For "past" has no clear meaning in relativity physics. There is the "absolute past" of a given event and its absolute future, but between them a "present" teeming with relations of before and after.

For philosophy there was another difficulty. The conception of events related only by the nonrelation of independence implies the idea of purely external relations, not to be found in any of the events but sprawling somehow "between" them. I believe I have shown elsewhere that monistic arguments against wholly external relations and pluralistic arguments against wholly internal relations are equally cogent and that the solution to the problem of relating events is to be found only in a theory of asymmetrically internal-external relations, constitutive of one term but not of the other. Such relations are vulnerable to neither of the objections to which the symmetrical extremes are exposed (5).

In spite of these considerations, relativity physics has seemed to compel us to accept the symmetrical independence of spatially separated events. For decades I suffered philosophically from this seeming necessity. Now, may Allah bless him, Bell has done away, it seems, with the problem. For he shows that the mathematics of quantum theory, which has yielded such manifold confirmed predictions, is incompatible with the idea of mutually independent contemporaries. And in the thirteen years since 1964 no one has shown how to rid the quantum mathematics of this implication and yet retain its utility.

It should be said that Bell somewhat confused the issue by employing the notion of hidden variables, perhaps to save determinism, but Stapp has shown that this feature can be eliminated and the theorem still derived.

We have then physical as well as philosophical reasons to dismiss the idea of mutually independent events. The science that produced the idea has also eliminated it. The alternative is not to suppose that contemporary, spatially separated events are mutually influential. In that case a decision here would have to take account of a decision there that would have had to take account of a decision here taking account of the one there, and so on in endless proliferation and confusion. Or else one would have to say there was, at a given moment, but a single decision for the cosmos, as though the universe were but a series of acts of God. This is the monistic nightmare in which all localized action is lost and nothing definite can be said without saying everything else, which is impossible. This was why, after for some years defending (against Whitehead) an interdependence view of contemporaneity in order to avoid the paradox of purely external relations, I came to accept the relativistic view, paradoxical as it also seemed. But now with Bell and Stapp things are different. Events at place A and those at place B cannot be independent. Not that they must be interdependent. But either an influence goes from A to B or from B to A. The analogue in formal logic is that of P and Q being neither equivalent nor simply independent, though we do not know which is the entailing and which the entailed proposition.

The idea of interaction or biconditioning does seem a requirement of common sense and experience. Thus in dialogue each person influences the other. Yes, but persons, and individual things generally, are not single events, ultimate units of the world’s plurality, or final terms for spatial or temporal relations. Rather they are sequential series, families, of events. The veto upon mutually interactive events is compatible with mutually interactive careers or event sequences. "Interaction," and symmetry generally, is shorthand. Thus I now may influence you as at a later moment, and you as you were a moment ago may influence me as I am now. These relationships require three terms, three events, not just two. Between the ultimate units of analysis, the single events, there is only one-way influence, but several such asymmetrical relations may for convenience be summed up as interactions between individuals. The truth that talk about individuals is shorthand was seen by Buddhists long ago. How many philosophers today are pre-Buddhist in this respect! Also prescientific, for all modern science relates events to events, in the last analysis, not things to things.

The relativity scheme of space-time remains intact as a way of picturing ordinary, nonquantum relations between persons or things and even as a way of picturing relations between single events so far as these relations consist only of influences of the kind dealt with in ordinary life, such as those used to move macroscopic bodies, or to send messages. The influence of events at A upon events at B or of events at B upon those at A is shown to be mathematically necessary, but the mere knowledge that some such influence exists does not allow us to predict what a change at A will do in any single case to things at B. We do not even know which way the influence will go, but only that there must be one. Moreover, the effect disappears when averages are made over physical ensembles. Thus the veto on messages sent faster than the speed of light still stands.

It follows from the foregoing that for many practical purposes the idea of mutually independent contemporaries retains its significance. If some remote planet is inhabited by rational beings, we cannot plan any definite action upon those beings or in our lifetime exchange messages with them. This is all to the good. It is enough to have to concern ourselves with people on the other side of this our planet without having to think of the weal or woe, or the intentions, of those on remote planets in quite other solar systems. Altogether there is as much interaction and as much independence as we have need of.

In the foregoing I have been leaning heavily on the work of the physicist Henry P. Stapp. He holds a "revised Whiteheadian" theory according to which all single events, creative acts, or decisions" (he shares Whitehead’s fondness for this word in its most generalized or nonanthropomorphic meaning, which does not entail conscious choice) belong to one well-ordered series, each event being a necessary condition for all and only those coming "after" it in the series. The interaction of two things or persons consists in each having some of its events in this sense before and some after one or more of the other’s events. Each event is necessary condition for every, but sufficient condition for no, following event. (It is sufficient condition for there being some subsequent event and for its type of probability, but not for its definite character.) If values of the variable x denote events in my career and values of the variable y events in my neighbor’s career, then as we interact there are in the well-ordered or ultimate series (on which, according to Stapp, all events fall) some instances of x both before and after instances of y. No single instance of x would both condition or come before and be conditioned by or come after the same instance of y. Causality would be wholly noncircular.

The net effect, as Stapp notes, is a great gain in coherence for the process view of reality, which was gravely compromised by taking relativity as the last word on the structure of space-time.

This change also simplifies, if it does not first make possible, the influence upon the world that Whitehead attributes to divine decisions. They only need be inserted between successive events in the ultimate series. Only those who know the troubles process philosophers have had in trying to insert divine influences into the World of mutually independent contemporaries know what a relief this doctrine affords (1, 2, 6). One possibility I thought of years ago in wrestling with this problem was a one-dimensional series similar to the one that Stapp postulates, but, since neither common sense (nor past philosophy) nor the physics I then knew about seemed to give any support for the idea, I could not quite believe it.

With all its complexities and subtleties, the process view as now revised is, in basic essentials, the simplest and most straightforward cosmology ever conceived that is compatible with what we now know about nature. The only way to refute this assertion is to point to another cosmology that is superior in these respects. To do this will prove harder than to find grounds for complaint about this or that feature of White-head’s writings. Stapp’s writing, some of it not yet published, seems a model of clarity and very different in various ways from Whitehead’s, yet it preserves what on the basic level most matters in the Whiteheadian vision.

Metaphysics, the irrelevance of which has been so widely declared, is showing itself relevant indeed. We stand, one may surmise, before a new era in speculative philosophy. Bell’s discovery is philosophically as revolutionary as Heisenberg’s. That so many years could pass before it was much noticed seems surprising. Perhaps the needless entanglement with the sterile idea of hidden variables is the reason for the neglect. In any case, as many such cases show, the world is always busy as well as prejudiced. However, philosophy can hardly abstain much longer from considering Stapp’s startling idea, derived from Whitehead with help from Bell, that the four dimensions of space-time are our way of picturing relations obtaining, in terms of various types of influence, among instances of creative becoming whose well-ordered series of conditions and conditioned fall upon a single ultimate dimension. This dimension is far more like an ultimate time than an ultimate space, since it has a radical directionality, each member conditioning (when all types of influence are taken into account) all those coming "after" and none of those coming "before" it. It is time’s one-way dependence, not space’s symmetrical dependence or interdependence, that is the clue to reality in general or as such. Taken absolutely, space is, as so many philosophers have suspected, an illusion. (A Kantian might view this as at least a partial vindication of the formidable Koenigsberger.)

This result is only what formal logic should have led us to expect. For the relation upon which all reasoning depends is neither mutual conditioning (equivalence) nor complete independence but the normally one-way entailment or simple conditioning. This point is almost childishly simple. But it is profound, for by it alone can we reconcile the indispensable contrasting ideas of order and freedom, persistence and novelty, necessity and contingency, past and future, being and creative becoming, security and adventure, the satisfyingly predictable and the thrillingly unforeseeable, as in scientific discoveries or in all the best music. "Order" is significant only because, as Whitehead bluntly says, disorder is as real as order. The past can be "closed" only because the future is open. Asymmetry, not symmetry, is king.

Realities are neither simply outside each other, as flume, Russell, and other extreme pluralists have held, nor simply inside each other, as Fa Tsang in ancient China and Royce and Blanshard in recent times have stated, but cumulatively inside their successors as new realities which have essential reference to their predecessors are endlessly created. Causality is merely the way in which each instance of freedom takes into account the previous instances, as each of our experiences refers back through memory to our own past and through perception to the world’s past. Freedom is influenced by its own previous acts and by nothing else whatever. Even divine influence can only be the Eminent form of freedom whose decisions also must be in the ultimate series. Thus Berdyaev’s idea of a "divine time" can be given a meaning. For it is only divine "prehension," as the Eminent form of memory and perception, that can adequately preserve what has come to be and thus render it truly closed and forever definite thereafter. Atheistic systems will have to do with some less complete and positive account of how the past influences the present.

Every great scientist, like every great philosopher, sees some things rightly and some wrongly. Thus, granted Stapp’s interpretation of Bell’s discovery, though Einstein was wrong in refusing to give up classical determinism, he was right in rejecting absolute simultaneity. Two unit events at strictly the same locus in the ultimate succession must have the same conditions and probably consequences and be indistinguishable. And what could assign them the same locus in ordinary time? If they are interdependent, their distinguishability is lost; and if they are entirely independent, what could enable them to form parts of one unambiguously present state of nature?

It was also sound to look for a finite upper limit to velocity. An actual world cannot be all possible worlds, and any world order consists in excluding some logically possible sorts of happenings. Thus Epicurus was right in contradicting Democritus’s idea that atoms exist in all conceivable sizes. To be actual is to exclude some possibilities. This applies to actual laws, say those characterizing our "cosmic epoch," as well as to instances coming under the laws. It is quantum theory that has at last brought science to admit the contingency that qualifies every instance of becoming. The new indeterminacy is piecemeal contingency. Not only could there be other laws, but also, even granted the laws and the actual causal conditions, each new actuality could have been otherwise than it has been. Einstein, who was somewhat in love with necessity, inclined to view it as the very meaning of order and rationality. Rather, order or rationality is a mixture of "necessity and chance," as Epicurus shrewdly divined. "P entails q" is significant only because it is possible and common in such cases for q not to entail p.

In fairness we should perhaps agree with Pauli (against Born) that Einstein’s main objection, and a more cogent one, to quantum theory was not the statistical aspect, to which he was a major contributor, but to the subjectivism sometimes derived from it, the view that nature is merely certain correlations (statistical or not) among our perceptions. This for Einstein made the theory an incomplete description of the order of nature, which can hardly obtain as only an order of human perceptions. Yet it is widely agreed that, as now formulated, quantum theory gives us a mathematical model, not of an independent reality, but of our perceptions of reality. Einstein (also, I think, Schroedinger and Popper) has expressed dissatisfaction with this limitation. Heisenberg seems not wholly consistent on the issue. Stapp desiderates a mathematical model of what is going on in nature at large, but he concedes that we do not yet have such a model. In his view the present theory is merely "pragmatic." According to the revised Whiteheadian theory, the desired model should refer to items on the ultimate series, the members of which may be conceived abstractly as decisions or partly free events, subject only to statistical regularities. Our momentary human experiences are paradigmatic examples of such events, but they have no ontological priority.

Experiencing as creative of its own novel unity is the absolute principle, and it includes the persistence of the already created. Causality is merely, as Whitehead so nicely put it, the necessity that each new actuality must "house" its actual world, i.e., its past. I have shown elsewhere that the partial predictability of the future is a logical consequence of this postulate (4; cf. also 3). It is the real solution to Hume’s problem about causality, provided we take past to refer to the order in which actualities come to exist, rather than only to the "temporal" order as it appears in relativity physics or is accessible to detailed human discernment. We can believe in an order of creation without necessarily supposing that observing animals such as we are have unlimited capacity to know that order. Obviously we cannot know just how it feels to be a butterfly, or even a chimpanzee, or for that matter our own wife or husband. So why should we complain because there is some mystery for us about the order in which actualities become actual?

Whitehead makes one remark that might seem to imply a potential objection to the new principle. He says that the mutual independence of contemporaries constitutes their freedom. Without this independence, what happens anywhere would immediately condition what happens anywhere else. However, this would be fatal to freedom only if the sole alternative to mutual independence were mutual dependence. And this is not a necessary, if it is even a possible, interpretation of Bell’s result. What happens here now may condition what happens somewhere else without measurable temporal lapse, although what happens at the somewhere else does not condition what happens here and now. In that case what happens here is entirely free so far as the other happening is concerned, and the other happening, though conditioned by what happens here, still retains its freedom since, by the process conception of conditioning, no set of conditions can be fully determinative of the resulting actuality. I think Whitehead was subtly misled by the symmetry that distinguishes space from time, a symmetry that, we now appear to know, holds only with respect to certain forces, those communicated not over the speed of light and constituting interaction only as shorthand description of a tissue of one-way actions between unit events.

We seem to have in this situation one more example of the truth that symmetry is invariably partial or in some sense artificial. The mutual externality that has often been taken to distinguish matter from mind, the spatial from the merely temporal, like so many other supposedly absolute distinctions between physical and mental process turns out to be an illusion, if taken without qualification. And the mutual interaction that has often been proposed as the way to avoid that illusion is revealed as an opposite exaggeration.

Not symmetry, asymmetry is king, the one-way dependence of creativity in each instance on its antecedent instances.

SOME FURTHER REFLECTIONS

The modified Whiteheadian view has in common with the unmodified doctrine that, in either case, substance and spatiality (Kant’s third category of reciprocity) reduce to Kant’s first category of cause-effect, which in process terms is the same as prehendable-prehending. Against the unmodified view I see two objections.

(1) There is Bradley’s argument that (mutually) external relations imply a relation between the terms and the relation, generating a regress. (With the externality holding of one term only, there is, as Bradley failed to note, no regress, for the internally related term, simply in being itself, has relation to the other term.)

(2) There is the difficulty of seeing how the divine Consequent Nature can be compatible with the idea of its taking light years for spatially separated events to be together as data of one prehension. To meet this difficulty one may (with Whitehead and Ford) view God as an actual entity" or (with me) as a society, in either view not without what may appear as troublesome paradoxes.

For the two reasons stated I must hope that the Stapp modification proves acceptable, odd as it may seem to our human imaginations. Whichever way further study takes opinion, it is, I hold, a great advantage of process philosophy that it faces only one basic problem where tradition saw three. The basic problem is that of one-way dependence, or in the Buddhist phrase, whatever this or that Buddhist meant by it, "dependent origination." Substantiality (or social order) and spatiality are but complications in the essential business of prehensive supersession, A prehending B which prehended C, etc. Substances, societies, are especially intimate sequences of actualities prehending a common characteristic from predecessors; spatiality is only the at least partly symmetrical case: either (the unmodified view)

A) Mutual inheritance between sufficiently near or enduring societies, otherwise mutual non-inheritance, and

B) Mutual non-inheritance between actual entities; or (Stapp)

A) As above, except as qualified by

B’) One-way inheritance of a special, subtle kind between pairs of actual entities; otherwise non inheritance, as in (B).

Thus on both theories a single principle does triple work. When a physicist or mathematician achieves such sweeping integration of concepts under one concept, people get excited. Philosophers, for one reason or another, often seem not to care. Physicists now say what Whitehead said rather long ago: nature consists in the last analysis of "events, not things." Physicists as such can hardly be expected to see also that causal inheritance is prehensive. But when psychologists seriously turn their attention to the question of comparative psychology and the general problem of mind in nature, then they and the physicists (and perhaps even most of the philosophers) may come to see it.

 

References

1. Paul Fitzgerald, "Relativity Physics and the God of Process Philosophy," Process Studies 2/4 (Winter, 1972), 251-73.

2. Lewis S. Ford, "Is Process Theism Compatible with Relativity Theory?" Journal of Religion 48/2 (April, 1968), 124-35.

3. Charles Hartshorne, "The Meaning of ‘Is going to be’," Mind 74/293 (January, 1965), 115-29.

4. Charles Hartshorne, "Creativity and the Deductive Logic of Causality," Review of Metaphysics 27/1 (September, 1973), 62-74.

5. Charles Hartshorne, "The Neglect of Relative Predicates in Modern Philosophy," American Philosophical Quarterly 14/4 (October, 1977).

6. John T. Wilcox, "A Question from Physics for Certain Theists," Journal of Religion 41/4 (October, 1961), 293-300.

 

Notes

1 I am deeply indebted to Henry P. Stapp for his lucid explanations (partly in conversations) of the essentials of Bell’s theorem and for his revision of the Whiteheadian cosmology to render it compatible with Bell’s result. For the relevant literature see the references given in Stapp’s essay above, particularly 1, 9,10, and 7, sections iii, x, and especially appendix B on p. 1318.

Personal Identity from A to Z

Personal identity is a special form of genetic identity and is very different from the more strict identity dealt with in logical systems (since Leibniz first defined it as complete equivalence of predicates). My view of personal identity can be cumulatively built up in the following steps. (On this issue my view is, so far as I can see, entirely in accord with Whitehead’s and is in some respects close to historical Buddhism, whether Theravada or Mahayana.)

a) Becoming is not "being" minus something, but being plus something. Or rather, being is only an abstraction from process or becoming, which is "reality itself" (Bergson). One corollary is that terms like "reality," or "the universe," or "the truth" have no single referent, fixed once for all, but acquire a partly new denotation each time they are used. Whereas "being" contrasts with "becoming," reality contrasts only with the fictitious or merely imaginary. What has happened up to now is not fictitious but real, and is, if you will, being rather than nonbeing. But mere being, abstracting from process, is, as Nietzsche saw long ago, but an empty universal, the common property of all becoming whatsoever. One argument for the primacy of becoming is this: if anything becomes and something else does not, the totality of what becomes and what does not become itself becomes. A new constituent makes a new totality. In other words, the only way to make becoming less than being is to deny that there is any real becoming. Of course many have done this, e.g., Sankara and McTaggart. If the immutable-and-the-mutable is real in both aspects, then what the entire phrase refers to is mutable. It is process which is inclusive, and being is a constituent of this inclusive reality.

b) Becoming is actually discontinuous, though the potentialities for becoming form a continuum. Actuality is always in definite units, and these are not instantaneous, any more than they are spatially punctiform. Proofs for this view have been given by James and Whitehead, using a form of Zeno’s paradox. A proof I incline to prefer is given by von Wright, who does not mention the other proofs.1 In sum, apart from logical niceties, the argument is: a thing cannot have contradictory predicates at one and the same time; but, if change is continuous, no time can be found, unless an absolute instant, in which a process is not both p and not-p for some predicate. And, in an instant, nothing can happen, no change or process can take place. Would Leibniz have accepted this argument? I think he should have, for it is but the spatiotemporal form of his argument that spatial extendedness requires a plurality of unitary entities, one here, another there. Temporal extendedness also requires such units, one now, another then. But in a continuum there are no definite units, only indefinite divisibility. Continuity is a matter of possibility, of ideality, not of actuality. Bergson neatly missed (yet unwittingly gave away) the point with his cinema analogy: the illusion is the continuousness of becoming, the reality is the succession of units. In this doctrine I not only follow James, Whitehead, and von Wright, but also rejoin the ancient Buddhist tradition as well as one of the traditions in Islam.

c) The unit realities or "actual entities" are "experient occasions," that is, analogous, however remotely, to momentary human experiences (occurring normally in the human case some 10-20 per second). This is in partial agreement with the entire "idealist" tradition, much older in Asia than in the West, according to which "matter" is a form of manifestation of "mind" (in the broad or nonanthropomorphic sense) and is nothing simply on its own. My kind of idealism has, however, rather little in common with the Berkeleyan or even the Hegelian forms, for these are essentially anthropomorphic. In the West only Leibniz offers any close analogy (prior to Peirce and Whitehead), and even he in but a few aspects of his monadology.

d) Experient occasions have previous such occasions, whether or not closely similar to themselves, as their data. Thus what memory seems almost obviously to be, intuition of the past, perception is also, though less obviously. Memory and perception are both intuitions of the past. I call the one personal and the other impersonal memory.

e) As many idealists and some realists have held, in becoming datum for an experience or unit-subject, an entity becomes constituent of the subject. Subjects include their objects. Thus an actual entity must "house" its actual (meaning its past) world, must embrace the latter in the "synthesis" forming its own unity. Excluded by this doctrine of synthesis or "prehension" is the view that the data of an experience are merely adjectives of that experience. Instead they are prior experiences which are taken into and thus qualify subsequent experiences; yet in themselves they exist antecedently and independently. Excluded also are the views that occasions can be directly intuited or given to contemporary occasions and the view that data may in some cases be bits of mere matter or merely material processes, "vacuous" of any internal life, feeling, or value.

f) Bergson’s protest against mutually external units of process is justified; but instead of saying that experiences "interpenetrate he should have said: the earlier penetrate the later, but not vice versa. The past comes into the present; the present cannot go back into the past. Where an asymmetrical relation was called for, Bergson used a symmetrical word. This is the nemesis awaiting those who scorn logical analysis and yet use concepts that are either subject to such analysis or are mere poetry and should be left to poets not seeking to convey knowledge.

g) Another symmetrical relation is identity. Hence those who suppose that genetic identity is strict identity are contradicting the meaning of "genetic." It cannot be identity which explicates "time’s arrow," but only some way of being identical and nonidentical; or, to remove the contradiction, of being only partially identical.

h) Since the present includes the past, becoming is cumulative and is a growth and indeed the ultimate form of growth. Here I agree with Bergson and also W. P. Montague, as well as Whitehead, and, in one essay at least, Peirce.

i) However, the cumulativeness is more or less hidden, and hence missed by most thinkers, because of the indistinctness characterizing all experience other than the divine. Leibniz was the first to put this sharply, as he was the first to put so many things (both right and wrong) with full sharpness. All human perceptions (and memories) are indistinct, or as he also, less happily, phrased it, "confused." Only God prehends clearly what he prehends. Whitehead’s "negative prehensions" are his term, perhaps not a very good one, for perceptual indistinctness. (His "transmutation" is the form this weakness of all nondivine experience takes in all but very low forms of experiencing.)

j) Since data are past events indistinctly given in the present we have, but do not fully have, our past. Apart from God’s perceptions, most of the value of the past, the vividness of its more or less intense harmonies and discords, is lost. And so, apart from God, or the mystery of Nirvana, Whiteheadians and Buddhists can agree that all things human and humanly valuable are ephemeral, "passing whiffs of insignificance," as Whitehead phrased it.

k) Occasions fall into sequences, more or less definite strands of becoming, which Whitehead calls societies, and might have called families or tribes. These sequences can be spoken of as genetically identical, provided one realizes that this is much less strict in its requirements than sheer logical sameness. It will not help matters here to distinguish between numerical and qualitative identity. No one is interested in an identity which connotes nothing as to qualities -- at least, no one other than some believers in reincarnation, and indeed not even they. Apart from qualities, all things are identical, for they are all indistinguishable instances of thinghood.

People who today clamor for "identity" are not looking for numerical sameness but for a mixture of qualitative uniqueness, and qualitative overlapping in relation to other persons and the world generally.

Genetic identity, which has only a relatively definite meaning, involves (1) some "defining characteristic" reappearing in each member of a sequence or family of occasions; (2) direct inheritance by appreciably positive prehensions of this character from previous members.

l) The main subdivisions of the class "societies of occasions" consist of the linear or "personally ordered" societies, the familiar example being a stream of consciousness" of a single person, and nonlinear societies, such as a tree considered as a colony of cells. Perhaps each cell is personally ordered but probably not the tree. One form of nonlinear society is that which, unlike the tree, is accompanied by a linear society of "presiding occasions." A live human body with its "mind" or "soul" is the example nearest at hand. Leibniz spoke of the body as a group of monads with a "dominant monad," a human soul. Whitehead’s analysis gets down to the spatiotemporal units, whereas Leibniz is less analytic of time than of space, or if you like, he refuses to take time seriously.

m) Of course Whitehead has no reason to accept Leibniz’s denial of "windows," of interaction, since his units respond to or prehend not only prior members, if any, of their society but also members of other societies. Occasions have perceptions as well as memories, whereas Leibniz restricts literal prehension, without which perception is only a pretense, to personal memory. Whitehead’s theory of perception, and of units of succession, completely disposes of Leibniz s argument against interaction between sequences.

n) What then is personal identity? it is the persistence of certain defining characteristics in a very complex bodily society endowed with a preeminent linear society or "soul." This complex society may be said to begin with conception, or with a late stage of embryonic development, or with early childhood, depending upon the purpose which determines what one takes as its defining characteristic. There is no absolute right or wrong here, and this is one weakness of some arguments about abortion. Did "I" exist at the moment the fertilized egg with my unique chemistry, that is, my gene structure, came into existence? I deny that this is a justified way of speaking, except for the rather trivial purpose of distinguishing between that egg and all others. The egg was not even a vertebrate animal, let alone an animal endowed with actual human thoughts and feelings. It was but a single cell, and man is at the least a multicellular animal with an elaborate nervous system.

o) Another limitation in personal identity is this. Am I myself in dreamless sleep? My body is then real, and my past experiences as past, but what more? Nothing more, I think, if this "more" is supposed to be something actual. Of course there is the possibility, the great probability, of my beginning to dream and then, before long, waking up. But this probability is simply the actual state of my body, taking into account the principle of process or of creativity that every process is destined to be taken up in some suitable form of further process.

p) Well did Buddha (I believe it was really he) say that the identity of the bodily career is stricter than that of the mental career. Contemporary analysts are, I think, right in holding that the persistence of the person includes that of the body; and, I add, the mental persistence is in some ways a more limited and partial one. However, it is immensely important for all that, and involves a considerable measure of strict identity. Always, after a given moment, my vague and potentially clarifiable background of memories will include whatever I experienced prior to that moment. Over and over I go back once more to the same memories, none available in this way to any other stream of experiences; always, if I want to, I can recall that I had such and such a mother and father, brothers and sister, went to such and such schools, read certain books, etc., etc., through countless items of the kind. Always my unique bodily chemistry, as gene-determined, is there, unconsciously influencing all that I think or feel. Always the unique pattern of my nervous system, not quite like anyone else’s but in certain outlines fixed since early childhood, is there, and not there for nothing. Thus a lot of my past keeps penetrating my present. But it keeps its integrity as past throughout. My deeds remain what they were, my failures to act, likewise; my pains and pleasures as they occurred continue to have been just that.

q) On the foregoing view, the failure of substance philosophies is not in maintaining that there is some element of strict identity though change, but in either obscuring the truth that there is also nonidentity in an equally literal and equally numerical sense, or in misstating the relations between the identity and the nonidentity. Is the identical in the different or the different in the identical? Which is the more determinate or concrete reality? There is linguistic precedent for saying that a person is in a state, as though the common element between past and present is but a constituent of the present. But substance philosophies have never been clear and consistent in admitting this. They keep suggesting that the state is in the person, as an adjective belongs to a noun. This is incorrect, unless Leibniz was correct in holding that all of a person’s states belong to him at all times, a monstrously paradoxical view. If yesterday I did not have my today’s experiences, then my today’s reality is a whole of which my yesterday’s self is at most a constituent. Thus I am today, as a total reality, numerically new. Personal identity is literally partial identity, and therefore partial nonidentity; moreover, the nonidentity refers to the complete reality, and the identity to but a constituent.

r) The ethical and religious importance of the foregoing is profound. For if self-identity is partial, then the nonidentity of one self with another may also be partial. And hence altruism is as directly grounded in the nature of the self as is self-interest. I look back upon my past experiences with sympathetic appreciation and forward to my probable future experiences in a similarly sympathetic way, allowing for possible or probable aspects of antipathy, self-hatred, and the like. And I look back upon and forward to the experiences of others (and even of imaginary characters) with similar mixtures of sympathy and antipathy. In principle there is no absolute difference. Always, too, in self relations and other relations, there are causal connections backward and forward, these being prehensive relations, the prehending being always on the effect side and the prehended on the cause side. I expect to remember my present state in my future states and expect my friends, so far as they perceive my present, to remember it also. My awareness of my past tends to be more vivid and direct than of the past of others, but this is no absolute difference.

s) It is the philosophical glory of Buddhism that it saw through the relativity of substantial identity long, long ago. The extreme of missing the Buddhist point was precisely reached in Leibniz’s windowless monads. Ironically, he admired Buddhism, so far (not far) as he knew what it was. A monad was by definition absolutely identical with itself through time and absolutely nonidentical with its neighbors. (I am not forgetting that it "mirrored" them. But this is either contradictory or hopelessly unclear. There is no absolute sameness of the individual though time by any criterion which can justify an absolute nonsameness of different individuals.) The greatness of Leibniz is that he gave clarity to the substance doctrine and dared to draw the consequences. Isle was gloriously wrong, where many were ingloriously so, and therefore ingloriously right as well, thanks to ambiguity and lack of the will to clarity.

t) Leibniz rightly objected to the doctrine of "accidental predicates." To say that a thing has a predicate though it would be that very thing if it did not have the predicate is to speak without any clear meaning. It makes "having" predicates deeply ambiguous. Strict identity means equivalence of predicates, and hence the doctrine of inessential predicates cannot refer to subjects with strict identity. What then short of that? Aristotle tried to say. If we cannot do better than his doctrine of essence, accidents, and matter, we are wasting our time. The world has made some progress in analysis since his day.

u) To reject inessential predicates is not to reject contingency. For since genetic identity is partial or somewhat abstract, and the concrete has always a contingent plus compared to the abstract, of course an enduring individual, i.e., a society or sequence of occasions, can have contingent or inessential members. But the relation of member to society is distorted if assimilated to that of adjective to noun. The most concrete correlates of nouns are actual occasions or experiences. Which predicates are "had" depends entirely upon what actual occasions occur. Contingency is in what subjects, with their predicates, become or are created, not in what predicates get attached to what subjects -- as though a subject were like a hook or wire on which predicates could be hung like garments or hoops. Definiteness, concreteness, belongs to occasions, not to things or persons. My first experience this morning will always have been just that, with whatever predicates it had.

v) A German logician, who was also a fine theologian, Heinrich Scholz, has pointed out, following Bolzano, that temporal designations belong with the subject, not the predicate. It is not that John has the predicate sick-now, but that John-now has the predicate sick. Universals have a certain time independence. For instance, having a temperature of about 104_ Fahrenheit is just that, whether at time t or time t1. But it is not the man simply, but the man-at-time-t that has this property. Individuation is finally spatiotemporal, and perhaps at long last we should join the Buddhists in recognizing this, instead of trying to tuck time designations either under the rug or under the predicate. Here too, Leibniz was splendidly clear, though mistaken. For him high-fever-at-time-t was indeed the predicate, and the subject was just the man, regardless of time. He wisely admitted that this doctrine utterly exceeded our human understanding.

w) There is nothing in the foregoing to imply that pronouns, as they function in ordinary discourse, are in any way inappropriate. For the context of discourse provides the relativities which substance doctrines tend to deny. "I think . . ." may mean the momentary self or ego which just came into reality with, for me, a new thought; it may mean a common denominator of all my momentary selves in recent hours, days, years, or even since I was a child. The same with "he thinks. . . ." Ordinary speech is indeed often wiser than philosophers have mostly been. But ordinary speech, though wise, is without a doctrine of wisdom, and in spite of Wittgenstein I see a role for doctrinal wisdom. But this wisdom about genetic identity can scarcely be found in any of the older traditions, unless the Buddhist. Only Peirce and Whitehead rival ten thousand Buddhists in their insight into the limitations of pluralistic substantialism.

x) Orthodox (Advaita) Vedanta realizes that substantial pluralism is at best less true than substantial monism; but it fails, in my opinion, to see that the radical pluralism of actual entities and the radical monism of God or Nirvana (however one distinguishes these) are the two poles of the real problem, not the ordinary substantial pluralism of common sense, a compromise which bars the path to the highest ethical and spiritual insight.

y) Plato’s Timaeus is the nearest counterpart to Buddhism in the ancient West; for Plato’s cosmos consisted of the universal and elusive "receptacle" and its momentary qualifications, thus allowing for both mysterious ultimate unity and radical empirical plurality. (The unity is somehow also the world soul and creative demiurge, but the plurality is of momentary actualities.) Aristotle, as a great scholar (Chung-Hwan Chen) has shown in a work not yet published, substituted for the receptacle (as subject of changing predicates) the banal plurality of substantial identities, which of course in some sense are real. But the correct sense was never clearly articulated in the entire Aristotelian tradition. Alas, in some ways, the step from Plato to Aristotle was a step backward. Plato’s "world soul," ignored by Aristotle and his followers, was closer to a viable theology than Aristotle’s unmoved mover.

I repeat: it is time to rejoin the Buddhist tradition, the most subtle of all very old international philosophical-religious traditions. Buddha’s insights were appreciated by his disciples, while Plato’s were half lost almost immediately.

z) If the symbols a and b refer to one and the same entity, then the sole difference is in the symbols, or acts of symbolization, not in the thing symbolized. This is strict identity. How vast the contrast between this and the genetic identity, e.g., of Peter Bertocci at age of two days with Peter Bertocci at age of sixty-one years, or even of Peter Bertocci in dreamless sleep with the same man thinking vigorously about personal identity! Those who deny or fail to realize the immensity of the gulf between the two forms of identity condemn themselves to miss the clarity enjoyed by over twenty centuries of Buddhists in many countries, and by a few Western philosophers for some decades, concerning what it is to be an individual.

 

Notes

G.H. von Wright Time, Change and Contradiction. Cambridge University Press, 1968. (Eddington Memorial Lecture)

Could There Have Been Nothing? A Reply

Dr. Craighead argues most ingeniously and with unusual fairness. I still think, though, that "there might have been nothing" is meaningless or contradictory. As to contradiction, consider "the being of pure nonbeing"? Also that "there is . . ." implies location. One can always ask, where? Sometimes the true answer is, somewhere, everywhere, or nowhere. However, in sheer vacuity, none of these words would mean anything. "There are no dodos" means take any locus you please, it will contain something other than and exclusive of dodos. But there are loci, places, only because there are real processes. In vacuity there is not even a nowhere. Our conceptual machinery breaks down in trying to explicate the idea of pure nothing. Another sign of this is the temporal language we use for modalities. Kant, more truly than his system allows, found the "schema of all our conceptions" in the temporal structure of experience. We are inclined to say, there might never have been anything. But in vacuity time too, vanishes. And so does eternity, for that is meaningless apart from its contrast with becoming.

I agree that the falsity of panpsychism implies that of much else in my philosophy. It does not follow that I must "first" establish panpsychism and then argue for other doctrines. I can also reverse the procedure. Thus panpsychism (I hold) follows from the existence of God, and there are a half dozen reasons for believing in that. (See my just published Creative Synthesis and Philosophic Method, LaSalle and London: Open Court; SCM.) That so many reject psychicalism would impress me more if I found signs of careful attention in their writings to the arguments which I and others have advanced for this doctrine. I find very little under this head.

There is perhaps some lack of communication in regard to whether God for me is the source of existence or is "being itself." Any particular concretum presupposes divine creativity as antecedent condition of its coming to be. To be sure, God "creates," not out of nothing, but out of preceding actuality, including his own. Yet he is "being itself" in the sense that what things are for him necessarily coincides with what they really are. Thus to be is to be for God, to fail to be is to fail to be for God. He is the definitive reality, the measure of all truth. And his persistence with essential integrity through every change is the only infallible mode of persistence. Since it cannot fail, to say that he requires a coexisting world is not to make his existence contingent, for in any possible case he will have whatever he requires by way of a world.

"It might have been that there was nothing," supposing it makes sense, implies, as my critic realizes, that one must drastically renounce the strict form of the principle of sufficient reason. But one must also give up even a weaker and (in my opinion) more reasonable form. This form is, "Whatever begins to be or could have failed to exist is influenced, though not fully determined, by antecedent causal conditions." God’s existence can have no such conditions. In spite of Hume, to reject this more reasonable form of the principle is for me strongly counter-intuitive. Hoyle’s steady-state theory does not violate the principle, so far as I can see. There are antecedent conditions, even though they permit considerable leeway in what comes to be.

Dr. Craighead seems not to feel the attraction, as I do, of the theory that contingency is the clash of positive with positive, rather than of positive with merely negative. I hold that the former covers every need we have to talk of contingency except the alleged need to consider the possibility of nothing. That some universe exists clashes only with God existing alone (supposing this conceivable) or with sheer vacuity. Only the second would mean (if it means anything) the divine nonexistence.

As to Whitehead and the "grip of the creative ground" this is picturesque and, on his own showing, somewhat misleading language. But here too there is an intuitive difference between my critic and me. For me it is a credible and illuminating view of modal terms to hold that they get their meaning entirely from the freedom of the creative process, in both its worldly and its divine aspects. Logical possibility as the absence of incompatibility of one concept with another is significant only because the concepts, one by one, express aspects of the creative process. Peirce, Dewey, Whitehead, and Bergson held this view. To ask about the possibility of there king no creative process is to ask about the possibility of there being no possibility, even logical, for thought has no other function than to express, guide, or enrich that process. The process has had, or has in the long run, infinite freedom as between concretes. There is no sense (for me) in adding that it has freedom between concretes and nothing.

What makes "there are green trees" true is the green trees. Would it be nothing that made "there is nothing" true? What then is the difference between "nothing makes p true" and "p is not made true" (by anything) -- i.e., it is not true?

The quotation from Huxley is ambiguous between, "Why this universe?" and "Why a universe?" Smart is clearer, but I trust my intuition more than his. And Milton Munitz, Jonathan Edwards, and Bergson take my view on this issue -- as do Plato and Aristotle.

The "psychological" argument I should call pragmatic. In agreement with Peirce, James, Dewey, and even Whitehead, I hold that a belief which could not be expressed in action is only verbal. That there might never have been anything, or might be nothing, is something about which nothing ever could have been or be done. For me that rules it out.

All argument must proceed from something known. If I did not know that "nothing" has only a relative, not a possibly absolute meaning. I don’t see how I could expect to know anything about God, one way or another.

The universe before the emergence of mind is offered as counter-instance to the proposition that anything must be directly knowable. In rejecting this counter-instance I beg the question no more than Dr. Craighead does in urging it. If he can refute both theism and psychicalism, he will have shown the conceivability of his counter-instance; otherwise all he has is that he thinks he can conceive a mindless universe. To the contrary stand theism and psychicalism, proposed as a priori truths. So, if I have not proved the impossibility of an unknowable, neither has he proved its possibility. And all proof rests on intuition somewhere. For me the proof on my side is strong.

Reese’s case was better than our critic grants. "Socrates does not exist" is conceived as a clash between the actual universe and the requirements of the mental picture or verbal description of Socrates. We look not to nothing but to something to refute positive (or negative) statements. I hold with my former collaborator.

My argument that a false assertion of necessity should lead to absurdities, whereas "it is necessary that something exists" leads to none, is not, I feel, done full justice to. To say, for example, "man exists by necessity" implies either that every species does so, or that, whereas other species are contingent, man escapes this contingency. The first violates the principle of contrast and thus makes modal terms, including necessity, vacuous. And the second lacks a credible criterion of the distinction affirmed. None of the ten criteria I discuss in The Logic of Perfection would fit. They do however fit "something exists" and also "something divine exists" and even "something non-divine exists." This is because no empirical terms are involved in these three expressions, but only pure highest-level conceptions, capable of king entertained in any state of existence in which thinking and thinking about thinking can take place. No special sense organs, like those of man, or special laws of nature are required. Such organs or laws exclude positive alternatives. The mere existence of something, or deity, or non-deity, does not do this. They are compatible with any positive state of reality. I have dealt with this once more in Creative Synthesis and Philosophic Method (Chapter XII).

One might, of course, take the "being of nothing" to mean, not sheer vacuity but a set of universals, all lacking instances. However (in spite of Santayana), this theory of "separable forms" has since Aristotle struck few philosophers as credible. Santayana was aware that, given only a realm of essence, actual existence would not even be "possible," if possibility refers to a cause or causes capable of producing the existents. (Producing need not mean "wholly determining") And what is the point of universals if no instances are, ever have been, or ever could be in an intelligible sense possible?

Whitehead once wrote, "The unknowable is unknown. This doctrine is a paradox. Some ‘cautious’ philosophers, indulging in a species of false modesty, have attempted its definition." I take this to put Whitehead on my side. Thought is about experienced reality and reality is what can be experienced and thought.

That we can conceive each particular thing not to exist implies that we can conceive nothing existing in its place only if one assumes the falsity of my or Reese’s analysis of how we make negative judgments, or of the view that contingency just is the freedom of creativity as between positive options. To think something and then think blank nothing is, for all Dr. Craighead shows, and apart from confusion or sense of the familiarity of certain words, the same as to think something and then stop thinking. I prefer to go on thinking. Of course, I appreciate the care he has taken in reporting upon my treatment of these problems.