Introduction

"What’s happening?" How many of us wish we really knew! Or are relieved we don’t.

It’s not only that so much is secret -- Did the CIA engineer the Cambodian coup? Has an order gone out for a "final solution" to the Black Panther challenge? -- or that it’s all so technical, so infinitely more scientific and complex than the average Joe -- even Joe College -- can grasp -- what with moon landings, electronic snooping, laser beams, micro-biotics. It’s more like an impossible picture puzzle with fifty-thousand pieces, a half inch big, all looking alike. It’s an information glut of contradictory events, ideas, interpretations, swirling around us until, like Simon Peter, we figuratively or literally go fishing to get away from it all. Or we turn to some devil theory, to one simple idea that explains everything and relieves us of complexity. There’s a communist under every bed or a power elite behind every TV set.

And yet we have to generalize, we have to develop frameworks for what’s happening so we can ‘make sense" out of what’s happening. Hannah Arendt is one of those rare persons who performs such a function today. Of course, in order to deal with her you often have to fight your way through Germanic, paragraph-long sentences. Then there’s the problem of most scholars: defensive writing, which is writing with sufficient fogginess and enough qualifications to fend off the attacks of scholarly competitors and enemies in the field.

But even with such limitations, there’s interpretive gold to be mined in her half dozen books and numerous articles, written over the past two decades. Her most basic works are Origins of Totalitarianism (1951, updated in 1958), The Human Condition (1958), and On Revolution (1963).

Miss Arendt is a political philosopher. A native of Hanover, Germany, with a Ph.D. from Heidelberg, she fled the Nazis in 1933, worked for Jewish emigration in France, came to the United States in 1941, and became an American citizen in 1951. She has been research director of the Conference on Jewish Relations, chief editor of Schoken Books, executive director of Jewish Cultural Reconstruction in New York City, visiting professor at a number of universities, and University Professor at the Graduate Faculty of the New School for Social Research.

In The Human Condition Arendt examines the meaning of action, that most uniquely human of man’s repertoire of capacities. In On Revolution she celebrates revolution as perhaps the grandest example of human action and points out where invariably it goes wrong. In The Origins of Totalitarianism she analyzes what happens when, by a combination of ideology and terror, an elitist government sets out systematically to destroy a citizenry’s capacity for action.

In this paper I will try to summarize her thoughts and then use them as a framework for looking at what’s happening in our country today.

Chapter 5: The Procedure of a New Quest

[Editor's Note: The extensive footnotes for these chapters are omitted. They are available only in the printed copy.]

A. The Purpose and Problem of a New Quest

A new quest of the historical Jesus cannot be simply a continuation of the original quest. This fact is most apparent with regard to purpose. For the various factors which motivated the original quest have disappeared with it. The secularization of the West has so advanced that anti-clericalism rarely enlists the best talents of the day. Nor are the Church’s opponents likely to be sufficiently embedded in the Christian tradition to be able to participate in biblical scholarship. For specialization has advanced to the degree where membership in the intelligentsia no longer qualifies for participation in the quest of the historical Jesus. Nor can the wish to replace orthodoxy with a more modern theology be a compelling motivation, simply because the hold of orthodoxy upon Western civilization has been so clearly broken that only a Don Quixote would choose to tilt in such a tournament. On the other hand we no longer have an Arthur Drews or P. L. Couchoud compelling the scholarly world to argue Jesus’ historicity. The age of rationalism is past, with its apologetic interest in proving the historicity of the miracle stories by eliminating the miraculous element. For we see that this would merely eliminate the eschatological meaning of Jesus’ life to which they In their way attest. Nor do we think that Jesus’ personality can be reconstructed as a factor of real relevance to theology today. For apart from the difficulties inherent in the sources, modern man is too rudely awakened to his problems to be lulled by the winsomeness of the charming personality which may (or may not) have been Jesus’. Nor do we hold that an accurate reconstruction of Jesus’ teaching can produce an ethical or theological system establishing the validity of Christianity. We recognize as basic, that historiography cannot and should not prove kerygma which proclaims Jesus as escbatological event calling for existential commitment.

The purpose of a new quest must derive from the factors which have made such a quest possible and necessary, a generation after the original purposes had lost their driving force and the original quest had consequently come to an end. A new quest must be undertaken because the kerygma claims to mediate an existential encounter with a historical person, Jesus, who can also be encountered through the mediation of modern historiography. A new quest cannot verify the truth of the kerygma, that this person actually lived out of transcendence and actually makes transcendence available to me in my historical existence. But it can test whether this kerygmatic understanding of Jesus’ existence corresponds to the understanding of existence implicit in Jesus’ history, is encountered through modern historiography. If the kerygma’s identification of its understanding of existence with Jesus’ existence is valid, then this kerygmatic understanding of existence should become apparent as the result of modern historical research upon Jesus. For such research has as a legitimate goal the clarification of an understanding of existence occurring in history, as a possible understanding of my existence. Hence the purpose of a new quest of the historical Jesus would be to test the validity of the kerygma’s identification of its understanding of existence with Jesus’ existence.

As a purposeful undertaking, a new quest of the historical Jesus would revolve around a central problem area determined by its purpose. This is not to say that the innumerable detailed problems involved in research would disappear, or no longer call for solution, but rather that the solution of individual difficulties would be primarily relevant in terms of implementing the solution of a focal problem. In the case of a new quest, this focal problem would consist in using the available source material and current historical method in such a way as to arrive at an understanding of Jesus’ historical action and existential selfhood, in terms which can be compared with the kerygma.

It is out of this focal problem that the distinctive individual problems of a new quest arise. One seeks an encounter with the whole person, comparable to the totality of interpretation one has In the kerygma. Yet the totality of the person is not to be sought in terms of chronological and developmental continuity, which is not only unattainable, but also is a different order of ‘wholeness’ from that needed to draw a comparison with the kerygma. Rather the whole person is reached through encounter with individual sayings and actions in which Jesus’ intention and selfhood are latent. Hence the relation of each saying or scene to the whole would be a problem of constant relevance.

The Gospels have in their way met this problem, not only by placing the kerygma on Jesus’ lips, but also by presenting individual units from the tradition in such a way that the whole gospel becomes visible: At the call of Levi, we hear (Mark 2.17): ‘I came not to call the righteous, but sinners’; at the healing of the deaf-mute, we hear (Mark 7.37): ‘He has done all things well; he even makes the deaf hear and the dumb speak.’ Thus such traditions become kerygmatic, not by appropriating the traditional language of the Church’s kerygma, but in a distinctive way: They retain a concrete story about Jesus, but expand its horizon until the universal saving significance of the heavenly Lord becomes visible in the earthly Jesus.

Although the evangelists have thus in their way achieved an encounter with the total person in the individual scene, their method cannot be that of a new quest. For although the Church’s kerygmatic vocabulary does not necessarily occur in such instances, they are none the less kerygmatized narratives, i.e. they reflect the Easter faith. But the question before us is whether this kerygmatic significance is also visible in an encounter with the total person mediated through modern historiography. Consequently the methods to be followed must be in terms of modern historical methodology.

B. The Continuation of the Historical-Critical Method

In view of the emphasis which has been placed upon distinguishing the new quest from the original quest, it needs to be explicitly stated that a new quest cannot take place without the use of the objective philological, comparative-religious, and social-historical research indispensable for historical knowledge. Contemporary methodology has not discontinued these methods in its new understanding of history, but has merely shifted them more decidedly from ends to means It is true that the ‘explanation’ of an event or viewpoint does not consist merely in showing its external causes or identifying the source from which an idea was borrowed. Much of what was once lauded as the ‘truth’ or ‘reality’ of history is now mocked by insight into the genetic fallacy. Yet despite all this, knowledge of the external cause or the detection of the source idea is often indispensable for understanding what was involved at the deeper level. Contemporary methodology consists precisely in the combination and interaction of objective analysis and existential openness, i.e it seeks historical understanding precisely in the simultaneous interaction of phenomenological objectivity and existential ‘objectivity’

The use of historical-critical method within modern historiography has met with opposition on theological grounds: would not two methods of studying history necessarily involve two classes of historical reality? But this is not the case. The epistemological situation need no more lead to an ontological inference than it does in modern physics, where complementary methods produce either wave characteristics or particle characteristics, without a resultant inference that one has to do with two distinct sub-atomic worlds ‘Every historical phenomenon is directed toward understanding, and belongs together with this [understanding, which is] its future. . . . The noetic possibility of considering the historical phenomenon with or without its future always prevails in principle within the one historical sphere of reality.’ As a matter of fact one can recognize, in the interaction of ‘Jesus in the context of dead-and-gone first-century Judaism’ and ‘Jesus as a possible understanding of my existence’, a formal analogy in terms of modern historiography to the kerygma’s identification of the Jesus of history with the heavenly Lord.

An analogous criticism has been made with regard to the self-hood of the participating historian: would not two methods of studying history necessarily involve two kinds of self-hood? If selfhood is constituted by the ‘world’ to which we give ourselves, and the objectified ‘world’ of critical scholarship is different from the existential ‘world’ of encounter, is not the subject in each case different? Is not the ‘I’ of an ‘I-it’ relationship necessarily different from the ‘I’ of an ‘I-thou’ relationship? To this we can begin by answering ‘Yes’. But these two self hoods do not correspond to the ‘I’ which encounters Jesus through a new quest and the ‘I’ which encounters him through the kerygma. For a new quest would not be confined to purely objective research, but would seek an existential encounter with his person, i.e. an ‘I-thou’ relation. For it is only where his existence speaks to me, i.e. it is only within an ‘I-thou’ relation, that the historical Jesus can be compared with the kerygma. Nor do I automatically exist in an ‘I-thou’ relation to the kerygma. For I must disengage the kerygmatic fragments from the New Testament before I can encounter them existentially. This is even true of human relations, where a certain degree of instinctive ‘historical-critical’ study is involved in becoming sufficiently acquainted with a person to lay hold of what his existence means to him. Hence this shifting selfhood is a dialectic inherent in the historicity of human existence.

Nor is the dialectic permanently resolved in the encounter with God; rather it is accentuated by the addition of a further dimension, in which historical encounter becomes revelation. It would be tbeologia gloriae, a sophisticated form of perfectionism, to assume that the Christian is not called upon continually to confront the offence of Christianity when he encounters God. Grace continues to reside in judgement, life in death, revelation in historical ambiguity. It is in this dialectical movement from the old man to the new that one finds the distinctive characteristic of Christian existence (I Cor. 13.8-13), not in some other-worldly immediacy. One need merely recall Luther’s definition of Christian existence: ‘simul peccator et justus, semper penitens.’

Still another criticism of the continued use of historical-critical method within a theologically relevant quest of the historical Jesus needs to be mentioned. For although it cannot lead to a suspension of that method, it does draw our attention to the basic problem which it presents: ‘According to our historical method employed thus far, we have before us apparently authentic material about Jesus in the tradition of the sayings of the Lord, only when the material can be understood neither [as derived] from primitive Christian preaching nor from Judaism. Accordingly, in the surest current way of getting on the track of Jesus’ preaching, it is elevated to a methodological presupposition that everything which points toward the post-Easter kerygma cannot be considered for Jesus’ preaching. Then what significance should the result of this research have for theology?’

This criticism might lead one to suppose that such a method is valid only in terms of the original quest, which largely rejected the kerygma as a falsification of Jesus, and consequently set Out to distinguish him sharply from that theological perversion. However on closer examination it is apparent that it is not the method, but only the absolutizing of its limited results, which results from the approach of the original quest. The effort to distinguish a historical event from later interpretation is a standard historical procedure, just as it is to question the historicity of such details in the tradition as dearly betray that later interpretation. As a matter of fact it is obvious that at least in some instances -- one need think only of the Gospel of John -- the kerygma was put into the mouth of Jesus by the evangelists. If it is a historical fact that this took place, it is a valid procedure for the historian to attempt to distinguish the ‘authentic’ from the ‘unauthentic’ material.

The use of this method becomes illegitimate only when one fails to recognize its limitation. Although one may well assume that the founder of a sect has something in common with the sect he founds, this method is not able to reach whatever area of overlapping there may have been between Jesus and the Church. The method can affirm the historicity only of that part of Jesus in which he is least ‘Christian’. For its ‘historicity’ depends upon the demonstration that it does not present the Church’s view and consequently could not have originated there since the new quest of the historical Jesus is primarily concerned with investigating the area in which Jesus and the Church’s kerygma overlap, the limitation of current methods for identifying historical material is apparent, and the resultant methodological difficulty must be recognized.

C. The Methodological Impasse

The limitation inherent in traditional method cannot be adequately met by a supreme effort to solve the much-belaboured problems which these methodological considerations have rendered all but insoluble. The kerygma is to be found expressis verbis upon the lips of Jesus in the Gospels. Consequently the most obvious solution as to the relation of Jesus and the kerygma has always been that Jesus himself proclaimed the kerygma: he claimed for himself exalted titles and predicted his death and resurrection, just as the kerygma does. However it is precisely these most obviously kerygmatic sayings of Jesus whose historicity has been put indefinitely in suspension by current methodology. For these are the sayings which could most obviously have arisen within the Church as sayings of the heavenly Lord, and then, because of the unity of the heavenly Lord and the earthly Jesus, been automatically handed down with the ‘rest’ of the sayings of Jesus.

Perhaps the classical instance of such a problem has to do with the title ‘Son of Man’. For it is the title to which Jesus most frequently makes claim in the Gospels, and with which the predictions of the passion are usually connected. Now the debate as to whether Jesus actually claimed this title for himself has been going on for nearly a century, and is still not resolved. The classical presentation of the critical position divides the ‘Son of Man’ sayings into three groups: apocalyptic sayings about the future ‘Son of Man’; sayings in which Jesus’ passion is spoken of as the passion of the ‘Son of Man’; and miscellaneous sayings in which Jesus refers to himself during his public ministry as ‘Son of Man’. The first group of apocalyptic sayings are conceded to be authentic, but in them Jesus does not explicitly identify himself with this future ‘Son of Man’. The sayings in the second group connected with the passion are considered unauthentic vaticinia cx eventu. The sayings of the third group are looked upon as mis-translations of the Aramaic idiom, which means not only ‘Son of Man’, but also simply ‘man’ or ‘a man’ (i.e. ‘I’, as in II Cor. 12.2ff.); as replacements for an original personal pronoun ‘I’. From this analysis of the ‘Son of Man’ sayings the conclusion is obvious: Jesus did not claim to be the ‘Son of Man’. This position has been countered in modern scholarship primarily with the argument that the term ‘Son of Man’ is not a christological title used by the primitive Church, so could not have been attributed to Jesus unless he had used it of himself.’ Now of course there are variations in individual presentations on each side, and occasional concessions of specific points provide a certain fluidity to the debate. Furthermore new insights could conceivably provide new possibilities of solution? Consequently research upon such classical problems as the Son of Man’ can meaningfully be continued. Yet scholarship cannot wait indefinitely on their solution, but must instead seek for completely new ways of bringing Jesus and the kerygma into comparison.

D. Basic Problems of a New Quest

The historicity of those sayings of Jesus which are most like the kerygma has been put indefinitely in suspense by methodological considerations. Yet there is a considerable body of material about Jesus whose historicity tends to be generally accepted, on the basis of these same methods. This is material whose historicity is conceivable in terms of Jesus’ Jewish, Palestinian background, and whose origin in the primitive Church is rendered unlikely by the absence of the distinctive views of the Church, or even by the presence of traits which the Church could tolerate but hardly initiate

Now the historical material which results from the rigorous application of these current methods is at first sight of little relevance to the purpose and problem of a new quest of the historical Jesus. For the tradition of Jesus’ sayings has been purged of all traces of the Church’s kerygma, and therefore could seem of little value in comparing Jesus with the kerygma. However this only appears to be the case; the much more important fact resulting from the application of these methods is that they do succeed in producing a body of material whose historicity seems relatively assured. The very objectivity of the methods used, objective precisely with regard to the kerygma, gives to this non-kerygmatic material an importance for comparing the historical Jesus and the kerygma which the more kerygmatic sayings never achieved, simply because their relation to the historical Jesus was never fully established. The material whose historicity has been established is sufficient in quality and quantity to make a historical encounter with Jesus possible. His action, the intention latent in it, the understanding of existence it implies, and thus his selfhood, can be encountered historically. And this can in turn be compared with the kerygm, once the meaning the kerygma conveys has begun to shine through the language in which it is communicated.

The kind of individual problems which arise from the purpose and focal problem of the new quest can be illustrated by .an examination of some of the comparisons or contrasts which have been made between Jesus and the kerygma. Some of the contrasts which have been drawn are so basic that they would if valid tend to obviate even the possibility of a relevant comparison, and deserve therefore to be considered in first place.

One such contrast has been drawn by Käsemann himself: the historical Jesus belongs to the past; only in the kerygma does Jesus encounter me in the present. ‘In so far as one wishes to speak of a modification of faith before and after Easter, it can only be said that "once" became "once for all", the isolated encounter with Jesus limited by death became that presence of the exalted Lord such as the Fourth Gospel describes.’ Yet, methodologically speaking, the historical Jesus I encounter via historiography is just as really a possible understanding of my present existence as is the kerygma of the New Testament, whose ‘contemporaneity’ is equally problematic. And as a matter of fact this is the problem with which Käsemann is confronted. A new quest of the historical Jesus ‘cannot replace the gospel, since historical remains are not able to assure us that those fragments of Jesus’ message are still relevant to us today and attest to God’s present action upon us. Only faith derived from Christian preaching is able to deduce the certainty of God acting upon us even from those fragments, which otherwise would remain only a small part of the history of ideas, and quite a problematic part at that.’ However all of this is equally true with regard to the New Testament kerygma. This parallel has been obscured by the fact that the term ‘kerygma’ can ambiguously refer both to fragments of primitive Christian preaching embedded in the New Testament text, and to the word of God I encounter from the pulpit or in my neighbour today. But if it is true that the kerygma of the primitive Christians can become contemporaneous with me in my concrete historical encounters, then, in principle at least, this is equally true of the historical Jesus.

Bornkamm has taken over Käsemann’s basic distinction that Jesus’ ‘once’ became at Easter ‘once for all’, but gives it a somewhat different explanation: The ‘once’ of ‘Jesus’ history’ becomes the ‘once for all’ of ‘God’s history with the world’. Yet ‘God’s history with the world’ is not only the interpretation put upon the history of Jesus by the kerygma, but is already the meaning residing in it for Jesus himself. Already for Jesus the ‘once’ of his historicity was the ‘once for all’ of God’s saving event. For Jesus conceived of his transcendent selfhood as constituted by God’s intervention in history. And when one examines the nature of this selfhood, one sees that it was not a selfish selfhood, but by its very constitution a selfhood for others.

It was the content of this eschatological selfhood that Jesus should accept his death to the present evil aeon. This is the meaning of the paradoxical saying of Mark 8.3 5~ ‘For whoever would save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will save it.’ In accepting his death he was free from the demonic power of the fear of death, and therein resided his transcendence. Yet the eschatological situation in which he found himself was not yet that of the final blessedness, but rather the ‘last hour’, in which forgiveness was offered to the penitent. This aspect of the situation was also constitutive of Jesus’ selfhood. Hence his selfhood found its positive expression in his role as ‘sign’ of the eschatological situation to the world. He was finally put to death after persisting in this positive expression of his selfhood. Hence his death was seen as the realization of his eschatological selfhood: free from the demonic power of the fear of death, he was free to give his life for his neighbour. His selfhood was interpreted as pro nobis not first by the Church, but already by Jesus himself.

The distinction drawn by Käsemann and Bornkamm is in recognition of the distinctive significance of Easter. And as a matter of fact Easter was the revelation of Jesus’ transcendent selfhood to his disciples. And yet what was revealed at Easter was the transcendent selfhood of Jesus, as the kerygma insists; i.e. the Easter experience, even though separated from Jesus’ lifetime, was the culmination of their historical encounter with him.’ And it was the selfhood of Jesus to which they witnessed in the kerygma. Hence to maintain that Jesus’ transcendent selfhood can be encountered historically is not to minimize Easter, but rather to affirm its indispensable presupposition.

This basic problem as to whether the historical Jesus and the kerygma are sufficiently commensurable to be subject to comparison can be posed in a different way. The kerygma proclaims an eschatological saving event of cosmic proportions. How can Jesus’ understanding of himself, irrespective of what that understanding may have been, be subject to comparison with the kerygma’s understanding of the course of history or the condition of the cosmos? Now this would be a valid argument if one understood the self in terms of individual autonomy, so that one’s understanding of one’s self as subject would be quite distinct from ones understanding of the cosmic or historical situation one confronted as object. When however selfhood is envisaged on the basis of the historicity of the self, i.e. when it is recognized that selfhood is constituted in terms of a ‘world’ or ‘context’ to which one gives oneself, then it is apparent that one’s understanding of one’s self includes an understanding of the ‘world’ in which one exists. In Jesus’ case, his selfhood is eschatological. his life is lived out of transcendence, precisely because he has given himself to the eschatological situation introduced by John the Baptist. In his baptism he ‘repents’ of his former selfhood built upon a non-eschatological ‘world’, and in believing John’s message of the eschatological situation assumes the eschatological selfhood which ultimately found expression in the title ‘Son of Man’.

Yet this same criticism, that Jesus’ understanding of his self-hood is incommensurate with the kerygma’s concept of a dramatic shift in the course of history or the cosmos, has been presented in still more radical fashion. Is not this whole assumption that Jesus was concerned ‘with a new selfhood, irrespective of whether it be conceived individualistically or in terms of the historicity of human existence, based upon a false theologizing of the historical Jesus? Was he not much more like a Jewish prophet or Rabbi, concerned basically with moral reform? Did he not simply say what man should do, rather than presenting dramatic views of what God has done or will do? It is this contrast between Jesus and the Church which characterized scholarship at the turn of the century.

The sharpest formulation was that of William Wrede: ‘The teaching of Jesus is directed entirely to the individual personality. Man is to submit his soul to God and to God’s will wholly and without reserve. Hence his preaching is for the most part imperative in character, if not in form. The central point for Paul is a divine and supernatural action manifested as a historical fact, or a complex of divine actions which open to mankind a salvation prepared for man. He who believes these divine acts -- the incarnation, death, and resurrection of a divine being -- can obtain salvation. This view is the essential point of Paul’s religion, and is the solid framework without which his belief would collapse incontinently; was it a continuation or a further development of Jesus’ gospel? Where, in this theory, can we find the "gospel" which Paul is said to have "understood". The point which was everything to Paul was nothing to Jesus.’

The very radicality of this quotation draws attention to its basic error: the Jesus of this antithesis is the modernized Jesus of the nineteenth-century biographies. He is of course incompatible with the Paul of the first century (whose unmodern credulity is somewhat overdrawn). For a moral reformer of the Victorian era is quite different from the message of divine salvation proclaimed by an eschatological sect of the Hellenistic world. But once one has come to see Jesus in his first-century context of Jewish eschatology, the basic antithesis tends to disappear. His eschatological message that the kingdom of God is already beginning to break into history is, like Paul’s message, ‘a divine and superhuman action manifested as a historical fact, or a complex of divine actions which open to mankind a salvation prepared for man’: ‘If it is by the finger of God that I cast Out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you’ (Luke 11:20). ‘Woe to you, Chorazin! woe to you, Bethsaida! for if the mighty works done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago in sackcloth and ashes’ (Matt. 11.21). It is this eschatological action of God in history which Jesus proclaimed, and which reached its final formulation in the kerygma.

But even if Jesus was, like the kerygma, proclaiming God’s dramatic intervention in history, was not its significance for the hearer merely that of a call to moral reform? Had Jesus recognized it as a basic dilemma that man’s selfhood has been determined by the ‘present evil aeon’, and that he is subsequently unable to free himself? Was for him the inbreaking of the kingdom of God the possibility of a ‘new being’, or was it merely the occasion for a sharpening of one’s conscience in view of the impending judgement? Such a distinction has, as a matter of fact, been drawn by Ernst Fuchs ‘What is still lacking for Jesus is now supplemented as a consequence of Jesus cross: the problem of sin expands to the problem of death as a whole. The question: "What should I do (to become blessed) ?" yields to the question, "How do I overcome the impotence, under death’s sway, of my existence lost before God ?" Rom.7. 24.’ However in this case it is Bultmann who sees no such distinction, but rather understands Jesus to be here existentially as radical as Paul. If for Paul the kerygma means ‘pronouncing upon oneself the sentence of death and placing one’s confidence not in oneself, but in God who raises the dead (II Cor. 1.9)’, then ‘it is clear that these explicit theological trains of thought are not present in Jesus. But it appears to me to be equally clear that they are only explicating Jesus’ thought in definite historical antitheses. . . . What Jesus does not at all express is this, that the only way it is a priori at all possible for the law to encounter the man who desires to secure himself by his own performance, is by becoming for him the To be sure, no matter how foreign this theological idea may be to Jesus’ preaching, factually his message implies it none the less.’ Hence Jesus’ call for obedience in the eschatological situation logically presupposes an eschatological selfhood.

This survey of basic problems for a new quest has not led to the conclusion that Jesus and the kerygma are basically incommensurate, a conclusion which would have made the positive solution of the central problem a priori impossible. Rather it has tended to reaffirm the working hypothesis of the new quest: if an encounter with the kerygma is an encounter with the meaning of Jesus, then an encounter with Jesus should be an encounter with the meaning of the kerygma. However no working hypothesis will long maintain its validity, unless one actually enters with it into the work itself. Therefore at least an initial attempt to work upon the central problem in terms of specific problems should be made.

E. Toward the Solution of Typical Problems

The typical formulation of the antithesis between Jesus and Paul around the turn of the century was to the effect that ‘Jesus preached the kingdom but Paul preached Christ’. ‘The Gospel, as Jesus proclaimed it, has to do with the Father only and not with the Son.’ This distinction has been renewed by Ernst Heitsch as a basic incompatibility between Jesus and the kerygma. However here too we may well inquire as to whether we are not dealing with a misunderstanding of both Jesus and the kerygma. Certainly Jesus did not teach a christology as the Church did. Yet nothing has been mote characteristic of research in the past generation than the growing insight that ‘Jesus’ call to decision implies a christology’. Nor has anything been more characteristic of recent research than the gradual detection of early kerygmatic fragments in the New Testament, in which the original eschatological meaning of the christological titles used in the kerygma is still apparent, and is clearly distinct from their later metaphysical use: Jesus is ‘exalted’ to the rank of cosmocrator with the ‘name that is above every name, . . . Lord Jesus Christ’, in order to subjugate the universe (Phil. 2.9-11); he is made ‘Lord and Christ’ as the inauguration of eschatological existence at Pentecost (Acts 2.36); in this sense he is ‘appointed Son of God according to the Spirit of holiness by the resurrection of the dead’ (Rom. 1.4).

Now Heitsch is correct in saying that the Church soon and repeatedly lost sight of the eschatological existence proclaimed originally by the kerjgma. However this in no way affects its original meaning. If the existential decision originally called for by the kerygma corresponds to the existential decision called for by Jesus, then it is apparent that the kerygma continues Jesus’ message; and if the decision called for by Jesus as well as by the kerygma was at the basis of his own selfhood, then it is apparent that his person corresponds to its christology.

This thesis has been carried through by Ernst Fuchs. The existential meaning of the kerygma is still visible in the earliest written source, the Pauline epistles. ‘Life means for [Paul] actually the joy which can unite a man with God (cf. also Rom. 14.17), and by "death" he understands the anxiety which must separate a man from God (cf. Rom. 7.24; 8.15, etc.). The man who believes in Jesus as Lord is free for such joy and free from this anxiety’ (216). ‘Obviously for Paul faith in Jesus comes down to the paradoxical truth that man has found refuge in the very God whom he otherwise flees or would have to flee. . . It is just in the God of wrath that the God of grace purposes to be found -- life in the place where death is, joy in the desert of anxiety. In this sense Paul appealed to the crucified Jesus as the resurrected Lord’ (217). Now the crucial question is: ‘What does all this have to do with the historical Jesus? . . . Is it not easily possible that Paul has placed something quite different or even his own concept of faith in the place of Jesus?’

An answer to this question is sought by Fuchs in a brief study of the historical Jesus: Jesus’ parables of God’s boundless mercy are in defence of Jesus’ own conduct in receiving sinners. ‘It is true, he means to say, that God has to be severe. But nevertheless God purposes to be gracious, when a sinful man flees to the very God from whom he would otherwise have to flee in feat of judgement.’ Now since one’s conduct reflects one’s understanding of existence, and Jesus’ message corresponds to his conduct, it is legitimate to look also in his message for a commentary on his existence. Since Jesus’ message centred in a call for decision, one may assume that this requirement is simply the echo of the decision which Jesus himself made’. ‘So when Jesus directs the sinner through death to the God of grace he knows that he must suffer. Committing himself to God’s grace, he also commits himself to suffering. His threats and woes, as well as the severity of his requirement, all stem from his stern will to suffer. For in all this Jesus exposes himself to his enemies, although he has the violent death of the Baptist before his eyes’ (224).

Once we have grasped the decision in terms of which Jesus’ self-hood is constituted, the repetition of his decision involves the accepting of his selfhood as one’s own. Hence making the decision for which Jesus called, corresponds to accepting him as Lord. Jesus confronted his hearer with the question: ‘Does God intend us to feel so free towards him that we appeal directly to him over against the well-grounded fear of his judgement which we all have long since secretly known? That is exactly what the decision of the historical Jesus affirms? That is why he said to the sinner: "Follow me" (Mark 2.14), and gave sinners precedence over the righteous. Thus for the man who hears and follows, Jesus is indeed the Lord’ (228).

Now since Paul understands the kerygma as calling for basically the same decision as did the historical Jesus, it would seem that faith in the heavenly Lord not only coincides with commitment to the selfhood of the historical Jesus, but also involves a positive response to his message. ‘Certainly (for the Church) repetition of Jesus’ decision was something new to the extent that it automatically involved taking a position toward Jesus. Jesus’ enemies had seen to that. But it none the less remained the old decision, since it had to claim for itself anew God’s will and name. To be sure, Jesus’ person now became the content of faith. But that took place completely in the name of the God who had acted upon and in Jesus, and who in the future was to act with Jesus even more, as is apparent in the confessions, their Pauline interpretation, and later the Gospels’ (227). It is the role of preaching to restore to christology this existential meaning originally inherent in the kerygma.

In this presentation Fuchs has clearly worked out, in terms of the decision constituting selfhood, the basic parallelism between the selfhood of the earthly Jesus and the heavenly Lord, and the correlative parallel between the decision called for by Jesus and the decision called for by the kerygma. Thus he has not only contributed a solution to a typical problem of the new quest, but has also illustrated in exemplary fashion the formal pattern in terms of which a solution to the focal problem can be sought.

In view of the current concept of the historicity of the self, it is not surprising that the most characteristic distinction between Jesus and Paul during recent years has been in terms of the differing situations in which they found themselves. Bultmann has made the shift in aeons the decisive factor distinguishing Jesus from Paul: ‘Jesus looks into the future, toward the coming reign of God, although to be sure toward the reign now corning or dawning. But Paul looks back: The shift of the aeons has already taken place. . . . Paul regards what for Jesus was future as present, i.e. a presence which dawned in the past. . . . Since Jesus only stands in anticipation, his message discloses the situation of man in anticipation, while Paul discloses the situation of man receiving, although to be sure also awaiting; for unless one understands awaiting, one cannot understand receiving." However Bultmann himself has subsequently modified this position to some extent: ‘To be sure it is also true of him, that he knew himself to be between the times. He knows that the power of Satan is at an end, for he saw him fall from heaven like lightning (Luke 10.18); and in the power of God’s Spirit he drives out the demons (Matt. 12.28; Luke 11.20), since the reign of Satan is broken already (Mark 3.27). . . . Thus his present activity stands in an interim".’ This recognition of Jesus’ present as the interim has led Bornkamm to accentuate Jesus’ present as the time of salvation, so that Bornkamm’s presentation of Jesus’ situation comes to equal Bultmann’s original presentation of Paul’s situation: ‘Unmediated presence is always the characteristic of Jesus’ words, appearance and action, within a world which . . . had lost the present, since it lived. . . between past and future, between traditions and promises or threats.’ Thus the basic distinction between Jesus and Paul in terms of their situations would seem to disappear.

Yet Bultmann still remains reluctant to interpret Jesus’ present as based upon historical encounter: ‘This judgement of his about his present comes from his own consciousness of vocation; thus he creates it out of himself; and it is not, as was later the case in his Church, based upon looking back upon an event decisive for him. It is of course possible that the coming of the Baptist and his preaching gave him the initial stimulus as one of the signs of the time which he called upon his hearers to observe (Luke 12.54-56). If Matt. 11.11-14 has at its root a genuine saying of Jesus, and if the passage is not completely created by the Church, then Jesus did in fact see in the coming of the Baptist the shift of the aeons. But he does not look back upon him as the Church later looked back upon Jesus, as the figure through whom the old aeon had been brought to its end and the new aeon had been introduced.’

Here Bultmann attempts to avoid the conclusion that John is the shift of the aeons, by casting doubt upon the authenticity of the relevant sayings. However this position is untenable, both because Bultmann himself has not provided sufficient grounds for considering the sayings unauthentic, and because there stand arrayed against him the outstanding treatments of John the Baptist written in the present century. Consequently one must simply carry through the logic which Bultmann conceded but hesitated to follow. Since Matt. 11.11-14 has at its root a genuine saying of Jesus, and since the passage is not completely created by the Church, then Jesus did in fact see in the coming of the Baptist the shift of the aeons. Hence to this extent Jesus did look back upon him as the Church later looked back upon Jesus, as the figure through whom the old aeon had been brought to its end and the new aeon had been introduced. It is therefore not surprising that Käsemann emphasizes: ‘The Baptist introduced (the kingdom of God), i.e. brought about the shift of aeons.’ Similarly Bornkamm says of the Baptist: ‘He is no longer only the proclaimer of the future, but belongs himself already within the time of fulfilled promise’, ‘the sentinel at the frontier between the acons’. Consequently the existence of a historical event at the shift in the aeons seems not to be a factor distinguishing Jesus’ situation from that of the Church. Both Jesus and the Church look upon their existence in terms of a situation created by divine intervention in the form of historical occurrence.

A further consequence was inherent in Bultmann’s original distinction between Jesus and Paul in terms of the shift of the aeons: ‘It could also be expressed as follows: Jesus preaches law and promise, Paul preaches the gospel in its relation to law.’

However Käsemann1 also drew the inference from his own divergent position: ‘Jesus did not come to proclaim general religious and moral truths, but rather to say how things stand with the kingdom that has dawned, namely that God has drawn near man in grace and requirement. He brought and lived the freedom of the children of God, who remain children and free only so long as they find in the Father their Lord.’ And, as we have already seen, Bultmann has subsequently adopted Fuchs’ insight to the effect that Jesus received all at his table, as an action reflecting God’s grace: ‘The one who proclaims the radical requirement of God at the same time speaks the word of grace.’ Jesus’ calls for decision with regard to his person in Matt. 11.6, Luke 12.8f., are, like the kerygma’s call for decision with regard to his person, ‘at the same time words of promise, of grace: at this very moment the gift of freedom is offered the hearer’. Hence the classical Protestant distinction between law and grace no longer seems necessarily to separate Jesus from the Church’s kerygma.

It has been an integral part of the method employed in all these comparisons of Jesus and the kerygma, that we operate below the terminological level, within the deeper level of meaning. For on the one hand we have recognized that the language of the kerygma must become transparent, if an interpretation of Jesus is to be seen through it. And on the other hand the historical Jesus cannot for methodological reasons be approached in terms of sayings where kerygmatic language occurs, but only in terms of sayings diverging from the language of the kerygma. However we may well wonder how long an agreement on the deeper level of meaning can continue without at some point producing a similarity of terminology. If it cannot be argued that the Church’s kerygma provides such a terminological parallel to Jesus’ message, because of the uncertainty as to whether he used that language, we must then inquire as to whether the terminology which the historical Jesus is known to have used did not at some point at least come to be used by the primitive Church as synonymous with its own kerygma. Hence we wish finally to confront the most typical terminology of Jesus’ message with the most typical formulations of the kerygma, to investigate what underlying unity of meaning may exist, and then to inquire as to whether this meaning ever came to be expressed in a union of the two terminologies. Thus the solution of this typical problem of a new quest of the historical Jesus should consist in a demonstration ad oculos.

The essential content of Jesus’ message was: ‘Repent, for the kingdom of God is near.’ The dramatic future coming of the kingdom has drawn so near that its coming already looms over the present, calling for a radical break with the present evil aeon and an equally radical commitment to God’s coming kingdom. Hence Jesus’ thought centres in a call to the present on the basis of the eschatological event of the near future. lie pronounces divine judgement and blessing, and explains God’s other mighty acts which he does (such as exorcism), on the basis of the nearness of the kingdom. This call to the present in terms of the nearness of the kingdom is so central a theme as to produce something approaching a formal pattern, to which many of Jesus’ sayings conform, and of which the following are typical instances: Matt. 4.17; Luke 6.20f.,24f.; Matt.21.31; 18.3; Luke 11.20





Repent,

Blessed are you poor,

Blessed are you that hunger now,

Blessed are you that weep now,

But woe to you that are rich,



Woe to you that are full now,

Woe to you that laugh now,

The Tax collectors and the harlots,

Unless you turn and become like

children,

If it is by the finger of God that I

cast out demons,

for the kingdom of God is near.

for yours is the kingdom of God.

for you shall be satisfied.

for you shall laugh.

for you have received your

consolation.

for you shall hunger.

for you shall mourn and weep.

go into the kingdom of God

before you.

you will never enter the kingdom

of heaven.

then the kingdom of God has

come upon you.

Now the essential content of the kerygma was equally clear, and therefore also tended to give rise to a pattern of death and resurrection, suffering and glory, humiliation and exaltation.





That Christ died for our sins

according to the Scriptures,

And that he was buried,

That the Christ should suffer

these things

The sufferings of Christ

The one come by the seed of

David according to the flesh,





Put to death in the flesh

Who was revealed in the flesh,

Preached in the nations,

Believed on in the world,

And that he was raised on the

third day according to the

Scriptures,

And that he was seen by Cephas,

then by the twelve.

And entered into his glory.



And the subsequent glory.

The one appointed Son of God"

according to the Spirit of holiness" by the resurrection of the

dead.

But made alive in the Spirit.

Vindicated in the Spirit,

Seen by angels,

Taken into glory.

Now when one compares these typical instances of Jesus’ message and the Church’s kerygma, one can readily observe that there is a complete separation in terminology, and even in doctrine: Jesus’ message is eschatological, the Church’s kerygma is christological. Jesus called upon his hearer to break radically with the present evil aeon, and to rebuild his life in commitment to the inbreaking kingdom. Paul called upon his hearer to die and rise with Christ. Yet when one moves beyond such an initial comparison to the deeper level of meaning, the underlying similarity becomes increasingly clear. To break categorically with the present evil aeon is to cut the ground from under one’s feet, to open oneself physically to death by breaking with the power structure of an evil society, and to open oneself spiritually to death by renouncing self-seeking as a motivation and giving oneself radically to the needs of one’s neighbour, as one’s real freedom and love. To do this because of faith in the inbreaking kingdom is to do it in faith that such total death is ultimately meaningful; in it lies transcendence, resurrection. Thus the deeper meaning of Jesus’ message is: in accepting one’s death there is life for others; in suffering, there is glory; in submitting to judgement, one finds grace; in accepting one’s finitude resides the only transcendence. It is this existential meaning latent in Jesus’ message which is constitutive of his selfhood, expresses itself in his action, and is finally codified in the Church’s kerygma.

The extent to which the kerygma continues to reveal the existential meaning of Jesus can be illustrated from an interesting Pauline passage, I Cor. 4.8-13, which describes Christian existence first in eschatological terms such as Jesus used, and then in Paul’s more typical language of union with Christ.

Jesus spoke eschatological ‘woes’ as well as beatitudes, according to the ‘Q’ version of the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ (Luke 6.24f.):

Woe to you that are rich, for you have received your consolation.

Woe to you that are full now, for you shall hunger.

Woe you that that laugh now, for you shall mourn and weep.

Clearly these woes are pronounced upon those who are out of step with God. They prosper now, in the present evil aeon; hence they will not prosper then, in the kingdom of God. This same eschatological message, in much the same language, is presented by Paul:

Already you are filled!

Already
you have become rich!

Without us you reign!

Here the Corinthians are reproached not simply for prosperity, but rather for prosperity already now, before God’s reign comes. They are reigning in the present evil aeon, but Paul longs to reign in God’s reign: ‘And would that you did reign, so that we might reign with you I’ But before God’s reign comes, i.e. within the present evil aeon, eschatological existence consists in suffering.

Jesus’ beatitudes in the ‘Q’ version retain also their original eschatological orientation (Luke 6.20-23):

Blessed are you poor, for yours is the ~ of God.

Blessed are you that hunger now, for you shall be satisfied.

Blessed are you that weep now, for you shall laugh.

Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you and revile you,

and cast out your name as evil, on account of the Son of Man.

Rejoice in that day, and leap for joy, for behold, your reward is great in heaven.

Now Paul describes himself, in contrast to the Corinthians, in terms of this same eschatological understanding of existence:

For I think that God has exhibited us apostles as last of all, like men sentenced to death; because we have become a spectacle to the world, to angels and to men. We are fools for Christ’s sake, but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honour, but we in disrepute. To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are ill-clad and buffeted and homeless, and we labour, working with our own hands. . . . We have become as the refuse of the world, the offscouring of all things, until now.

Thus Paul has described first non-Christian existence, and then Christian existence, in much the same eschatological language which Jesus used. But in the midst of his eschatological description of Christian existence Paul introduces a few phrases which express the existential meaning of the kerygma. The identity in existential meaning between Jesus’ eschatological message and the Church’s kerygma could not be made more apparent:

When reviled, we bless.

When persecuted, we endure.

When slandered, we try to conciliate.

As Paul says (v. 17), these are his ‘ways in Christ’ which he teaches in every church, so that one should not be surprised to find this pattern recurring frequently, e.g. II Cor. 6.8 -- 10:

We are treated as impostors, and yet are true;

as unknown, and yet well known;

as dying, and behold we live;

as punished, and yet not killed;

as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing.

as poor, yet making many rich;

as having nothing, and yet possessing everything.

Now this message of life in death is clearly intended as the existential appropriation of the kerygma, as becomes increasingly apparent in other instances of this pattern (II Cor. 4.8-12; 1.8f.; 13.4):





We are afflicted in every way,

perplexed,

persecuted,

struck down,

always carrying in the body the

death of Jesus,

For while we live we are always

being given up to death

for Jesus' sake
,

So death is at work in us,

We do not want you to be ignorant,

brethren, of the affliction we

experienced in Asia; for we were

so utterly, unbearably crushed

that we despaired of life itself.

Why, we felt that we had

received the sentence of death.

He was crucified in weakness,

We are weak in him,

but not crushed;

but not driven to despair;

but not forsaken;

but not destroyed;

so that the life of Jesus may also

be manifested in our mortal

flesh.

so that the life of Jesus may be

manifested in our mortal

flesh.

but life in you.

but that was to make us rely not

on ourselves, but on God

who raises the dead.

 



but lives by the power of God.

but shall live with him by the power

of God
toward you.

Thus Paul’s description of his Christian existence is rooted in the kerygma, in which Jesus’ transcendent selfhood is proclaimed. It is no coincidence that it is precisely in this context (I Cor. 4.16) that Paul can call upon the Corinthians to ‘be imitators of me’, for tlw implication is clear: ‘Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ’ (I Cor. 11.1). Paul’s transcendent existence is one with the selfhood of Jesus proclaimed by the kerygma.

It is in this sense that one can detect the existential significance of Paul’s mystic language: ‘Christ is our life’ (Col. 3.4). ‘It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me’ (Gal. 2.20). Our ‘life’ which is ‘hid with Christ in God’ (Col. 3.3) is the transcendent selfhood created by Jesus, and made available to us by him. In this way the line of continuity from the historical Jesus to the Second Adam of Pauline speculation is apparent. And, although we today no longer use these speculative categories, the selfhood of Jesus is equally available to us -- apparently both via historical research and via the kerygma -- as a possible understanding of our existence.

Chapter 4: The Legitimacy of a New Quest

[Editor's Note: The extensive footnotes for these chapters are omitted. They are available only in the printed copy.]

A. The Relevance of the Theological Question

The historian may well feel that the possibility of a new quest is itself sufficient basis for its legitimacy, simply because any possible subject of research is a legitimate topic for the free, inquiring mind. This is certainly true, and one may consequently expect to see from time to time research in this field which is motivated merely by man’s insatiable desire to know. However this stimulus would not be such as to provide a concentration of research comparable to that of the original quest, nor could this stimulus produce a new quest which would be a distinctive characteristic of our day, in comparison with other topics where the possibilities of success are much greater. If a new quest of the historical Jesus is to be undertaken on any large scale, it must have some specific Impetus in terms of the meaningful concerns of our day, comparable with those which characterized the original quest and its abrupt discontinuation.

The original quest cannot be explained merely in terms of the availability of modern historiography since the eighteenth century. The historical-critical method supplied the means, but not the driving power. An initial impetus had come from the anticlericalism inherent in much of the enlightenment.’ But the bulk of the lives of Jesus in the nineteenth century were motivated on the one hand by a desire to overcome the mythological interpretation of David Friedrich Strauss, and on the other hand by the attempt to replace orthodoxy with the Ritschlian system.

Similarly the discontinuation of the quest was not due simply to the historical difficulties involved, but rather in great measure to certain theological considerations. It is sometimes assumed that Bultmann’s theological position is primarily due to his negative historical conclusions, from which impasse he then retreated into Barthianism. however Bultmann has explicitly denied that his move towards Barthianism was due to the negative results of his form criticism. As we have seen, it was Barth himself who called attention to the positive theological significance of radical criticism in eliminating worldly proof as a false support to faith, a position which Bultmann only echoed. Now this positive evaluation of radical criticism in terms of the nature of faith has deep roots in the Marburg tradition out of which both Barth and Bultmann came, but had been radicalized by the discovery of Kierkegaard.

In the case of Bultmann, this theological background was strengthened by his training in the comparative religious school. Here Christianity centres in the cult symbol ‘Christ the Lord’, whose relation to Jesus of Nazareth was both historically questionable and theologically irrelevant. This position had found its classic expression in Wilhelm Bousset’s Kyrios Christos of 1913. And Bultmann was sufficiently rooted in this tradition to be entrusted with the editing of the second, posthumous edition, which appeared in the same year as Bultmann’s own Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition, 1921. Consequently it would be erroneous to see Bultmann’s theological position with regard to Jesus as a belated appendix to his historical position; if one were unwilling to concede that the theological and historical factors are inextricably intertwined, then one could equally well argue the priority of the theological. Bultmann himself likes to present his position in terms of Pauline and Johannine theology.

If a new quest of the historical Jesus is to become a significant aspect of theological scholarship during the coming generation, the role which this research will play in the theological thought of our day must be made equally clear. Man’s quest for meaningful existence is his highest stimulus to scholarly enquiry; consequently a serious quest of the historical Jesus must have meaning in terms of man’s quest for meaningful existence. This does not mean that such a quest should presuppose a given christology, or that it should be oblivious of the peril of modernizing Jesus, this time perhaps in terms of existentialism. It merely means that we must be quite realistic about the day and age in which we live, and its likelihood of producing a new quest. Unless the trend toward regarding the quest of the historical Jesus as theologically irrelevant or even illegitimate is reversed, i.e. unless a new quest becomes for us theologically legitimate and even indispensable, it probably will not enlist the active participation of the strongest intellects and best-equipped specialists, upon whom its success is completely dependent.

B. The Permissiveness of a New Quest

The discussion of the theological propriety of a new quest must naturally begin with the point at which the original quest was seen to be illegitimate. It is illegitimate to dodge the call of the kerygma for existential faith in the saving event, by an attempt to provide an objectively verified proof of its historicity. To require an objective legitimization of the saving event prior to faith is to take offence at the offence of Christianity and to perpetuate the unbelieving flight to security. This would signify the reverse of faith, since faith involves the rejection of worldly security as righteousness by works. This line of criticism is a valid identification of the worldliness latent in the ‘historicism’ and ‘psychologism’ of the original quest, and must therefore be recognized as a valid theological objection to it.

However it should be equally apparent that this veto upon the original quest does not apply to the modern view of history and historiography which would be presupposed in a new quest. For the objectivity of modern historiography consists precisely in one’s openness for the encounter, one’s willingness to place one’s intentions and views of existence in question, i.e. to learn something basically new about existence and thus to have one’s own existence modified or radically altered. Nor can the end result of such historical research be a proven kerygma dispensing with the necessity for existential commitment. E.g. from the treatments of Bultmann, Käsemann, Fuchs and Bornkamm it has not become a proved fact that God acted in Jesus’ intentions or that Jesus is saviour. At most it has been established that Jesus intended to confront the hearer inescapably with the God who is near when he proclaimed ‘Repent, for God’s reign is near’, i.e. that he intended a historical encounter with himself to be an eschatological encounter with God, and that he consequently understood his existence as that of bringer of eschatological salvation. The historical Jesus does not legitimize the kerygma with a proven divine fact, but instead confronts us with action and a self which, like the exorcisms, may be understood either as God’s Spirit (Mark 3.29; Mart. 12.28), or Beclzebub (Mark 3.22), or insanity (Mark 3.21). The historical Jesus confronts us with existential decision, just as the kerygma does. Consequently it is anachronistic to oppose the quest today on the assumption that such a quest is designed to avoid the commitment of faith. That may have been the existential significance of the original quest, but can hardly be the meaning of the quest today for a person aware of what is currently known about historiography and the historical Jesus.

Throughout the generation which emphasized the antithesis between faith in the kerygma and interest in the historical Jesus, it seems to have been the fact of the Gospels which kept alive some awareness of the parallelism between the two. For the initial discussion concerning the theological relevance of a new quest has taken place to a large extent in terms of an exegesis of the evangelists’ intention: the evangelists undoubtedly insisted upon the relevance of history for faith. This relevance resided in the identification in the kerygma of the humiliated Jesus and the exalted Lord. Now it is characteristic of twentieth-century theology to emphasize one aspect of this identification: the historical Jesus cannot be isolated from the Christ of faith, as the original quest attempted to do. Yet, as the evangelists point out, the other aspect of the identification is equally important: the Christ of faith cannot be separated from the historical Jesus, if we do not wish to find ‘a myth in the place of history, a heavenly being in the place of the Nazarene’.

This emphasis upon the humiliation, i.e. the historical in the kerygma, is in turn rooted in the eschatological orientation of primitive Christianity. Here again we are accustomed to a one-sided view, in this case with regard to the relation of eschatology and history: the eschatological interpretation placed upon Jesus is largely responsible for the introduction of non-historical material into the Gospels. Yet it is equally true that the eschatological interpretation placed upon Jesus gave to the historical its theological relevance for the evangelists, and thus prevented the disappearance of Jesus into mythology. It is this theological relevance of the historical Jesus for the eschatology of the evangelists which has been examined in some detail:

1. Primitive Christianity experienced Jesus as a unique action of God, creating a situation in which man has an unique opportunity to lay hold of eschatological existence. Revelation was not for them an idea always available to rational reflection, nor was salvation a permanent potentiality of the human spirit. Rather in the last hour God encounters man with a free and gracious opportunity of eschatological existence, a chance which man neglects at his own peril and which therefore places him in ultimate decision. This is what Jesus’ earthly life had meant to his followers, and Easter only confirmed this significance. It was this dramatic contingency of the revelation, which found expression in the recording of the concrete history of Jesus in the Gospels.

2. The Fourth Gospel especially is concerned to preserve this awareness of the historicity of revelation, in an environment sufficiently gnostic in its view of religious experience to dissolve Jesus into docetism. In order to dramatize earthly, corporeal existence as the realm of revelation, in order to emphasize the divine condescension of revelation, the Fourth Gospel portrays present religious experience in terms of Jesus’ life. The evangelist implements this purpose by drawing attention to the ambiguity, the offence, the hiddenness, which characterized the revelation even in Jesus’ life, as if to say: Today it is the same. The Church still remains exposed to the ambiguity of history, the possibility of offence, in spite of having risen with Christ; for the resurrection glory is really the transcendence of his historical existence.

3. By way of contrast the Synoptics betray more of the ‘pastness’ of Jesus. This may not be due merely to their weaker theological talents, but may indicate a positive insight: although history is determined by present possibilities and decisions, it cannot be dissolved into a series of present situations. Our present possibilities and decisions are determined to a large extent by events of the past, which opened or closed doors for the present. Thus our present situation is part of a larger kairos, dating from a past in which the present situation is, so to speak, predestined. Inthis sense the Christian kairos is rooted in the historical Jesus, who is extra nos, given prior to faith and determining our present, as the history upon which our existence is constituted.

This clarification of the theological meaning involved in emphasizing Jesus’ historicity by writing Gospels does not automatically provide a compelling motivation for a new quest of the historical Jesus. For this meaning expressed in the writing of Gospels was already inherent in the kerygma, e.g. in its emphasis upon the humiliation, and can find expression in various forms of Christian experience, e.g. in the experience of Francis of Assisi. Nor does the writing of Gospels form an exact precedent to a quest of the historical Jesus. A quest of the historical Jesus involves an attempt to disengage information about the historical Jesus from its kerygmatic colouring, and thus to mediate an encounter with the historical Jesus distinct from the encounter with the kerygma. The Gospels however do not present the historical Jesus in distinction fr9m the kerygma, but rather present a kerygmatized history of Jesus

At the most the discussion of the writing of Gospels presents a parallel in terms of New Testament ‘historiography’ to the view discussed above, that modern historiography is not in principle a contradiction of faith, but could be used to implement faith’s openness to historical encounter. Although the methods of New Testament ‘historiography’ and modern historiography are quite different, the same or similar kerygmatic motives which produced the one could lead us to a legitimate use of the other. Thus the discussion of the theological meaning of writing Gospels explicates the theological permissiveness of a new quest. But the actual impetus leading scholarship to make use of this permission resides elsewhere.

C. The Impetus Provided by Demythologizing

The debate on demythologizing has been under way since 1941, and it is this movement which is to a large extent responsible for the impetus leading to a new quest of the historical Jesus. As we have seen, it was from among the advocates of demythologizing that the initial proposals of a new quest have come. For the demythologizing of the kerygma has drawn attention to a clear alternative inherent in Christian theology: in the process of demythologizing, the objectified language of the kerygma loses its own concreteness, and becomes, so to speak, transparent, so that its existential meaning may be grasped. But when the kerygma is thus rendered transparent, what is it which then becomes visible through it? Does one encounter in the kerygma a symbolized principle, or interpreted history?

The first alternative conceives of the kerygma much as did the comparative-religious school, i.e. as a symbol objectifying a given type of piety, which in turn is the principle or essence of the religion.’ To be sure this Christian principle would no longer consist in a variant upon Hellenistic mysticism, but would rather be in terms of the historicity of human existence. Hut in any case the kerygma is the objectivation of a truth, not of an event. Or, if one concedes that the witness to an event is essential to the kerygma, one must then classify the kerygma as essentially mythological, so that ‘demythologizing’ involves ‘dekerygmatizing’.

Now the concept of the kerygma as a religious symbol was familiar to Bultmann from his background in the comparative-religious school. Yet it was precisely within his comparative-religious research that he moved away from that basic position. Primitive Christianity is rooted in Jewish eschatology, rather than in Hellenistic mysticism. Consequently it conceives of salvation m terms of the meaning of history, rather than in terms of escape from history. As a result, the myths of the mystery religions were irrelevant for such a Jew as Paul, until he encountered the view that the myth had happened in history. Although Bultmann agrees fully with Bousset that the concepts Paul used in his christology were taken over from the mystery religions rather than handed down from Jesus, he is not misled by this fact into ignoring the decisive role Jesus’ historicity plays in the theology of Paul: ‘The historical person of Jesus makes Paul’s preaching gospel.’

Not only did the coming of the Messiah mean that the eschatological age had dawned, i.e. that eschatological existence was possible within history. It also meant that the Pharisaic ‘plan of salvation’ had simply been by-passed by God, i.e. it meant the replacement of man’s presumptive potentiality of self-salvation by the gift of salvation. The Judaism of which Paul had been so proud gave way to his discovery of the present evil aeon, where the egocentric dilemma is such that even the holy law is used self-centredly and only increases man’s sin. Thus the eschatological event was God’s judgement upon human pride, as well as God’s grace giving meaning to human life. Consequently the eschatological event revealed the absence of man’s natural possibility of salvation, and thereby only accentuated the indispensability of God’s saving intervention. The myth of a mystery religion (or the symbol of the comparative-religious school) could only point Out what ought to be; as the ‘law’ of the Hellenistic world it would simply be a new legalism ending like the Jewish law in despair (Rom. 7). Only as witness to God’s intervention in history could the myth or symbol be the good news that eschatological existence is possible within history. In this way Bultmann’s study of the New Testament kerygma compelled him to move beyond the view of it as the objectification of a religious idea, and come to recognize in its ‘happened-ness’ its essence.

This role in which the kerygma played in the thought of Paul finds a parallel in the dilemma confronting modern man, and this parallel has doubtlessly facilitated the appropriation of the Pauline position by the Bultmannian group. This is particularly apparent in the case of Ernst Fuchs: ‘We could object that such encounters (horribile dictu even with ourselves!) are after all inherent in the meaning of history in general! Why is a Jesus necessary, then, if historical decisions are possible at any time? But how do things stand today (1944) for instance, with the European cultural synthesis demanded by Troeltsch? After all, even in the existence of a single individual, there are often enough decisions which make history. But how do we know that we have thereby achieved the existence that comes from God? And when man becomes conscious of his guilt towards his neighbour, what right has he to take himself seriously in what he still has?’ ‘We are sinners, if we think we are in a position to cope with the guilt of our existence. That is the meaning of the talk about righteousness by works."

This same sentiment is characteristic enough of our day to have found eloquent expression in W. H. Auden’s Christmas Oratorio.

Alone, alone, about a dreadful wood

Of conscious evil runs a lost mankind,

Dreading to End its Father lest it find

The Goodness it has dreaded is not good:

Alone, alone, about our dreadful wood.

Where is that Law for which we broke our own,

Where now that Justice for which Flesh resigned

Her hereditary right to passion, Mind

His will to absolute power? Gone. Gone.

Where is that Law for which we broke our own?

The Pilgrim Way has led to the Abyss.

Was it to meet such grinning evidence

We left our richly odoured ignorance?

Was the triumphant answer to be this?

The Pilgrim Way has led to the Abyss.

We who must die demand a miracle.

How could the Eternal do a temporal act,

The Infinite become a finite fact?

Nothing can save us that is possible:

We who must die demand a miracle.

Thus the first assumption as to the purpose of demythologizing, namely that the kerygma is a religious symbol objectifying a human potentiality for authentic existence, fails precisely because of what the kerygma symbolizes. An unhistorical symbol can hardly symbolize transcendence within history. And the objectification of a human capacity can hardly symbolize man’s incapacity before God. Bun is quite correct in recognizing that his alternative is not a demythologization of the kerygma, but an elimination of the kerygma. But what he has not adequately recognized is that it is not merely an elimination of the ‘happened-ness’ of the kerygma, but thereby also of the existential meaning of the kerygma.

Now Bultmann has recognized that the kerygma is not a symbol in the same sense as other religious symbols, precisely because of what it symbolizes: as the symbol for transcendence within history it cannot be an unhistorical symbol. Consequently Bultmann emphasizes -- in this context at least -- that the kerygma is a witness to the meaning of Jesus. Thus the other answer to the question ‘what the kerygma dissolves into’ when it is demythologized, is: into the meaning of Jesus of Nazareth. What is encountered when the objectified language of the kerygma becomes transparent is Jesus of Nazareth, as the act of God in which transcendence is made a possibility of human existence. The kerygma is not the objectification of a new, ‘Christian’ religious principle, but rather the objectification of a historical encounter with God.

From this position at which Bultmann has arrived it is only one step to the ‘post-Bultmannian’ recognition that the actual demythologizing which went on within the primitive Church was the ‘historicizing’ process taking place within the kerygma and leading to the writing of Gospels, as has been discussed above. It is simply because Germany’s leading exegetes have correctly understood the demythologized meaning of the New Testament kerygma, that they have looked through the kerygma not directly to a principle inherent in human nature, but rather to Jesus as the event in which transcendence becomes possible.

D. The Necessity of a New Quest

The theological necessity of a new quest resides in the resultant situation in which theology finds itself today. It is committed to a kerygma which locates its saving event in a historical person to whom we have a second avenue of access provided by the rise of scientific historiography since the enlightenment. Apart from this concrete situation, there is no theological necessity for a quest of the historical Jesus, since Jesus can be encountered in the kerygma. In this sense faith is not dependent on historiography, which as a matter of fact has been all but non-existent with regard to Jesus during most of the centuries of Christian faith. Yet theological responsibility is in terms of the situation in which we find ourselves placed, and it is an inescapable part of the situation in which we exist that the quest of the historical Jesus has taken place, and in fact has neither proved historically fruitless, nor been brought completely to a halt even among those most opposed to it as an ideological orientation. Thus the problem of the two avenues of encounter with Jesus must be faced, if we are to theologize realistically in the situation in which we find ourselves.

These two avenues of access to the same person create a situation which has not existed in the Church since the time of the original disciples, who had both their Easter faith and their factual memory of Jesus. They responded to this situation by intuitively explicating their memory until they found in it the kerygma, i.e. by ‘kerygmatizing’ their memory. Thus they largely precluded their situation for the following generations, until we today attempt to disengage their historical information about Jesus from the kerygma in terms of which they remembered him. At least to some extent we are thereby returning ourselves to their original situation, which they met by writing the Gospels. It is not their precedent which compels us to express our faith as did they, which in any case would be in many regards impossible. Rather there is an inner logic in the common situation, in which the necessity for a new quest resides. It is this inner logic to which we therefore turn.

The current limitation of New Testament research to the kerygma has a significant formal deficiency: it sees Jesus only in terms determined by the Christian encounter, and thus obscures formally the concreteness of his historical reality. If current research upon the New Testament kerygma serves to draw attention to the historicity of the proclaimed word of God, as treasure in such earthen vessels as Jewish or Hellenistic thought patterns, research upon Jesus’ message would serve formally to draw attention to the flesh of the incarnation. The shock of seeing the all-too-familiar Christ of the traditional gospel within the context of Jewish eschatological sects is comparable to that experienced in portraits, e.g. by Picasso, where half the face is the normal full-face mask, while the other half is cut away, providing insight into what is going on within the head; when one returns to the traditional half of the portrait, one must recall that this conventional view and that ‘subliminal’ view are together the reality of the person. The formal error of the nineteenth-century quest was to assume that in the Jesus ‘according to the flesh’ one could see undialectically, unparadoxically, unoffensively Jesus as Lord, whereas one can only see Jesus ‘born of a woman, born under the law’. But the formal error of the last generation in eliminating the quest has been to ignore the relevance for the Christian dialectic, paradox, and offence, of seeing Jesus causally bound within the historical reconstruction of first-century Judaism, and yet encountering in him transcendence: ‘born of a woman, born under the law, to redeem those who were under the law.’

The kerygma, no matter how many mythological concepts it may have made use of in getting its message across, is not proclaiming mythological ideas, but rather the existential meaningfulness of a historical person. Although one may concede that the kerygma is not concerned with a Jesus ‘according to the flesh’, if by this one means a historically proven Lord,’ it is equally apparent that the kerygma is centrally concerned with a Jesus ‘in the flesh’, in the sense that the heavenly Lord was ‘born of a woman, born under the law’, a historical person. This emphasis in the kerygma upon the historicity of Jesus is existentially indispensable, precisely because the kerygma, while freeing us from a life ‘according to the flesh’, proclaims the meaningfulness of life ‘in the flesh’.

It is this concern of the kerygma for the historicity of Jesus which necessitates a new quest. For how can the indispensable historicity of Jesus be affirmed, while at the same time maintaining the irrelevance of what a historical encounter with him would mean, once this has become a real possibility due to the rise of modern historiography? Such a position cannot fail to lead to the conclusion that the Jesus of the kerygma could equally well be only a myth, for one has in fact declared the meaning of his historical person irrelevant. Nor can the requirement of the kerygma be met by the observation that Jesus’ historicity is beyond question, since one no longer needs to take seriously the unrealistic attacks on his historicity by Bruno Bauer, Albert Kalthoff, Peter Jensen, W. B. Smith, Arthur Drews, P. L. Couchoud, and, most recently, Communist propaganda. For a myth does not become historical simply by appropriating the name of a historical personage.

This can be illustrated with regard to the ‘cross’, whose historicity in the normal sense of the word is not doubted. For in spite of this factuality of the cross, it would none the less be a purely mythological kerygma -- i.e. a kerygma speaking of a selfhood which never existed -- if the ‘cross’ were looked upon only as a physical, biological occurrence, as accidental or involuntary, i.e. as completely distinct from his existential selfhood. Only when preaching the ‘cross’ means proclaiming Jesus’ daily existence as accepting his death and living out of transcendence is it the proclamation of a really historical event. Hence the cross would be misunderstood if its chronological distinctness from the public ministry were looked upon as a basic theological separation from the public ministry, as is all too easy in reaction against Ritschlianism. For example the ‘cross’ must be interpreted as asserting Jesus’ actualization of his message, ‘Repent, for God’s reign is near’. For this message means a radical break with the present evil aeon, which in turn involves the acceptance of one’s own death to and in this world. The revelation that transcendence resides in such a death as this, would be the eschatological saving event in history, just as the Easter kerygma claims to be. Yet how can this relation of the ‘cross’ to his existential self hood be investigated other than in terms of a new quest of the historical Jesus?

Hence the decisive point with regard to the kerygma and history is not whether the kerygma preserves detailed historical memories about Jesus, but rather that the kerygma is decidedly an evaluation of the historical person. The kerygma does not commit one to assume the historicity of this or that scene in Jesus’ life, but it does commit one to a specific understanding of his life. Thus the kerygma is largely uninterested in historiography of the nineteenth-century kind, for the kerygma does not lie on the level of objectively verifiable fact. But it is decisively interested in historiography of the twentieth-century kind, for the kerygma consists in the meaning of a certain historical event, and thus coincides with the goal of modern historiography.

It is because modern historiography mediates an existential encounter with Jesus, an encounter also mediated by the kerygma, that modern historiography is of great importance to Christian faith. Käsemann’ s essay reopening the question of the historical Jesus was instigated by Bultmann’s procedure of placing Jesus’ message outside primitive Christianity and putting it back into Judaism, as only a presupposition of New Testament theology. Although this classification may be justified and of no great import when limited to the level of the history of ideas, it becomes the crucial issue of the person of Jesus when one recognizes, as does Bultmann in the preface to his Jesus and the Word, that it is in the Paessage that one encounters existentially the intention, the understanding of existence constituting the self, and thus the person. If such encounter is not (like the encounter with the kerygma) the eschatological event, i.e. ‘Christian’, then one must conclude that the message, intention, self, i.e. person, of the historical Jesus is different from what the kerygma says his reality is.

This would open the Jesus of the kerygma to the same destructive criticism which Bultmann levelled against Barth’s ‘believer’ who does not even know he believes: ‘Isn’t the paradox overstretched? If faith is separated from every psychic occurrence, if it is beyond the consciousness, is it still anything real at all? Is not all the talk about such faith just speculation, and absurd speculation at that? What is the point of talking about my ‘self’ which is never my self? What is the point of this faith of which I am not aware, of which I can at most believe that I have it? Is this identity which is claimed between my visible self and my invisible self not in fact a speculation as in gnosticism or anthroposophism, which also speak of relations of my self to higher worlds, relations which are real beyond my consciousness and which are in reality highly indifferent to me? . . . A faith beyond consciousness is after all not the ‘impossible possibility’, but in every sense an ‘absurdity’. Is not an incarnation beyond Jesus’ historical existence equally an absurdity? Bultmann’s procedure of eliminating Jesus’ message from primitive Christianity means ultimately that ‘Christian faith is understood as faith in the exalted Lord for whom the historical Jesus as such no longer possesses constitutive significance’.

This is not to say that faith hangs upon the question in the history of ideas as to whether Jesus appropriated any specific title available in his culture, or whether he ever spoke as does the kerygma in terms of his death and resurrection. But it does mean to say that when the evangelists attribute both to him, they are not merely harmonizing, or changing the kerygma into a system invented by Jesus, or betraying their lack of historical ability, but are also stating -- admittedly on the externalized level of the history of ideas, and therefore in inadequate form, but nonetheless stating -- that the kerygma is talking not about a myth, but about the historical existence presupposed in the message of Jesus of Nazareth.

Although this historical existence could not be proved objectively by any quantity of authentic sayings of Jesus, were they ever so orthodox, yet that historical existence can be encountered historically and understood existentially. And if in the encounter with Jesus one is confronted with the skandalon of recognizing in this all-too-human Jewish eschatological message the eternal word of God, and consequently of breaking with the present evil aeon so as to live now Out of the grace of God, i.e. if in encountering Jesus one is confronted with the same existential decision as that posed by the kerygma, one has proved all that can be proved by a new quest of the historical Jesus: not that the kerygma is true, but rather that the existential decision with regard to the kerygma is an existential decision with regard to Jesus.

Chapter 3: The Possibility of a New Quest

[Editor's Note: The extensive footnotes for these chapters are omitted. They are available only in the printed copy.]



If the rise of the kerygma meant that we cannot and ought not continue the quest of the historical Jesus, any reappraisal of the problem must concentrate upon these two aspects. Therefore we first inquire as to whether we can renew the quest of the historical Jesus.

A. The ‘Historical Section" of the Kerygma?

The more one catches sight of the decisive role the kerygma played in bringing the quest to an end, the more one recognizes the relevance of C. H. Dodd’s attempt to show that the kerygma contained something corresponding to a life of Jesus, namely a sketch of the public ministry? However his competent presentation only served to show the difficulties inherent in such an avenue toward reconciling the kerygma and the quest of the historical Jesus.

First of all, he neglected the fact that the kerygma receives its tremendous authority in theology today not simply from its position in the history of ideas, i.e. not simply as precedent, but rather from its existential function as a call to faith, in which God calls upon me to accept his judgement upon me in Jesus’ death, and to live from his grace in Jesus’ resurrection. Even if the kerygma as historical precedent contained details of Jesus’ biography, just as it contained at times mythological motifs from Hellenistic svncretism, the kerygma as eschatological event does not impose upon me the thought patterns with which it originally operated. For Dodd’s approach to succeed, it would be necessary to show that the inclusion of details from Jesus’ life is not part of the adiaphora, i.e. not just one means among others of emphasizing the incarnation, but rather that it is indispensable for conveying the existential meaning of the kerygma, i.e. is constitutive of the kerygma as eschatological event. This is difficult in view of the fact that apart from Acts the kerygma is almost totally lacking in biographical facts, and that in Acts the facts listed vary from sermon to sermon.

The way in which Dodd attempts to reconcile the kerygma and the quest is in the second place misleading, since it interprets the ‘historical section of the kerygma’ (42) in terms of a positivistic view of history, rather than in terms of the theological approach to history which actually characterized primitive Christianity. For Dodd characterizes this ‘historical section’ as presenting the ‘historical facts of the life of Jesus’ (31), a ‘comprehensive summary of the facts of the ministry of Jesus’ (28), so that the average reader would be misled into the assumption that the kerygma was concerned with the objectively verifiable ‘data’ (29) of the historian. To begin with, this language suggests considerably more ‘data’ than are actually to be found in the rather meagre factual detail of the sermons in Acts, not to speak of the almost complete absence of such detail in kerygmatic texts outside Acts. But even more Important, the direction in which this ‘historical section’ is interpreted is in terms of the Sitz im Leben of the historian, rather thanin terms of the Sitz im Leben of the primitive Christian. It may be that kerygmatic allusions to Jesus’ humility, meekness, gentleness, love, forgiveness and obedience derive from historical memory of Jesus; but the ‘historical value’ which such material may have is far from its kerygmatic meaning, which is more accurately stated by Bultmann, in language actually intended to state the significance of the pre-existence in the karygma: ‘That Jesus, the historical person, did this service for us, and that he did it not out of personal sympathy and loveableness, but rather by God acting in him, in that God established his love for us through Jesus dying for us sinners (Rom. 5.6-8)

One need only read the kerygmatic hymn in Phil. 2.6-11 to see the role this ‘historical section of the kerygma’ originally played:

I

6 Who being in the form of God

Did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped

7 But emptied himseW

Taking the form of a servant.

II

Being born in the likeness of man

And being found in human form

8 He humbled himself

Becoming obedient unto death (i.e. the death of the cross).

III

9 Therefore God has highly exalted him

And bestowed on him the name which is above every name,

10 That at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,

(in heaven and on earth and under the earth)

11 And every tongue confess: JESUS CHRIST IS LORD (to the glory of God the Father).3



Although no facts from Jesus’ life are reported, his humiliation is emphasized as the indispensable presupposition of his exaltation. It is this meaning of humiliation which keeps the ‘historical section of the kerygma from attempting to legitimize the kerygma with objectively demonstrable ‘signs’. For not only did Jesus reject such an insistence upon legitimizing signs, but Paul explicitly recognized the rejection of such signs as inherent in the existential meaning of the kerygma (I Cor. 1.17-25).’ Consequently when details do on occasion come to be introduced into the ‘historical section of the kerygma’, the normative significance of their introduction should not be seen in terms of positivistic historiography. Rather is it necessary to seek to trace the original kerygmatic meaning at work in this procedure, in order to reach a valid kerygmatic approach to the Gospels and a normative basis for a modern quest of the historical Jesus.

The central strophe in the hymn of Phil. 2.6-11 presents Jesus’ earthly life in the lowest possible terms, precisely because the first strophe about the Pre-existent and the third strophe about the Exalted point to the meaningfulness of his (and therefore our) very ambiguous historical existence. Although pre-existence and exaltation are, so to speak, chronologically separate from the life, they reveal the life’s whence and whither, and are thus a way of expressing its meaning. This method is quite common in kerygmatic texts of the briefer ‘humiliation -- exaltation’ type (Rom. 1.3-4; I Tim. 3.16; I Peter 3.18b), as well as in kerygmatic texts with much the same ‘pre-existence -- humiliation- -- exaltation’ pattern as Phil. 2.6-11,, (e.g. Col. 1.15-20; Heb. 1.2ff.; II Cor. 8.9; Rom. 10.6-9; I Cor. 8.6). Even though the ‘historical section’ or humiliation seems even to disappear from some of these kerygmatic texts, their original intention was to emphasize the meaningfulness of Jesus’ historicity or humiliation, and only with gnosticism was this original meaning lost.

Consequently the introduction of details into the ‘historical section of the kerygma’ is valid only as an impressive way of witnessing to this kerygmatic message, that in suffering lies glory, in death resides life, in judgement is to be found grace. Whereas the kerygma customarily describes this ‘exaltation to be found in humiliation’ by stating the exaltation outside the ‘historical section’, sometimes the kerygyza superimposes the exaltation upon the humiliation, so that life becomes visible in death, glory in suffering, grace in judgement, the exaltation in the humiliation, the resurrection glory in the ‘historical section’. The statements about Jesus ‘in the flesh’, originally intended to designate only the humiliation half of the paradox, come to express both sides of it. ‘Put to death in the flesh’ (I Peter 3.18) becomes ‘Revealed in the flesh’ (I Tim. 3.16). And the statement of Jesus’ this-worldly origin ‘according to the flesh’ is not only followed by a statement about his other-worldly origin ‘according to the Spirit’, but also includes within the this-worldly side an allusion to the messianic lineage (Rom. 1.3; 9.5; Ignatius, Smyrn. 1.1), so that both sides of the paradox are present within the ‘historical section’. Another expression for Jesus’ this-worldly origin is ‘born of a woman’ (Gal. 4.4), and this too comes to express both sides of the paradox, in the expression ‘born of a virgin’ (Ignatius, Smyrn. 1.1; Justin, Dial. 85.2; Apol. 31.7; 32.14).

Now this trend within the kerygmatic tradition is the movement which logically leads to the writing of Gospels. This is most apparent in the case of the Gospel of John. For this Gospel, more self-consciously and explicitly than the others, speaks of Jesus in terms of the kerygma. Therefore we should not be surprised to see the Gospel of John consciously superimposing the glory of pre-existence and exaltation upon the ‘historical section’. The pre-existent glory ‘still’ shines in the earthly life: ‘The word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory’ (1.14). And the glory of exaltation is ‘already’ in the earthly life:

The cross is ‘already’ Jesus’ ‘glorification’ (7.39; 12.16; 13.31; 17.1, 5) and ‘exaltation’ (3.14; 8.28; 12.32-34). Similarly the synoptic tradition embedded the exaltation within the humiliation, most clearly in the transfiguration scene, but also in Jesus’ miracles, brilliant teachings, and victorious debates. And here too, just as in the case of the sermons in Acts (2.22; 10.38), the use of various Jewish and Hellenistic styles of narrating the divine in history’ should not mislead us as to the normative kerygmatic significance which is to be maintained throughout this transition from ‘kerygma’ to ‘narrative’. In the narrative, just as in the kerygma, we are confronted with paradox: exaltation in humiliation, life in death, the kingdom of God in the present evil aeon, the eschatological in history. This kerygmatic meaning of the ‘historical section’ is constitutive of the Gospel as a literary form. This is apparent in Mark’s ‘messianic secret’ and finds expression in the modern definition of the Gospels as ‘passion narratives with long introductions’.

The paradox inherent in the kerygma and the Gospels is beyond objective verification by the historian. Neither the kerygma, nor the kerygmatic Gospels, can legitimately be used to lead us into a positivistic approach to the quest of the historical Jesus.

When the emphasis laid by the kerygma upon the historicity or humiliation of Jesus has been misunderstood in terms of nineteenth-century historiography, it is almost inevitable that one would search in the kerygma for the implementation of that kind of historiography. Dodd is only carrying out this logical consequence when he seeks to find a chronology of the public ministry in the kerygma; and the failure of this attempt should confirm the thesis that the basic meaning of Jesus’ historicity for the kerygma has been misunderstood. Outside Acts, the kerygmatic texts contain no factual details from the public ministry. In the sermons of Acts, the few details from the public ministry provide no chronological information. We can infer from Acts 10.37; 13.24f. that the public ministry’s beginning at John the Baptist preceded its end on the cross; but since one knows a priori that the beginning precedes the end, this element reflects no more chronological information or interests than does the hymn of Phil. 2.6-11, where we can infer that the incarnation preceded the death. In two sermons of Acts various elements of the public ministry are mentioned, but without chronological order the ‘mighty works and wonders and signs’ of 2.22 are not different facts occurring in that order in the public ministry; the only ‘order’ one might sense is a certain parallel to the order in the immediately preceding prophecy from Joel 2.28-32. Acts 10.38 says that Jesus ‘went about doing good and healing all that were oppressed by the devil, for God was with him’. This Lucan formulation includes no chronological sequence; or should we assume that ‘doing good’ refers to one phase of the public ministry, which was then followed by another, in which ‘doing good’ was superseded by exorcisms? If so, one would then arrive at the reverse of the Marcan order!

The complete absence from the kerygma of a chronology for the public ministry should have been sufficient evidence to indicate that the kind of historicity in which the kerygma was interested differed basically from that with which Dodd was occupied. But it is indicative of Dodd’s intellectual stature that he nonetheless carried through the logic of his position, and does actually present us with a kerygmatic chronology of the public ministry. This is worked out in an essay on ‘The Framework of the Gospel Narrative’, which is one of the rare serious attempts to refute Karl Ludwig Schmidt’s argument that the Marcan order is not chronological. Schmidt and others had called attention to the generalizing summaries (‘Sammelberichte’) introduced into the Gospel by Mark to hold the narrative together. Dodd now unites all these ‘Samnmelberichte’ into a continuous text, and defines this as a kerygmatic chronology of the public ministry. Now ingenious though this solution is, it fails, by being a pure conjecture composed of a series of less likely alternatives.

One must first assume that the various ‘Sammelberichte’ belonged together as a continuous outline, in the order in which they occur in Mark. But no evidence for this ‘original’ form in which they circulated is given, and one of the ‘Sammelberichte’ is omitted by Dodd himself as unfit for this construction. One must then assume that the order of the reconstructed unit is chronological. But for this assumption one has neither the support of any other kerygmatic text, nor the support of the Gospels. For Dodd is attempting to refute the dominant view since Schmidt of the non-chronological order of the Gospels, and it would clearly be an argument in a circle to assume the chronological order of the Gospels in the argument. Dodd must next maintain that the ‘Sammelberichte’ are not, as has been generally supposed, Marcan creations, but rather comprise a pre-Marcan kerygmatic tradition.

Dodd’s argument here is to the effect that Mark does not actually follow this reconstructed outline; it is assumed that he attempted to do so, and consequently that his failure indicates that the outline was not his own, but came to him from the tradition. However the case for the existence of the conjectured ‘outline’ really requires for its proof some such objective indication of its existence as would be provided by Mark following it in his narrative. The fact that Mark does not follow the order of the hypothetical outline certainly points to a more obvious inference than the preMarcan origin of the hypothetical document: namely, its nonexistence. Mark did not follow the outline of the collected ‘Sammelbericht’ simply because he was unaware of them as assembled into a chronological outline by Dodd, but knew of them only as he himself presents them: a series of independent generalizing summaries, probably, like the kerygma and the Gospels, primarily topical in nature. Dodd’s whole thesis with regard to a kerygmatic chronology fails for lack of the confirming evidence required to establish a position which would reverse the course of scholarship, and thus must move against the stream of current views as to the probabilities in the case.

B. ‘New Sources’?

The original quest had been brought to an end by the rise of the kerygma to the centre of twentieth-century theology. Credit for the centrality of the kerygma is largely due, at least in the English-speaking world, to C. H. Dodd. Yet the new spirit, once conjured up, was no longer at the service of the master, and failed to provide him with a new basis for the old quest. Perhaps sensing this situation, the most forthright German attempt to revive the positivistic kind of quest, although carried through by a strong sup. porter of the kerygma, has sought its basis elsewhere. This is the significance of the life of Jesus by Ethelbert Stauffer, which has appeared in English as Jesus and His Story, 1960.

Initially impressed by the current consensus as to the kerygmatic nature of the Gospels (7), Stauffer bases the possibility of a positivistic quest upon the existence of new sources (8). These are of three kinds.

First are ‘indirect’ sources: increased knowledge of Palestinian conditions. However this is not basically a new kind of source, but is actually what Ernst Renan a century ago entitled ‘the fifth gospel’. And the bulk of this information was collected by Gustav Dalman and Joachim Jeremias toward the opening of the present century, before the modernization of Palestine obscured the tradition of the past. Thus we are not dealing with a new source which has arisen during the last generation, outdating the current position that the quest is impossible, but rather with an old source used by the original quest; and, although one may speak of a quantitative increase of accumulated research, the source itself is less intact now than when the quest came to an end.

Nor is the way in which Stauffer uses this source basically new. He speaks (8) of ‘synchronizing’ this material with the Gospels to achieve a chronology. But the indirect sources have no chronology of Jesus’ life to be synchronized with the Gospels; information about Palestine is merely used (16-18) to identify the season or year fitting Gospel allusions (e.g. harvest in the spring; 5th year of Tiberius as A.D. 28). Given the order of the Gospels as chronological, one’s knowledge of Palestine could help to set up dates or seasons? But what is here presupposed is precisely what today cannot be presupposed, that the Gospels are in chronological order. What is really synchronized is the Fourth Gospel with the synoptics, much as in the lives of Christ of the nineteenth century. One must conclude that the first ‘new source’ has not helped Stauffer to disprove the present consensus; instead the consensus has been ignored, and the traditional sources, i.e. the Gospels, used in a pre-Schmidt fashion.

The second kind of ‘new source’ is found in the Jewish (i.e. Rabbinic) polemics against Jesus, which again can hardly be called a ‘new source’. Since the Jewish sources have the reverse prejudice to that of the Christian sources, Stauffer assumes (9-10) that one has historical fact when the two agree. The Achilles’ heel of this argument is the dependence of Rabbinic allusions to Jesus upon the Christian witness. Stauffer seeks to avoid this difficulty by arguing that if the Jews took over a Christian view, the view must be historically accurate. However this argument would be valid only if one assumed that the Jews were historical critics, rather than polemicists. Where the facts were damaging, they had to deny their historicity or hide them; but where they could easily be given an anti-Christian meaning (as in the case of the virgin birth), they could be left standing. Thus the omission or adoption of Christian views about Jesus in the Rabbinic tradition has no direct bearing upon their historicity.

Stauffer’s third ‘new source’ is the literature of Jewish apocalypticism (10f.). However this too is no ‘new source’, but rather a source which played a major role in the last phase of the original quest, culminating in the work of Johannes Weiss and Albert Schweitzer. One might assume that Stauffer had in mind the newly discovered Qumran texts. However these have for him only a negative significance (11). The legalism of Qumran identifies Jesus’ legalistic sayings as inauthentic, introduced into the tradition in the re-Judaizing process carried on by Baptist and Palestinian Christian forces.

None of Stauffer’s ‘new sources’ actually adds new information specifically about Jesus. They are merely used to argue for the historicity of the Christian sources. In this sense they ate not so much new sources for the life of Jesus as new arguments; except that the arguments are not new. For the ‘new sources’ are not used to disprove the kerygmatic nature of the New Testament sources and their resultant partiality, which Stauffer began (7f.) by fully conceding, and then as fully ignores. What is new in Stauffer is the programmatic revival of the positivistic understanding of history. He says the Verbum Dei incarnatum is a nudum factum, and the quaestio prima of all theological research is the reconstruction of the history of Jesus, which can solve among other things the problem of the absoluteness of Jesus. In his view of history, as well as in his view of the sources, Stauffer shares the outlook of nineteenth-century liberalism, except that he replaces the critical approach with the conservative principle:

in dubio pro tradito. His basic weakness is that he has ignored the intervening fifty years, whereas real progress in scholarship, precisely when progress means a shift in direction, comes by means of profound understanding of the valid reasons behind the current position, including the valid reasons it had for rejecting an older view to which we must now in some legitimate sense return. For a return must always be a transformation, accepting the valid arguments levelled against the original position, and accepting the valid achievements of the intervening period.

Whereas Stauffer made much of ‘new sources’ which are hardly new, there is a source which he does not mention which is quite new. Among the Coptic gnostic manuscripts discovered in Egypt at Nag Hammadi ln 1945 was a copy of the Gospel of Thomas. This apocryphal gospel is mentioned in patristic allusions, and has been more or less identified with a late and purely fanciful infancy narrative known for some time. However, according to preliminary reports, the Gospel of Thomas from Nag Hammadi actually contains a considerable body of sayings of Jesus, some of which are not purely of gnostic invention, but are of a type similar to those in the Synoptics. Thus an increase in the quantity of authentic sayings of Jesus may be reasonably anticipated. Yet the nature of the collection does not seem to be such as to alter basically the kind of history or biography of Jesus which is possible. For we apparently have to do with a collection of individual, unrelated sayings apart from their historical setting or chronological order, and reflecting the gnostic tendencies and outlook of the Jewish Christian Church venerating James. Thus the Gospel of Thomas only adds to the type of material already available from Oxyrhynchus Papyri 1 and 654.

C. A New View of the Gospels?

Neither the kerygma nor new source material has provided the possibility of a return to the type of quest attempted by the nineteenth century. Nor does such a possibility reside in any general shift in scholarly evaluation of the Gospels. If form criticism served to draw attention to the theology of the Church in the formative period of the oral tradition, scholarship today is concentrating upon the influence of the evangelists’ theologies upon the Gospels. And one of the outstanding conclusions of this recent research is that ‘Luke the historian’ is not a positivistic historian supplying us with the kind of objectively verified chronological, geographical, psychological, developmental information previously assumed, but rather is a theologian of history, presenting us with the construction of history which is meaningful to him. There has been a gradual trend toward recognizing historical aspects of the Fourth Gospel; yet this trend has not led to the conclusion that the Fourth Gospel provides a degree of historical objectivity not found in the synoptics, but at most that it falls within the same general category of ‘theology of history’ as do the Synoptics. It must also be recognized that we have to do with an inverse ratio: the increase in the degree of historicity attributed to specific points in John has been accompanied by a diminution in the degree of historicity which could be attributed to the divergent view of the Synoptics.

We do find in current discussion various positive statements as to the historical reliability of factual material in the Gospels, not only on the part of writers from whom such might be anticipated, but also from among the Bultmannian group itself. Although this is a new emphasis, coinciding with the proposal that the quest be reopened, it is actually not a basic reassessment of the situation with regard to the sources. For even a generation ago, when the emphasis was upon the impossibility of the older kind of quest, the existence of some historical information about Jesus was conceded by Bultmann. And on the other hand the modern Bultmannians reopening the quest have not rejected the Bultmannian view of the sources as primarily kerygmatic and only secondarily custodians of factual detail for historians of posterity. The mid-century has brought no basic revolution in our view of the sources, such as characterized the turn of the century. The cause for the reawakened interest in the quest of the historical Jesus lies elsewhere.

D. A New Concept of History and the Self

If the possibility of resuming the quest lies neither in the kerygma, nor In new sources, nor in a new view of the Gospels, such a possibility has been latent in the radically different understanding of history and of human existence which distinguishes the present from the quest which ended in failure. ‘Historicism’ is gone as the ideological core of historiography, and with it is gone the centrality of the chronicle. ‘Psychologism’ is gone as the ideological core of biography, and with it is gone the centrality of the curriculum vitae. Consequently the kind of history and biography attempted unsuccessfully for Jesus by the nineteenth century is now seen to be based upon a false understanding of the nature of history and the self. As a result it has become a completely open question, as to whether a kind of history or biography of Jesus, consistent with the contemporary view of history and human existence, is possible.

This open question has been obscured during the past generation by the necessary polemics against the impossible and misguided kind of quest. But these polemics have been successful enough for the urgent task of our day no longer to be their mechanical perpetuation, but rather the investigation of the possibility of writing the kind of history or biography of Jesus consistent with our modern understanding of history and human existence.

Nineteenth-century historiography and biography were modelled after the natural sciences, e.g. in their effort to establish causal relationships and to classify the particular in terms of the general. Today it is widely recognized that this method placed a premium upon the admixture of nature in history and man, while largely bypassing the distinctively historical and human, where transcendence, if at all, is to be found It was primarily Wilhelm Dilthey who introduced the modern period by posing for historiography the ‘question about the scientific knowledge of individual persons, the great forms of singular human existence’. Today history is increasingly understood as essentially the unique and creative, whose reality would not be apart from the event in which it becomes, and whose truth could not be known by Platonic recollection or inference from a rational principle, but only through historical encounter. History is the act of intention, the commitment, the meaning for the participants, behind the external occurrence. In such intention and commitment the self of the participant actualizes itself, and in this act of self-actualization the self is revealed. Hence it is the task of modern historiography to grasp such acts of intention, such commitments, such meaning, such self-actualization; and it is the task of modern biography to lay hold of the selfhood which is therein revealed.

This implication of the modern view of history for biography is only strengthened when one turns to the modern concept of selfhood, and its more direct implications for biography. The self is not simply one’s personality, resultant upon (and to be explained by) the various influences and ingredients present in one’s heritage and development. Rather selfhood is constituted by commitment to a context, from which commitment one’s existence arises. One’s empirical habitus is the inescapable medium through which the self expresses itself, but is not identical with the self, even when one seems to make it so. For even if one avoids commitment and merely drifts with life’s tide, or even if the commitment is merely to hold to one’s own past or absolutize one’s personality, the resultant selfhood is decisively qualified by the mood of inauthenticity in the one case, or by one or the other form of doctrinaire self-assertion in the other. Consequently it would be a basic misunderstanding of selfhood, to describe the causal relationships and cultural ingredients composing the personality, and assume one had understood the self. Selfhood results from implicit or explicit commitment to a kind of existence, and is to be understood only in terms of that commitment, i.e by laying hold of the understanding of existence in terms of which the self is constituted.

To be sure, neither the modern view of history nor the modern view of existence involves necessarily a dimension of transcendence. To this extent the classical philologian Ernst Heitsch’ is correct in sensing that the historian’s awareness ‘tua res agitur is ‘nuanced in a particular way’ by the New Testament scholar: ‘It is a matter of thy blessedness, however one may understand this.’ The secular historian does not have this particular and narrow concentration of interest, but thinks of ‘tua res agitur’ in the comprehensive sense that ‘nothing human is foreign to thee’. Yet it is precisely because of this complete openness to all that is human, that the historian must open himself to encounter with humans who understand their existence as lived out of transcendence.

The first effect of the modern view of history and human existence upon New Testament study was, as we have seen, to focus attention upon the kerygma as the New Testament statement of Jesus’ history and selfhood. This involved also a positive appraisal of the kerygmatic nature of the Gospels, so that one came to recognize the legitimacy in their procedure of transforming the ipsissima verba and brute facts into kerygmatic meaning. Thus the modern approach to history and the self made it easy to emphasize the rarity of unaltered sayings and scenes.

There is however another aspect which is equally true, and yet has not been equally emphasized. If the Church’s kerygma reduced the quantity of unaltered material, it deserves credit for the quality of the unaltered material. The kind of material which the ‘kerygmatizing’ process would leave unaltered is the kind of material which fits best the needs of research based upon the modern view of history and the self. For the kervgmatic interest of the primitive Church would leave unaltered precisely those sayings and scenes in which Jesus made his intention and understanding of existence most apparent to them. Of course the very fact that the earliest Church could on occasion go on saying it in Jesus’ way makes it difficult to be certain that any given saying originated with Jesus rather than in this earliest phase of the Church. And areas where Jesus differed from his first disciples would tend to have disappeared from the tradition. Yet in spite of such difficulties, the ‘kerygmatic’ quality of the material the primitive Church preserved unaltered means that this material is especially suitable for modern research concerned with encountering the meaning of history and the existential selfhood of persons.

Now that the modern view of history and the self has become formally more analogous to the approach of the kerygma, we need no longer consider it disastrous that the chronology and causalities of the public ministry are gone. For we have, for example, in the parables, in the beatitudes and woes, and in the sayings on the kingdom, exorcism, John the Baptist and the law, sufficient insight into Jesus’ intention to encounter his historical action, and enough insight into the understanding of existence presupposed in his intention to encounter his selfhood. ‘If it is by the finger of God that I cast Out demons, then the kingdom of God has come upon you’ (Luke 11.20). ‘From the days of John the Baptist until now the kingdom of heaven has suffered violence, and men of violence take it by force’ (Matt. 11.12). Such authentic sayings, whose exact wording cannot well be reconstructed, whose translation is uncertain, whose out-of-date thought patterns are obvious, are none the less more important historical sources for encountering Jesus’ history and person than would be the chronological and psychological material the original quest sought in vain. Consequently Jesus’ history and selfhood are accessible to modern historiography and biography. And that is the crucial significance of Käsemann’s remark: ‘There are after all pieces in the synoptic tradition which the historian must simply acknowledge as authentic, if he wishes to remain a historian’ This kind of quest of the historical Jesus is possible

The positive relevance of the modern view of history and the self to the problem of Jesus has not gone completely undetected. As a matter of fact, Bultmann’s Jesus and the Word of 1926 was prefaced with a classic statement of the modern view of history, and on this basis he states that his book reflects his own encounter with the historical Jesus, and may mediate an encounter with the historical Jesus on the part of the reader. And Käsemann’s brief analysis of the authentic sayings of Jesus concludes that, in spite of the absence of messianic titles, Jesus’ understanding of his existence can be deduced from his intentions revealed in his sayings. We have already noted how Fuchs derives his understanding of Jesus’ work and person from his conduct and its interpretation in the parables. Similarly Bornkamm recognizes that the possibility of his Jesus of Nazareth resides in a new view of history. ‘If the Gospels do not speak of the history of Jesus in the sense of a reproducible curriculum vitae with its experiences and stages, its outward and inward development, yet they none the less speak of history as occurrence and event. Of such history the Gospels provide information which is more than abundant.’ And his presentation of ‘The messianic question’ is permeated by the new view of existence, when he explains that Jesus presented no independent doctrine of his person precisely because ‘the "messianic" aspect of his being is enclosed in his word and act, and in the immediateness of his historical appearance’. It is consequently not surprising that Peter Biehl has introduced into the discussion of a new quest a thematic discussion of the interpretation of history in terms of the historicity of the self, as found in Martin Heidegger and R. G. Collingwood.

It is apparent that a new quest of the historical Jesus cannot be built upon the effort to deny the impossibilities inherent in the original quest; rather a new quest must be built upon the fact that the sources do make possible a new kind of quest working in terms of the modern view of history and the self. Whether one wishes to designate this possible task of historical research a history or life of Jesus, or whether one prefers to reserve these terms for the kind of history or life envisaged by the nineteenth century, is not of crucial importance. The German ability to distinguish between Historie and Geschichte has made it possible, from Bultmann’s Jesus and the Word on, to look upon oneself as presenting the history (Geschichte) of Jesus. Such has not been the case with the terms ‘life’, ‘biography’, and ‘bios’, which continue to be avoided, for the reason Käisemann gives:’ ‘In a life of Jesus one simply cannot give up outer and inner development.’ Since usage determines meaning, it may be that such a nineteenth-century definition of biography is still accurate. But this should not obscure the crucial fact that Jesus’ understanding of his existence, his selfhood, and thus in the higher sense his life, is a possible subject of historical research.

Chapter 2: The Impossibility and Illegitimacy of the Original Quest

[Editor's Note: The extensive footnotes for these chapters are omitted. They are available only in the printed copy.]

A. The Ambiguous Term ‘Historical Jesus’

‘The quest of the historical Jesus’ is an expression which has become familiar to us as the English title of Albert Schweitzer’s book Von Reimarus., zu Wrede. It is a poetic rendering of the German subtitle, which read literally: ‘A History of Research upon the Life of Jesus’. Thus those who have read Schweitzer’s book have come to sense that the expression ‘historical Jesus’ is closely related to modern historical research. Yet the extent to which the meaning of the term is inextricably related to historical research must be explained in some detail, if the concept is to be freed from the ambiguity which continues to haunt it.

The term ‘historical Jesus’ is not simply identical with ‘Jesus’ or ‘Jesus of Nazareth’, as if the adjective ‘historical’ were a meaningless addition. Rather the adjective is used in a technical sense, and makes a specific contribution to the total meaning of the expression. ‘Historical’ is used in the sense of ‘things in the past which have been established by objective scholarship’.’ Consequently the expression ‘historical Jesus’ comes to mean: ‘What can be known of Jesus of Nazareth by means of the scientific methods of the historian.’ Thus we have to do with a technical expression which must be recognized as such, and not automatically identified with the simple term ‘Jesus’.

This technical meaning of the expression ‘historical Jesus’ may seem to us an unwarranted narrowing of the term ‘history’. Yet such usage is nearest to the original, etymological meaning of the term ‘history’ (lit. ‘research’). Such usage is somewhat similar to the scientist’s use of the term ‘nature’ to refer to what in the world around us is subsumed under law by scientific research.’ Now ‘history’ and ‘nature’ in this sense would envisage all of reality, if one assumed that objective historical scholarship and scientific research could, in theory at least, reach the whole of reality. In that case the technical usage of ‘history’ and ‘nature’ could be as comprehensive as the layman’s normal meaning of ‘history’ as ‘all that happened’ and ‘nature’ as ‘the whole world around us’.

This was in fact the assumption of the nineteenth-century quest of the historical Jesus. For this quest was initiated by the enlightenment in its effort to escape the limitations of dogma, and thereby to gain access to the whole reality of the past. The quest of the historical Jesus was originally the quest after ‘the Jesus of Nazareth who actually lived in first-century Palestine’, unrestricted by the doctrinal presentations of him in Bible, creed and Church. One then proceeded to implement this alternative between orthodox christology and the Jesus of the enlightenment by appeal to the current alternatives in method. If the orthodox Christ was reached through faith and doctrine, it was readily assumed that ‘the real Jesus of Nazareth’ could be found by means of the newly-discovered historiography promising to narrate the past ‘as it actually was’. Hence for the nineteenth century the two meanings of ‘the historical Jesus’ tended to coincide: ‘Jesus of Nazareth as he actually was’ coincided with ‘the reconstruction of his biography by means of objective historical method’.

For the twentieth century this is no longer obvious. The reason for this change does not lie in any restriction of the historical-critical method in dealing with the objective data, as if there were one group of historical facts accessible to historiography, while other historical facts were in principle beyond the historian’s reach.’ Rather we have come to recognize that the objective factual level upon which the nineteenth century operated is only one dimension of history, and that a whole new dimension in the facts, a deeper and more central plane of meaning, had been largely bypassed. The nineteenth century saw the reality of the ‘historical facts’ as consisting largely in names, places, dates, occurrences, sequences, causes, effects -- things which fall far short of being the actuality of history, if one understands by history the distinctively human, creative, unique, purposeful, which distinguishes man from nature. The dimension in which man actually exists, his ‘world’, the stance or outlook from which he acts, his understanding of his existence behind what he does, the way he meets his basic problems and the answer his life implies to the human dilemma, the significance he had as the environment of those who knew him, the continuing history his life produces, the possibility of existence which his life presents to me as an alternative -- such matters as these have become central in an attempt to understand history. It is this deeper level of the reality of ‘Jesus of Nazareth as he actually was’ which was not reached by ‘the reconstruction of his biography by means of objective historical method’. Consequently the two meanings of the term ‘historical Jesus’ no longer coincide.

Once it had become clear that nineteenth-century historical method had failed to penetrate the depths at which the reality of history lies, and consequently that its ‘historical Jesus’ failed to exhaust the reality of Jesus of Nazareth, it was inevitable that a re-study of historical method should follow, in an attempt to gain access to that deeper level of historical reality. But until such a method could be worked out and applied, and its results brought In, the only scientific historical reconstruction which was actually available remained that of the nineteenth century. For the time being at least, the only ‘historical Jesus’ available was the nineteenth-century reconstruction, now seen to fall far short of Jesus of Nazareth as he actually was. Consequently the twentieth century worked Out its initial attitude toward the ‘historical Jesus’ m terms of the only available reconstruction, that of the nineteenth century with all its deficiencies.

This produced in the first place a recognition of the relativity of historical research even in the modern, post-enlightenment period. To say that medieval historians were subjective would not imply that historiography is inevitably subjective. But to say that the classical age of objective historical-critical research was itself historically conditioned and to this extent subjective, was to imply that historiography is inevitably limited as to the degree of objectivity and finality it can attain. Thus Lessing’s old problem as to how ‘accidental historical truths can serve as proofs for eternal rational truths’ was deepened by the awareness that even our reconstruction of the ‘historical truths’ is ‘accidental’, i.e.historically relative. All this was only augmented by the growing awareness in psychology, cultural anthropology, and existentialism of the basic historicity of the self so that one no longer assumed that the historical and relative could be readily removed as merely a surface defect on an essentially natural or changelessly rational selfhood. The problem of the historian’s own historicity has become a fundamental problem. Quite apart from the assumptions of Christian faith, it is easy to see that all that Jesus actually was is not likely to be fully grasped, objectively demonstrated, and definitively stated by historical research in any given period. Now when we add to this the assumption that the historian’s subject matter is God, the impossibility of the situation is more than obvious. Thus the whole Ritschlian attempt to prove Christianity historically suddenly became absurd. Consequently it seems incredibly naive when today an advocate of positivistic historicism wishes to revive the attempt to prove historically the ‘absoluteness of Jesus’.

Since the twentieth century worked out its initial attitude toward the ‘historical Jesus’ in terms of the only available reconstruction, that of the nineteenth century with all its glaring limitations, it is not surprising to find as a second consequence a tendency to disassociate the expression ‘the historical Jesus’ from ‘Jesus of Nazareth as he actually was’, and to reserve the expression for: ‘What can be known of Jesus of Nazareth by means of the scientific methods of the historian’. ‘The historical Jesus’ comes really to mean no more than ‘the historian’s Jesus’. The clear implication is that ‘Jesus of Nazareth as he actually was’ may be considerably more than or quite different from ‘the historical Jesus.

It is in this sense that one must correctly understand statements which might seem shocking if used in the other sense of the term: ‘We can know very little about the historical Jesus’. If by this one means that we can know very little about Jesus of Nazareth by means of the scientific methods of the historian, so that a modern biography of him is hardly possible, such a viewpoint need not trouble the believer, although it could be a topic of legitimate discussion among historians. For the believer’s knowledge of Jesus has been hardly more dependent upon the historian’s research than has his knowledge of God. Such research was as a matter of fact largely non-existent during the centuries of most fervent Christian faith. The same situation prevails with regard to another current statement: ‘Christian faith is not interested in the historical Jesus.’ This statement is to a considerable extent true, if one understands it correctly to mean that Christians throughout the ages have been largely ignorant of and not interested in ‘what can be known of Jesus of Nazareth by means of the scientific methods of the historian’. The statement would become largely untrue only if one assumed it to be maintaining that Christian faith is not interested in Jesus of Nazareth.

B. The End of the Original Quest

This discussion of the shifting meaning of the term ‘historical Jesus’ has already drawn attention to the basic shift in modern man’s relation to history, as one of the broad and pervasive reasons why the quest came to an end. But there were also factors at work within the specific area of the study of Jesus which crystallized into the consensus that the quest is both impossible and illegitimate. It is to these factors within the discipline itself that we now wish to turn.

It is often said that Albert Schweitzer’s Quest of the Historical Jesus marks the end of the quest. This is to a considerable extent true, if one does not take it to mean that his book caused the end of the quest. Undoubtedly his book was sufficiently shocking to give pause for thought. But neither of the main points he makes was such as to lead to more than a temporary suspension of the quest: ‘The so-called historical Jesus of the nineteenth century biographies is really a modernization, in which Jesus is painted in the colours of modern bourgeois respectability and neo-Kantian moralism." However Schweitzer did not radicalize this insight into a questioning of the objectivity of historical research as such, but himself presented a reconstruction of Jesus which he regarded as objective, simply because it lacked the Victorianism of the classical lives of Christ. Nor did his insight lead him to doubt the appropriateness of the sources for the kind of chronological biography he and his predecessors tried to write. Instead he rejected the doubts of Wrede at this point, and to this extent is himself one of the last spokesmen for the nineteenth-century view of the sources. From his point of view the rejection of the nineteenth-century biographies as modernizations need in no sense involve a rejection of the quest itself, for the simple reason that an initial prejudice once detected does not justify the permanent end of a scholarly project.

The other main point of Schweitzer’s presentation is that the real Jesus of Nazareth was actually less modern than the Nicene Christ one had originally intended to replace. Schweitzer put it bluntly: Jesus was the high water mark of Jewish apocalypticism. Thus the theological value of the original quest in proving the Ritschlian system was reversed. Schweitzer had little personal sympathy for eschatology, and saw in it no potentiality for theology today. Consequently his construction was characterized by a crudity and misunderstanding inevitable in any appraisal of history from an inner distance. He remained a Ritschlian in his heart, and never dreamed that he would live to see Jesus’ eschatology become the core of modern theology. For theology has outlived the initial shock, and, in the movement stemming from Karl Barth, has learned to understand eschatology existentially from within. Thus Jesus, rather than becoming a liability to modern theology, has become the inescapable factor forcing almost every modern theology into some positive relationship to eschatology. Jesus’ theology is anything but irrelevant or meaningless for theological thought today. It is clear that neither of the most striking conclusions of Schweitzer’s work was such as to explain why the quest of the historical Jesus came largely to an end a generation or more ago.

The real cause behind the end of the quest is to be found in a series of basic shifts which were taking place in New Testament scholarship at the opening of the century. These shifts when taken together formed a decisive cleft between nineteenth- and twentieth-century scholarship, and indicated the impossibility and illegitimacy of the quest of the historical Jesus. It is to these factors that we consequently turn.

C. The Sources and the ‘Impossibility’ of the Original Quest

The possibility of the original quest resided primarily in its view of the oldest sources as the same kind of objective, positivistic historiography which the nineteenth century itself aspired to write. The basic reorientation consisted in the discovery that the Gospels are the devotional literature of the primitive Church, rather than the products of scholarship. Thus the function which the tradition about Jesus performed in the life and worship of the Church came to be recognized as the organizing principle in the formation of the individual stories and sayings, and in the formation of the Gospels themselves. This insight, already at home in Old Testament research, was carried over to the New Testament by Wellhausen. The Gospels are primary sources for the history of the early Church, and only secondarily sources for the history of Jesus. Consequently the Siz im Leben of each tradition must be first identified, as the key to the direction in which the tradition would be inclined to develop. Only by discounting this tendency can one then hope to disengage the oldest level in the tradition, and thus come to speak about Jesus of Nazareth in distinction from the Church’s kerygmatic presentation of him. This basic methodological insight was implemented by the results of detailed analysis: William Wrede demonstrated that Mark is not writing with the objectivity or even the interests of a modern historian, but rather as a theologian of the ‘Messianic secret’. Karl Ludwig Schmidt demonstrated that the order of events in the Gospels is not based upon a memory of the order of Jesus’ public ministry inherent in the material, but rather is largely the contribution of the redactional process, which assembled unrelated stories, sayings, and small individual collections for devotional purposes, and then arranged them topically or theologically without any serious interest in chronology or geography. The basic theses of these works have not been disproved, and therefore must continue to be presupposed in current scholarship conversant with them.

It is often assumed that the original quest came to an end in Germany because of the rise of form criticism. Since form criticism has been widely rejected in the English-speaking world, the inference is readily drawn that the original quest can properly continue untroubled. However the basic assumption is in error. It was not form criticism, but rather the revolution in the generation preceding form criticism, which brought the original quest to an end. Form criticism was an outstanding attempt to implement some of those insights, but they themselves are more basic and have proved to be more lasting that has form criticism itself.

The form critic conjectured that one way to identify the Sitz im Leben of the gospel tradition would be to classify the material on purely formal grounds, and then to identify the function in the Church’s life responsible for the rise of each identified form. This procedure is methodologically sound, but did not in practice arrive at ultimately conclusive results. This was due to the indistinctness of the formal structure of much of the material, and the difficulty of making a clear correlation between formal tendencies and their setting in the Church’s life. Consequently when the form critics came to discuss the historicity of the gospel tradition, a question for which their method was at best only indirectly relevant, they tended to arrive at the conclusion which their general orientation suggested, rather than a conclusion which form criticism as such required. Thus their views as to the material’s historicity ranged from the more conservative position of Albertz to the mediating position of Dibelius and the radical position of Bultmann. A second consequence of the inconclusiveness of the results of form criticism is that the mention of their ‘forms’ has largely passed out of the scholarly discussion of gospel passages, even in Germany. Thus one may say that form criticism, as applied to the gospel tradition, has to a large extent passed out of vogue. Yet it is all the more striking that the basic orientation with regard to the Gospels, of which form criticism was but one manifestation, continues as the basis of twentieth-century scholarship.

This basic reorientation is to the effect that all the tradition about Jesus survived only in so far as it served some function in the life and worship of the primitive Church. History survived only as kerygma. It is this insight which reversed our understanding of the scholar’s situation with regard to the relation of factual detail and theological interpretation in the gospels. If the nineteenth century presupposed the detailed historicity of the Synoptic Gospels except where ‘doctrinal tampering’ was so obvious as to be inescapable (they had in mind such things as ‘Paulinisms’ and the miraculous), the twentieth century presupposes the kerygmatic nature of the Gospels, and feels really confident in asserting the historicity of its details only where their origin cannot be explained in terms of the life of the Church.’ In the nineteenth century the burden of proof lay upon the scholar who saw theological interpolations in historical sources; in the twentieth century the burden of proof lies upon the scholar who sees objective factual source material in the primitive Church’s book of common worship. The result is obvious: the burden of proof has shifted over to the person who maintains the possibility of the quest. This situation does not necessitate the further inference that such a quest is impossible; but it does explain how such a position seemed from a scholarly point of view ‘safest’, easiest to defend.

D. The Kerygma and the ‘Illegitimacy’ of the Original Quest

If we wished to summarize in one word these considerations which led to the view that the quest was impossible, we could speak of the discovery of the kerygma at the centre of the Gospels. It is only here that we reach the unifying factor in all the elements bringing the quest to an end. For as a matter of fact the discovery of the kerygma had an even more pervasive effect upon our problem than has been stated thus far. The kerygma came gradually to be recognized as the centre not only of the Gospels, but also of primitive Christianity itself. Furthermore it has increasingly come to replace the theological centrality of the ‘historical Jesus’ in leading theological systems of our day. It was this rise of the kerygma to the centre of our understanding of primitive Christianity, and to the normative position in contemporary theology, which was the underlying cause for questioning even the legitimacy of the original quest. It is this second aspect of the role of the kerygma in the problem of the historical Jesus which still remains to be examined in some detail.

If the nineteenth-century view of history found its meaningful expression in ‘the historical Jesus’, the twentieth century has found its approach to history already anticipated in the kerygma. We have already noted how the positivistic understanding of history as consisting of brute facts gave way to an understanding of history centring in the profound intentions, stances, and concepts of existence held by persons in the past, as the well-springs of their outward actions. Historical methodology shifted accordrngly from a primary concern for recording the past ‘wie es cigentlich gewesen’, i.e. cataloguing with objective detachment facts in sequence and with proper casual relationships. Instead, the historian’s task was seen to consist in understanding those deep-lying intentions of the past, by involving one’s selfhood in an encounter in which one’s own intentions and views of existence are put in question, and perhaps altered or even radically reversed. Now the kerygma is formally analogous to this new approach to the historian’s task, for it consists in an initial understanding of the deeper meaning of Jesus. Therefore the kerygma, rather than brute facts of Jesus’ external biography, was identified as our primary historical source for understanding his meaning. Of course this does not mean that the historian automatically accepts the kerygma as the correct interpretation of Jesus’ meaning, for it, like any other interpretation, is subject to critical reexamination. But it does mean that we have moved beyond the initial conclusion that the kerygmatized Gospels are incompatible with the historian’s objectives, to the recognition that they in their way are doing something similar to what the modern historian in his way would like to do.

Just as the kerygma provided a rapprochement to the current view of history and historiography, it also provided the unifying factor between the twentieth-century reconstruction of primitive Christianity and its own systematic theological reflection. This becomes apparent when one scans the interrelated course of New Testament research and systematic thought in this century. The century opened with the older generation still following the Ritschlian approach to God in terms of ethical idealism,’ and to Jesus as the historical fact exemplifying that ideal. However Ritschlianism was already giving way to the religionsgeschichtliche Schule, whose philosophy of religion centred in a decided preference for cultic experience over ethical action, and whose historical reconstruction saw primitive Christianity orientated like other Hellenistic religions to the cult’s dying and rising Lord, rather than to the Jesus of the Sermon on the Mount. This school combined its theological and historical positions into the normative statement that Christianity centres in a numinous experience of the dying and rising Lord, not in the ethical experience of the historical Jesus. Christ the Lord is the cult symbol of Christianity, but it would be an instance of the genetic fallacy to concern oneself with problems related to the historical origin of that symbol, i.e. its relation to the historical Jesus.

Between the wars the religionsgeschichtlich Schule faded away, and its historical reconstruction underwent a transformation in terms of more current theological orientations. The emphasis of comparative religion on the point that primitive Christianity centred in a dying and rising divinity was subsequently transformed, for instance by C. H. Dodd, into the emphasis on the point that the original kerygma had at its centre Christ’s death and resurrection. And under Barthian influence, Rudolf Otto’s ‘numinous’ experience of the tremendum and fascinans was clarified as an existential encounter with the proclamation of Jesus’ death and resurrection, i.e. as judgement and grace.’ Thus the kerygma became recognized as central in both senses of the term: as the content of the message and as the act of pteaching.

These two aspects of the term correspond respectively to the contemporary historical reconstruction of primitive Christianity and to the normative centre of contemporary theology, so that the term kerygma comes to represent the unifying element in the contemporary situation: historically speaking, the central content of primitive Christian preaching was God’s eschatological action centring in the saving event of cross and resurrection. Theologically speaking, this saving event proclaimed by the kerygma shows itself to be eschatological precisely by recurring in the proclamation of the kerygma itself: the act of proclaiming Jesus’ death and resurrection becomes God’s act calling upon me to accept my death and receive resurrected life.’ Believing the witness about God’s past action in Christ coincides with the occurrence of this divine action in my present life. Herein resides the unity of God’s action in history, and ultimately the meaningfulness of the Trinity. Thus both as witness to past event and as experience of present event, the kerygma is central in primitive Christianity and contemporary theology. It is for this reason that the kerygma has become a whole unified theological position which has just as nearly swept the field in twentieth-century theology as did the theology of the historical Jesus in the nineteenth century.

The historian’s detection of the kerygma at the centre of the Gospels found a formal analogy in the contemporary view of historiography as concerned with underlying meaning, and this correlation led to the view that the kind of quest of the historical Jesus envisaged by the nineteenth century not only cannot succeed, but is hardly appropriate to the intention of the Gospels and the goal of modern historiography. The theologian’s recognition that the kerygma provides the normative pattern of contemporary religious experience also found a formal analogy in the contemporary view of existence, and it is this correlation which gave impetus to the view that the kind of quest which the nineteenth century envisaged ought not to succeed.

Christianity began with the call of the eschatological kerygma to break with the ‘present evil aeon’ and to commit oneself existentially to the ‘aeon to come’, which has drawn so near as to be already the horizon of present existence (e.g. Matt. 4.17; Rom. 11.2). God’s judgement upon this world must be accepted as God’s judgement upon myself, while the kingdom breaking in and destroying the present evil aeon is accepted as the grace of God in my life. Thus the kerygma proclaims the death in which resides life (Mark 8.35), a kerygma incarnated in Jesus and therefore shifting terminologically from Jesus’ own eschatological message into the Church’s christological kerygma: this death in which life resides is Jesus’ death, and becomes available only in dying and rising with him. This meant for the earliest disciples a basic renunciation of the struggle for existence, implemented by a complete break with the power structure of society: the automatic prerogatives of the chosen people, the security of the holy tradition, the comfort of established religious organization and clergy -- all such props, controlled by man and as a result constantly available to him for securing his existence, were in principle eliminated. Judaism’s ‘confidence in the flesh’ was revealed as the basic rebellion of the homo religiosus against God (e.g. Phil. 3; Rom. 10.3). Man must build his existence upon that which is beyond his control and available only as God’s gift (ubi et quando visum est deo), upon a world which is transcendent by being basically future, and present only as the eschatological miracle, the gift of transcendence. Thus ‘faith’, the pattern of contemporary religious experience which is to relate us to God through Christ, cannot by its very nature be built upon ‘the present evil aeon’, with all that it provides of worldly security under man’s control and invariably at his disposal; by definition ‘faith’ is the life given in death, and consequently has its basis beyond our control, is lived out of the future, is ‘an act of faith’.

Now it became increasingly clear that ‘the historical Jesus’, the scholarly reconstruction of Jesus’ biography by means of objective historical method, was just such an attempt to build one’s existence upon that which is under man’s control and invariably at his disposal. The historical Jesus as a proven divine fact is a worldly security with which the homo relgiosus arms himself in his effort to become self-sufficient before God, just as did the Jew in Paul’s day by appeal to the law. Whereas the kerygma calls for existential commitment to the meaning of Jesus, the original quest was an attempt to avoid the risk of faith by supplying objectively verified proof for its ‘faith’. To require an objective legitimization of the saving event prior to faith is to take offence at the offence of Christianity and to perpetuate the unbelieving flight to security, i.e. the reverse of faith. For faith involves the rejection of worldly security as righteousness by works. Thus one has come to recognize the worldliness of the ‘historicism’ and ‘psychologism’ upon which the original quest was built. To this extent the original quest came to be regarded as theologically illegitimate.

The classical document for this radical shift in the theological appraisal of the quest is the debate in 1923 between Harnack and Barth. For Harnack, the ‘content of the gospel’ consisted in concepts which must be disengaged from the historical ambiguities of the Bible and then grasped intellectually, a task which can only be performed by ‘historical knowledge and critical reflection’. This same rationalistic approach to the gospel was applied to the believer’s knowledge of Jesus: ‘If the person of Jesus Christ stands at the centre of the gospel, how can the basis for a reliable and communal knowledge of this person be gained other than through critical historical study, if one is not to trade a dreamed-up Christ for the real one? But how is this study to be made except by scholarly theology?’ To this Barth replied: ‘The reliability and communal nature of the knowledge of the person of Jesus Christ as the centre of the gospel can be no other than the reliability and communal nature of the faith awakened by God. Critical historical study signifies the deserved and necessary end of those ‘bases’ of such knowledge which are no bases since they are not laid by God himself. The man who does not yet know (and that still means all of us) that we know Christ no longer according to the flesh, can learn it from critical biblical scholarship: the more radically he is shocked, the better it is both for him and for the cause. And this may then perhaps be the service which "historical knowledge" can perform for- the real task of theology.’ Barth’s basic position was that the ‘theme of theology’ is ‘God’s revelation’, rather than any given concepts in the history of ideas. Consequently the fundamental role of historical critical scholarship would be quite different from that which Harnack conceived it to be: ‘Historical knowledge could then of course say that the communicating of the "content of the gospel", at least according to its own statement, can be carried out only by an action of this "content" himself. "Critical reflection" could lead to the result that this statement made by the gospel is based in the nature of the case (the relation between God and man), and consequently is to be seriously respected.’ Bultmann’ promptly shifted away from liberalism to the position of Barth, and the rejection of the quest on theological grounds gradually became a commonplace of contemporary theology.

Now the theological considerations leading to the rejection of the original quest as illegitimate correspond formally to the general pattern of existentialistic thought in our day. For existentialism usually conceives of inauthentic existence as man’s attempt to avoid the ‘awful freedom’ of his historicity, and to find security in his human nature, which is understood quite rationalistically: the individual is a particular, comfortably subsumed under a universal. Inauthentic existence is a life built upon conformity, the herd instinct, the tradition, that which is objectively available and controllable. The original quest was thus one way of implementing such a proclivity toward inauthentic existence.

This is not to say that authentic existence as understood by existentialism is materially the same as eschatological existence, but only that there is a formal analogy. For both viewpoints authentic existence is selfhood constituted by commitment, and consists in constant engagement. The nature of the commitment can vary as sharply as do Faust and Jesus; the ‘world’ in which one is engagé can vary as radically as do ‘the present evil aeon’ and the kingdom of God. The formal analogy affects the substance at only one point: a Christian content without the form of commitment and engagement becomes a this-worldly Christendom at ease in Zion, a dead orthodoxy, a white-washed tomb, a tinkling cymbal, and ceases really to be the Christian content. A Jesus whose role is established in terms of this world is not the eschatological Messiah transcending this world.

This formal analogy between Christian existence and existentialism draws attention to another aspect of ‘historicism’ which is theologically illegitimate. Sometimes historical critical scholars absolutized their method of objectivity into a permanent avoidance of existential encounter with the history they were supposedly studying. But existentialism insists that one should be engagé, with one’s whole selfhood at stake, in the ‘world’ in which one moves. And the kerygma calls for a total encounter with the person of Jesus, in which the self is put in radical decision. Therefore it can only regard as illegitimate a scholarly career which becomes in the long run no more than a distracting fascination with historical details about Jesus, details which may occupy the memory, move the emotions, prod the conscience, or stimulate the intellect, but fail to put the self in radical decision. This insight in no sense invalidated the role of detailed and exacting research. But it did mean that the historian’s personal authenticity could not be found in increasingly narrowed specialization; rather this came to be recognized as an escape mechanism in a situation where one’s research had actually become existentially meaningless. Thus both forms which the historical study of Jesus took at the opening of the century -- the attempt to prove historically his absoluteness, and the ultimate lack of interest in him as a possible understanding of one’s own existence, came to be recognized as illegitimate. In each of these various ways the temper of our day united with the course of theological and historical reflection to bring the quest of the historical Jesus to an end.

List of Abbreviations

List of Abbreviations:

BZ, n.F. Biblische Zeitschrift, neuc Folge

ChrW Die Christliche Welt

EvTh Evan.gelische Theologie

ExpT The Expository Times

GuT"
Rudolf Bultmann, Glauben und Verstehen,

Vol. I, 1933. (Vol. II, 1932, is cited from the

Engl tr., Essays Philosophical and Theological,

195
5.)

JBL Journal of Biblical Literature

JTS,
n.s. Journal of Theologital Studies, new series

KD
Karl Barth, Kirchliche Dogmatik, 1932 ff.

KuD Kerygma und Dogma

KuM Kerygma und Mythos,
ed. H. W. Bartsch,

1948-55

RGG Die Relgion in Geschichte mid Gegenwart

SgV Sammlung gemeinverständlicher Vorträge

STK Svennk Teologisk Kvartalskrift

TB Theologische Blätter

TLZ Theologische Literaturzeitung


TR, n.F. Theologische Rundschau, neue Folge

TZ Theologische Zeitschrift

TWNT Tbeologisches Wörterbuch zum Neuen Testament

V/uF Verkündigung und Forschung

ZNTW Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissen-

schaft

ZTK Zeitschrift Theologie und Kirche

Chapter 1. Introduction

[Editor's Note: The extensive footnotes for these chapters are omitted. They are available only in the printed copy.]

A. The ‘Bultmannian’ Epoch in German Theology

The present work is intended as a programmatic essay, i.e. as a contribution to basic thought about the unfulfilled task of New Testament scholarship. Hence its point of departure is not in the relatively untroubled and uninterrupted quest of the historical Jesus going on in French’ and Anglo-Saxon scholarship. Rather it is based upon the conviction that this continuation of the nineteenth-century German quest ought probably to be interrupted or at least disturbed. The present study has to do with a quite different kind of quest based upon new premises, procedures and objectives, a quest which may well succeed in a way the other did not. For a new and promising point of departure has been worked out by precisely those scholars who are most acutely aware of the difficulties of the previous quest.’ As a matter of fact this new development is recognized in its full significance only when one observes that it forms a central thrust in a second, ‘post-Bultmannian’ phase of post-war German theology.

Clearly the first phase of post-war German theology was the rise of the Buitmannian position to the centre of debate. The cumulative weight of Bultmann’s prodigious career, focused into the concrete programme of demythologizing, burst like a meteor into the void caused by the attrition of the Nazi ideology, the war and post-war collapse, and the passing of such leading New Testament scholars as Lietzmann, Büchsel, Behm, von Soden, Lohmeyer, Kittel, Dibelius, and Schniewind. Such pupils of Bultmann as Ernst Käsemann (Tülbingen), Günther Bornkamm (Heidelberg), Ernst Fuchs (Marburg), Erich Dinkler (Bonn), and Hans Conzelmann (Göttingen) have proven sufficiently distinguished to rise into the leading professorial positions, and a theological affinity to Gogarten and Tillich has provided a broad theological context. Bultmann himself provided a pre-established rapprochement with the dominant cultural trend in Germany centring in the existentialism of Martin Heidegger. His own monumental Theology of the New Testament provided the theological synthesis of the day, as did Barth’s Romans a generation ago, and Harnack’s What is Christianity? at the turn of the century. Consequently Germany is just as nearly ‘Bultmannian’ today as it was ‘Barthian’ a generation ago, ‘Ritschlian’ half a century or more ago, and ‘Hegelian’ still earlier; and Bultmann’s works and ideas have become Germany’s dominant theological export throughout the world.

One might well expect that the result of this first post-war phase would be a period of Bultmannian scholasticism. Instead we seem to be entering a new phase characterized by a critical restudy of the Bultmannian position by his leading pupils -- itself a rare tribute to the spirit of free and critical scholarship represented by Bultmann. This second phase of post-war German theology may be designated as ‘post-Buitmannian’ in the stricter sense:

led by outstanding pupils of Bultmann, it is based upon a thorough appreciation of the achievements of Bultmann’s brilliant career, and could not have taken place without those achievements. Yet it sees its task as that of carrying through a critical revision of Bultmann’s position, out of which revision the theological synthesis of the future will grow. The first part of this new programme to get seriously under way is with regard to the problem of the historical Jesus.

B. The ‘Post-Bultmannian’ Quest of the Historical Jesus

The German repudiation of the quest of the historical Jesus at the opening of the century found its definitive crystallization in the scholarship of Rudolf Bultmann. His form-critical research tended to confirm the view that such a quest is impossible, and his existential theology carried through the thesis that such a quest is illegitimate. Therefore it is not surprising that the critical restudy of his position by his pupils should begin here.

The discussion was formally opened in 1953 by Ernst Käsemann, who presented an address to a meeting of ‘old Marburgers’ (i.e. Bultmannians) on ‘The Problem of the Historical Jesus’.’ He moved beyond a recognition of the validity of much of Bultmann’s position, to argue that since something can be known about the historical Jesus, we must concern ourselves with working it Out, if we do not wish ultimately to find ourselves committed to a mythological Lord. The crucial issue is identified in ‘the question as to the continuity of the gospel in the discontinuity of the times and the variation of the kerygma’, i.e. whether the proclamation of the exalted Lord through the Church is in some kind of recognizable continuity with the preaching of the historical Jesus, and consequently whether the exalted Lord is in continuity with Jesus of Nazareth.

Käsemann’s move toward reopening the quest of the historical Jesus has met with a rapid and largely favourable response from the various segments of German-language theology. Traditionally conservative theology has inherited liberalism’s original position with regard to the historical Jesus. It is therefore not surprising to find Käsemann’s view advocated by spokesmen for Roman Catholicism, Scandinavian theology, and non-Bultmanman Germans. And the new quest has found the support of Joachim Jeremias, who perhaps more than any other is the custodian of the heritage of detailed and exacting philological, environmental research about Jesus, which is perhaps the most permanent contribution of the original quest. Furthermore, in typical German style, the current discussion has produced a doctoral dissertation, a contribution by a non-theologian,’ a discussion of the discussion, and an extremist who clearly went too far. Certainly the most significant aspect of the continuing discussion is the response of leading representatives from the predominant Bultmannian and Barthian segments of German theology.

Käsemann’s initial proposal of a new quest arose from the problem of the relation of Jesus’ .message to the Church’s kerygma. This was soon followed from the Bultmannian side by a parallel proposal on the part of Ernst Fuchs, who concentrated upon Jesus’ conduct as ‘the real context of his preaching’. ‘What did Jesus do? We said he celebrated the eschatological meal with tax-gatherers and sinners (Matt. 11.19 par.), and we designated precisely this meal as the act of goodness supplied in advance to them all by Jesus. This means: Jesus forwent the publication of his own private eschatological experiences; rather he determined only to draw the consequences from them and to begin here on earth with the work of God visible only in heaven! This is why he celebrates his meal. It is just this that is Jesus’ real deed.’ What is here said of the eschatological meals open to all is then generalized to an interpretation of Jesus’ conduct as a whole: ‘This conduct is neither that of a prophet nor that of a sage, but rather the conduct of a man who dares to act in God’s stead, by (as must always be added) calling near to him sinners who apart from him would have to flee from God.’ This conduct, maintaining that God’s will is a gracious will, by implication also claims to be divine action, and it was this claim latent in Jesus’ conduct which led to opposition and to his death (Mark 3.6).

When Fuchs comes to Jesus’ message, he presents it as dependent upon Jesus’ action. For this view Fuchs appeals to the parables, which were often spoken in the setting of the eschatological meals: ‘Jesus supplied his disciples with the interpretation of his parabolic language by an act of goodness.’ ‘It is consequently not the case, that first the parable clarifies Jesus’ conduct -- although Jesus makes use of it in defence of himself; rather it is the other way around: Jesus’ conduct explains the will of God with a parable which can be read Out of his conduct.’ Thus in Jesus’ mouth the parables are ‘a witness to himself’, and ‘apply primarily to our relation to Jesus himself’. This approach to the parables is then generalized into an approach to all Jesus’ teaching: ‘For if we see this aright, then it is to be expected that certainly Jesus’ words . . . generally reflect his conduct historically.’ ‘Jesus wishes only to be understood on the basis of his decision, his deed.’ This concentration in Jesus’ teaching upon his action made it possible for the disciples to conceive of his death also as divine action, which in turn led to the primitive Christian sacraments as custodians of ‘Jesus’ understanding of himself’. Thus Fuchs has carried through with regard to Jesus’ action the same thesis which Käsemann presented with regard to his message: in the message and action of Jesus is implicit an eschatological understanding of his person, which becomes explicit in the kerygma of the primitive Church.

The initiative of Käsemann and Fuchs in proposing a new quest of the historical Jesus has produced its first tangible results in the appearance in 1956 of Gunther Bornkamm’s monograph Jesus of Nazareth. This is the first book on the historical Jesus to issue from the Bultmannian school since Bultmann’s own Jesus and the Word appeared thirty years earlier. However the impetus provided by the proposal of a new quest is not only evident in the very fact that Bornkamrn’s book appeared, but is also evident in its distinctive divergences from Bultmann’s own traditional presentation. For these divergences express the newly awakened concern for the message and conduct of Jesus in their relation to the kerygma.

Bornkamm does not focus his presentation on Jesus’ ‘word’, as did Bultmann, but concerns himself as well with the events of Jesus’ life, as did Fuchs. In addition to chapters on Jesus’ disciples (Ch. VI) and his final journey to Jerusalem (Ch. VII), Bornkamm risks an introductory chapter which collects whatever general biographical information is available about Jesus into what amounts to a personality sketch. The significance of this chapter (III) lies in its attempt to describe the human impression Jesus made upon people in a way clearly suggestive of the meaning Jesus has for faith, as if a human contact with Jesus were -- at least potentially -- an encounter with the kerygma.

Buttressed by the context of Jesus’ conduct, Bornkamm’s presentation of Jesus’ message diverges from Bultmann’s typical emphasis upon the future, of which Jesus’ action in the present were but a sign calling for decision. Instead, a primary emphasis falls upon the present: ‘Unmediated presence is always the characteristic of Jesus’ words, appearance and action, within a world which . . . had lost the present, since it lived . . . between past and future, between traditions and promises or threats’ (58). This is not to say that Bornkamm has moved to the position of ‘realized eschatology’ (91); rather he sees (with Bultmann) the tension between future and present as inherent in the involvement of the imperative in the indicative, i.e. inherent in the historical understanding of the self. But it does mean that he emphasizes more clearly than has been customary for Bultmann the continuity between Jesus’ message and the Church’s kerygma.

Bultmann’s classical distinction between Jesus and Paul had been: What for Jesus is future is for Paul past and present, since the shift of aeons separates them, so that Jesus preached the law and the promise, while Paul preached the gospel.’ This has become in Bornkamm the distinction between John the Baptist and Jesus. John is the ‘sentinel at the frontier between the aeons’ (51); the difference between John and Jesus is that ‘between eleventh and twelfth hour’ (67); and ‘the contemporizing of this reality of God is the real mystery of Jesus’ (62). Therefore Bornkamm’s discussion of the messianic problem (Ch. VIII) does not confine itself to the view (shared with Bultmann) that Jesus made no claims to messianic titles, but goes on to explain the absence of any such special topic in Jesus’ teaching by the view that ‘the "messianic" aspect of his being is enclosed in his word and act, and in the unmediatedness of his historical appearance’ (178). This leads to a final chapter (IX: ‘Jesus Christ’) in which a continuity between the historical Jesus and the Church’s kerygma is sketched. In the Easter experience the disciples were assured ‘that God himself had intervened with almighty hand in the wicked and rebellious activity of the world, and had snatched this Jesus of Nazareth from the power of sin and death which had risen up against him, and installed him as Lord of the world.’ Easter ‘is thus at the same time the inbreaking of the new world of God into this old world branded by sin and death, the setting up and beginning of his reign. . . . We note how here Jesus’ own message of the coming reign of God rings out again in new form, only that he himself with his death and resurrection has now entered into this message and become its centre’ (183 f.). Here it is clear that Jesus’ eschatological message, including his eschatological interpretation of his own conduct, has been continued in christological terms by the Easter faith and the Christian kerygma.

Hans Conzelmann has united these various lines of development into a unified view of Jesus’ eschatology and his person, in which christology replaces chronology as the basic meaning of Jesus’ message: the kingdom which Jesus proclaims is future, but the ‘interim’ is of no positive significance to him. Rather Jesus confronts man with an unmediated and consequently determmative encounter with the kingdom. This is the common significance of various themes which when taken literally could be contradictory: the nearness of the kingdom, the suddenness of its coming, and Jesus himself as the last sign. None of this is meant by Jesus temporally, but only existentially. Although the nearness is presented temporally, its ‘meaning lies in qualifying the human situation in view of the coming of the kingdom’. Predictions of coming reward and punishment, like the present beatitudes and woes, represent the alternatives of salvation or lostness involved in one’s present situation. Hence Jesus’ message of salvation and his call for repentance ‘form together the absolute determination of human existence’.

Put the other way round, ‘existing means nothing more than comprehending the signs’, i.e. Jesus’ action. If Jesus’ eschatology seems intentionally to ignore time, this is only because it intentionally centres in his person. He ‘connects the hope of salvation with his person to the extent that he sees the kingdom effective in his deeds and understands his preaching as the last word of God before the end.’ Thus his eschatology involves an ‘indirect’ christology: ‘If the kingdom is so near that it casts this shadow, then the "observer" no longer has it before him, in the sense that he could still observe it from a certain distance; rather is he at that instant fully claimed. Jesus does not give a new answer to the question "When ?" -- in that case he would still be an apocalypticist -- , but rather he supersedes this question as such.’

C. Bultmann’s Shift in Position

Certainly anyone who has followed this ‘post-Bultmannian’ development within Germany cannot fail to wonder how Bultmann himself reacts to this trend, a trend which certainly diverges from the ‘classical’ Bultmannian position, but which nonetheless works largely upon Bultmannian presuppositions and can in fact appeal to an undercurrent in Bultmann’s writings which already moves in this direction.’ It is therefore quite significant that a recent article by Bultmann seems to be by implication a defence of Ksemarm’s position against an initial criticism by the Barthian Hermann Diem: Diem had maintained that when all is said and done Käsemann has presented Jesus as only proclaiming ‘general religious and moral truths’ about ‘the freedom of the children of God’, rather than a message in continuity with the Church’s kerygma. For Käsemann doubts that Jesus claimed to be Son of Man and says instead: ‘Jesus came . . . to say how things stand with the kingdom that has dawned, namely that God has drawn near man in grace and requirement. He brought and lived the freedom of the children of God, who remain children and free only so long as they find in the Father their Lord.’

Bultmann points Out that eternal truths, when used in concrete proclamation, can become historical encounter. Already in this sense he recognizes that Jesus’ teachings were used by the primitive Church as kerygmatic proclamation of the exalted Lord: ‘One can hardly object that Jesus’ preaching was after all not Christian preaching, on the grounds that Christian preaching proclaims him, but was not proclaimed by him. Even if here we completely ignore the question, in what sense Jesus’ preaching could perhaps after all be designated a hidden or secret Christian preaching, in any case his preaching was taken up into Christian preaching and became a part of the proclamation in which the Proclaimed is at the same time present as the Proclaimer’ (246). However this is a purely formal use of Jesus’ teachings, just as many ‘general truths’ can be used in concrete proclamation. Bultmann recognizes that the problem of the relation of Jesus’ teaching to the Church’s kerygma -- i.e. the by-passed question of the sense in which Jesus’ preaching is Christian -- goes deeper. ‘This does not yet make it clear why the Proclaimer necessarily became the Proclaimed, unless it could be shown that Jesus’ preaching of the law was differentiated from every other preaching of the law by being at the same time the proclamation of God’s grace, which not only assumes freedom, but also grants it’ (253).

At this point those accustomed to Bultmann’s earlier distinction of Jesus from Paul in terms of law and gospel,’ and his subsequent classification of Jesus within Judaism2 as only a presupposition of New Testament theology, would expect him simply to repeat that position. But instead, he lays hold of Fuchs’ concept of Jesus’ conduct as God’s goodness in action, and comes to the conclusion that Jesus’ message is after all grace, i.e. ‘after all a hidden or secret Christian preaching’: ‘Such calls for decision as Matt. 11.6; Luke 12.8 f., are, by calling for decision with regard to his person, at the same time words of promise, of grace: it is at this very moment that the gift of freedom is offered to the hearer. If the one who calls for decision is the "glutton and drunkard, the friend of tax collectors and sinners" (Luke 7.34f.; Matt. 11.19), does this not mean that he who proclaims the radical requirement of God at the same time speaks the word of grace? If the tax collectors and harlots enter the kingdom of God before the officially "righteous" (Matt. 21.31), then it is because those who understand God’s requirement are those who have received grace. And when the condition runs: "Whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it" (Mark 10.15), then certainly the condition contains at the same time the assurance of grace’ (254). Bultmann himself seems to have adjusted to the ‘post-Bultmannian’ move of his pupils at least with regard to grace in the historical Jesus and the kerygma.

When we apply this position to Diem’s original criticism of Käsemann, that the latter presented Jesus as only teaching general truths rather than the kerygma, it becomes clear that Diem has overlooked the crucial point: Käsemann went beyond the view that Jesus taught God’s fatherhood and man’s freedom, to the assertion that ‘God has drawn near man in grace and requirement,’ and Jesus ‘brought and lived the freedom of the children of God’. Between the false alternatives of ‘just general truths’ or ‘explicit claims to messianic titles’ there lies in Jesus’ public ministry a whole area of eschatological action accompanied by theological commentary which Diem overlooked, and wherein resides both the historical and the theological point of departure for the Church’s kerygma, and thus the crucial area of research for a new quest of the historical Jesus.

D. The Barthian Rapprochement

The movement we have sketched within the historical research of New Testament scholars largely under Bultmannian influence is to a certain extent parallel to the increasingly positive evaluation of history on the part of Karl Barth,’ and a reawakening concern for the historical Jesus on the part of systematic theologians closely associated with him.’ Perhaps the most significant instance of this trend is the shift of Hermann Diem from his initial attitude of considerable reserve to an acceptance of the basic position of Käsemann. Diem’s basic position is that the New Testamentn proclaims a Jesus Christ who proclaims himself. This history of the proclamation is the object of historical research in the New Testament which we seek, and which is the only legitimate object of such historical research according to the New Testament’s understanding of itself." But rather than implying by this, according to his original Barthian position, that one cannot enquire behind the evangelist’s message to that of Jesus, Diem now recognizes that ‘we must search back to that first phase of the history of the proclamation, the proclamation of the earthly Jesus himself’.’ For this historical question of the continuity of the proclamation from Jesus to the Church is recognized as the theological question as to whether the Church’s Lord is a myth. For Diem concedes that a negative answer to the historical question would ‘negatively prejudice’ the theological question as to the truth of the gospel. Consequently he concerns himself with the historical question sufficiently seriously to trace, in one instance, the term ‘Son of Man’ in the Gospels, the continuity between Jesus’ message and the Church’s witness: although Jesus may never have called himself Son of Man, he did say that acquittal by the Son of Man in the eschatological judgement was dependent upon one’s present relation to himself (Mark 8.38 par.). Thus the content of salvation is dependent on Jesus, and it was this which the Church explicated by attributing to him the title of bringer of salvation (i.e. the title Son of Man). Here Diem has clearly moved to the position of the advocates of the new quest, both by accepting -- in terms almost identical with those of Käsemann -- the theological validity of the new quest, and by adopting the basic method of the new quest, which consists in moving below the surface of terms and even concepts to the level of theological meaning and existential significance.

From this survey of current German discussion we may conclude that the proposal of a new quest of the historical Jesus. originally made within the context of the ‘post-Bultmannian’ direction of leading pupils of Bultmann, has broadened itself, not only in traditionally conservative circles, but also by support from the Barthian side as well as from Bultmann himself. A concentration of force seems to be in the making, which may well provide enough impetus to move beyond a mere proposal to a distinctive trait of theology during the coming generation.’

It is in this relatively propitious setting that the present work is presented, as a contribution to the new quest both by a clarification of its nature, and by an initial participation in the work of the new quest at a few significant points.

In order to enter into this discussion in such a way as to be able to make a fruitful contribution to it, it will be necessary (Ch. II) to recognize the degree of validity inherent in the arguments which brought the original quest to an end by pointing to its impossibility and illegitimacy. For only within the valid limits thus imposed can one seek in a relevant way (Ch. III) to define the sense in which a new quest may be possible, and to investigate (Ch. IV) the legitimacy of such a quest, i.e. the degree to which it is theologically permissible and necessary. Only then can one attempt (Ch. V) to get the actual work under way by laying hold of the central problem in terms of which the detailed research upon individual problems will gain its relevance.

Chapter 9: The Place of the Brain in an Ocean of Feelings by George Wolf

George Wolf was research professor in the department of Psychology at New York University, New York City, upon his death in 1983.

Some months ago, in the midst of working on this paper, I happened to run across Charles Hartshorne at a symposium. I asked him what had led him to write the Philosophy and Psychology of Sensation (PPS), his first book and the impetus for this paper. He answered by telling me a little story about how one day, as a young man, he stood on a cliff on the coast of France and beheld a scene of great natural beauty. Suddenly he saw "into the life of things" and at that moment gained a sense of all of nature being alive and expressing feelings. Hartshorne spent the next two decades trying to make sense of what he saw that day.

The book appeared in 1934. It presents a theory of experience -- the "doctrine of affective continuity" -- which tries to unite philosophic ideas and scientific knowledge about sensation. The theory proposes that each sensory quality, such as yellowness, or the taste of an apple, or the buzz of a bee, is composed of a particular combination of basic dimensions of feeling -- for example, intensity, pleasantness, proximity to self, and activity-passivity. Therefore, according to this theory, sensations differ in degree and not in kind. Hartshorne suggests that the theory is relevant to science in three ways. First, it accounts for the diverse qualities of experience in terms of a single idea -- all qualities are forms of feeling. Second, it is supported by experimental data in sensory psychology. Third, it has empirical implications that suggest new lines of experimentation.

The theory of affective continuity never received much attention from the scientific community. It was too phenomenological, speculative, and general to arouse scientific interest in an era dominated by behaviorism and positivism. But there are recent indications that the Zeitgeist may be changing, especially in the neural and behavioral sciences. Researchers like John Eccles and Roger Sperry are addressing the philosophical problems of mind and brain, and there is an increasing interest in theories of mental functions. This seems like a good time to revive Hartshorne’s pioneering endeavor to unite process cosmology and scientific research and see if we can advance it in the light of modern neurobehavioral research. I will try to begin this here.

I also have had experiences like Hartshorne’s that set me to wondering how we perceive the world and led me to both process thought and science. But whereas Hartshorne approached the problems of spanning these two modes of thought from a background in philosophy, I come to them from a background in science. I am interested in the consequences of adopting a framework of process cosmology for research in the neural and behavioral sciences. In this paper I will try to show that the world view of process cosmology is reasonable from the standpoint of ordinary mechanistic, reductionistic science. I will also discuss how process cosmology can enhance science by suggesting new interpretations of facts and raising new questions for research. In the first part of the paper I will evaluate the reasonableness of two central concepts of process cosmology -- concrescence and self-creation. In the second part I will discuss the usefulness of a process framework for scientific explanation and inquiry.1

Reasonableness

Of Concrescence

I stand on a high knoll in an apple orchard and look at a panoramic landscape that connects the bright red-and-green apple trees close by with vague, gray mountains in the distance. I’m struck by the incredible variety of forms and colors that I take in with a single glance. I find myself wondering, "How does all this fit inside my head?" It must be represented in my brain, bit for bit. And yet it’s not in my brain; it’s out there, big and bright. I can walk out there and touch each thing I see -- it would take days to get to those mountains.2

Process cosmology tries to make sense of this experience by means of the notion of concrescence. It asserts that my experience of the countryside is really out there where it seems to be. I am continuous with the countryside -- it is in my experience. According to the notion of concrescence, objective facts and subjective experiences are not really separate things but are mere abstractions. What is concretely real is the process by which diverse facts are united in an occasion of experience. Finally, concrescence includes not only the facts that I consciously perceive but all the facts that constitute the whole antecedent universe.3

Consider now the compatibility of concrescence with scientific facts and principles. First of all, how can we reconcile the idea that the countryside is contained in my experience with the scientific fact that there are photons and nerve impulses that intervene between the countryside and my experience of it? In fact this is not hard to do. To say that the countryside is contained in the experience does not mean that there is nothing between the two, it means that the countryside is contained within each of the intervening entities in much the same way that it is contained in my experience. Is this, in turn, compatible with scientific notions of causality?

A familiar model of a causal sequence which is often associated with science pictures each event as a link in a chain -- a separate thing distinctly located in space. In contrast, the notion of concrescence pictures each (elementary) event as a cone that opens endlessly into the past to include the whole antecedent universe within it. So a causal sequence is like a stack of time-cones. (To be more accurate, I should say that each cone is stacked on a bundle of innumerable cones because each actual occasion that it prehends is itself a cone.)

The chain model and the time-cone model of a causal sequence appear to be incongruous. But, it turns out that the chain model is, in fact, a less accurate representation of the scientific notion of causality than the time-cone model is. This is because there is a sense in which any particular event is dependent on every event in its causal past. For example, consider a particular event -- say lighting a match. This particular flame involves particular molecules of oxygen. If each of the molecules had not been just where it was, this flame would not have been just the flame it was. Now, if my understanding of statistical mechanics is correct, the chances are infinitesimally small that a given configuration of air molecules in the atmosphere would be just what it was if any configuration in its causal past had been even slightly different. If we Interpret this implication of statistical mechanics to mean that every past event is involved in each present event, then we are coming close to the meaning of concrescence.4

There is another way that concrescence might seem to be incongruent with science but, in fact, is not. If the whole world is involved in every concrescence, then what is the function of the sensory systems? In other words, why did special sense organs evolve if every organism can feel everything in the world anyway? No notion can be considered credible if it is out of line with the "golden thread of biology" -- the theory of natural selection.

We generally assume that primitive organisms are not sensitive to as many different kinds of stimuli as higher organisms are and that the sensory systems evolve to give organisms access to more and more types of stimuli. In the framework of process cosmology this can be interpreted differently. All organisms are sensitive to all possible stimuli right from the start (because all the data of the actual world are involved in every concrescence). But for primitive organisms the sensitivity is not differentiated and for higher organisms it is. The reason why the sensory systems evolve is to enhance the differentiation between stimuli that are relevant for life and those that are not. Each sensory system is like a special channel for a particular type of stimulus. Since there is an upper limit to how many data a finite organism can handle, opening a channel for one stimulus type automatically results in a filtering out or dampening of other types. In this interpretation the notion of concrescence is entirely in accordance with the evolution of the sensory systems.5

Now I want to turn to the meaningfulness of concrescence. Does it make sense? What does it mean to say that the universe is unified in each concrescence? The objective meaning seems fairly clear. Each event is the outcome of its entire causal past, and this can be understood in terms of statistical mechanics. But the subjective meaning is cloudy. I understand to some degree how the perceptible features of the world are unified in my experience. But how is the world beyond this countryside in my experience (not just the world behind the mountains but the imperceptible things between the mountains and me)? Perhaps I experience it unconsciously. But I’m not sure exactly what this means, and I have no good idea of the sense in which the unconscious experience is unified with what I experience consciously. Furthermore my experience of the countryside is supposed to be conveyed through the experiences of the intervening photons and neurons. Now, am I to believe that these entities experience the red apple that I see before me in the same way that I do? If not, then what is the relation between the redness I see and the object that I am looking at? I don’t know of any good answers to these questions. Still, the notion of concrescence does not strike me as so unreasonable when I consider the alternatives. For instance, if photons and neural impulses are really no more than what the textbooks say they are, then I have to believe that this bright, beautiful, panoramic experience miraculously arises out of insentient chemical reactions inside my brain. I wouldn’t accept this alternative for a minute.

Of Self-Creation

As I look over this countryside, I feel that I have some control over what I perceive and what I do with myself. I can look at the apple trees, or I can listen for the sound of bees, or I can sniff the scents of autumn in the breeze. I deliberate about whether to go back before it gets late or stay to watch the sunset. I can decide to be practical and go, or I can yield to my inclinations and carry on a while.

Traditional notions of causality only allow for two ways of accounting for my decisions -- either they are caused or they are uncaused. Insofar as they are caused, they are the inevitable outcomes of antecedent events. Insofar as they are uncaused, they are haphazard. Neither of these alternatives captures what I feel at this moment or accounts for the free agency that my everyday concerns presuppose.

Process cosmology has a different notion of causality -- the notion of self-creation. According to this notion, my impressions and presuppositions about my decisions pretty much reflect what is really going on. Self-creation incorporates both order and freedom in a single process. Also, self-creation is completely general; it is not limited to human decisions but is the basic process of all causality from subatomic events to social interactions. This sounds wonderful, but what is this notion exactly? Does it make sense in itself, and is it compatible with scientific thought?

Since it would take too much space to describe all that is involved in the notion of self-creation, I will focus only on the features that I find most problematic. It will be convenient to begin by considering whether the notion makes sense and then to consider its compatibility with science.

I will consider two problems concerning the sense of the notion. The first has to do with mind-body interaction and the second with temporal sequence. Self-creation is a subjective process that stands between every objective cause and objective effect. Objective causes constitute the data which are brought together by the self-creative act to form a new objective datum (the effect). This general idea is clear enough, but I do not have a clear idea of just how these transformations take place. Exactly how does a physical fact enter experience, and exactly how does experience become a physical fact? To answer this by saying that a physical fact is prehended into experience or that experience becomes a physical fact through concresence does not quite satisfy me. I do not mean to say that these technical terms have no explanatory value; they convey images that make a certain amount of sense to me. But they don’t get to the crux of what I want to know here -- I am still in the dark. Of course, I don’t really expect an entirely satisfactory answer to this question, because I agree with process cosmology that, after all, subject and object are merely abstractions from the concrete unity of the world process. This means that on the one hand no analysis of subject or object alone can be complete, and on the other hand the togetherness of the two in their full concreteness cannot be fully comprehended.

The second conceptual problem involves temporal sequence. In order for a decision to be free of the past but still be based on reasons rather than being merely haphazard, not all of the reasons for the decision can precede the decision in time. According to the notion of self-creation, the final reason for the decision is created by the decision itself. This is the essence of self-creation. But how can a cause follow its effect? The theory of epochal time was formulated to avoid this logical inconsistency. In this theory the act of self-creation takes place within an epoch of time which contains no temporal sequence. Now, it is not at all clear to me how one can conceive of a process of self-creation in which one thing "follows" another unless one thinks of it as a temporal sequence. It seems that the theory of epochal time involves a tradeoff of logical inconsistency for incomprehensibility. One might conclude that the temporal epoch is merely a kind of neat little black box for tucking away the ultimate paradoxes of freedom and causality. On the other hand, one might conclude that it is a better way of framing the problems of freedom and causality because the problems it solves are more significant than the ones it creates.

Let us go on to the question of whether the notion of self-creation conflicts with any scientific principles. It is obvious that self-creation is not compatible with strictly deterministic concepts of natural law. However, it is compatible with predictability of any degree short of perfection in any physical system from atom to man. Therefore it is entirely in accordance with probablistic concepts of natural law, and these are acceptable to many, if not most, scientists today.

On the other hand, self-creation seems to be discordant with the first law of thermodynamics. This is most apparent in the case of human behavior. Insofar as a decision is free, it must be independent of the ongoing flows of physical energy in the brain. But if the decision is not part of the flow, how does it affect that flow to produce a bodily action? Where does the energy come from? I discuss this problem and its theoretical and experimental implications in more detail elsewhere.6 All that needs to be added here is that, although this is a most serious problem, it is not necessarily incurable; after all, the laws of thermodynamics are open to reinterpretation.

Before drawing any conclusions from these analyses, I want to discuss briefly the validity of my criteria and norms of reasonableness. The criteria were (a) clarity, consistency, and completeness of meaning and (b) compatibility with scientific facts and principles. While these are presumably relevant criteria, I am not sure that adequately objective measures of them are possible. Certainly, they were applied rather informally in this study. Norms are also a problem. It is obvious that my norms for reasonableness here have been low compared to norms of ordinary scientific discourse. However, this seems appropriate if one accepts Whitehead’s distinction between speculative and scientific reasoning.7 The concreteness and generality of speculative notions such as self-creation and concrescence preclude the precision of meaning that is possible for abstract scientific notions such as homeostasis or momentum. Nevertheless, one might still judge the present norms as too low for any reasonable domain of discourse.

In view of these considerations, I will speak only for myself. The notions of self-creation and concrescence seem reasonable enough to me. Insofar as these notions embody the basic categories of process cosmology, the system as a whole should pass my test of reasonableness along with the notions. At the same time the problems inherent in these notions are bewildering. However, I believe that metaphysical presuppositions are inevitable in any form of inquiry, so we are stuck with notions like these whether we consider them reasonable or not. The question is whether the present notions are less reasonable than the conventional alternatives. My analysis thus far has convinced me that they are at least par for the course. For example, when I scrutinize, in the same way that I scrutinized the notion of self-creation, modern physical notions of what goes on when one billiard ball strikes another, and when I try to understand my sense of agency in terms of an admixture of physical causes and random happenings, I find myself just as bewildered -- and a little more forlorn.

Usefulness

For Explanation

I’m having a hard time getting myself to leave this lovely place. I muse over what this implies about my sense of agency. Suddenly, a bee interrupts my reveries. As it hovers before my eyes, insisting on itself, I find myself confronted by more limits upon my freedom. My eyes react like an electronic camera. As they focus on the bee, the apple trees I was just looking at dissolve into a blur.

Ordinary science can give a good account of involuntary reactions, such as focusing reflexes. Starting with the entry of the stimulus through the lens of the eye and progressing to the neural reflex mechanisms in the roof of the midbrain, it gives a step-by-step account of how a small moving object in the field of vision can cause a shift in the focus of attention. The account involves simple physical and logical principles such as those governing the focusing of a camera and the operation of a servomechanism in a computer.

For all practical purposes this kind of account is useful, informative, interesting, and complete. Additional information about my feelings and intentions is not relevant here. I am not asking questions about agency because I was not functioning as an agent; my attention seemed to shift itself, and my eyes focused reflexively. Therefore, my curiosity is pretty well satisfied by a purely mechanistic answer to my question.

Is there anything that process cosmology can add to this kind of explanation? It seems to me that as long as we are looking for practical knowledge about how aggregates work, and our criteria of understanding are based on prediction and control, we do not gain much from process thought. The language of science is tailor-made for talking about what aggregates do and how they do it.8 In contrast, the language of process cosmology does not seem very useful for talking about aggregates. The basic concepts of process cosmology are about individuals, and all explanations are in terms of prehensions of individuals. In a sense, process concepts should still be applicable to aggregates because aggregates are supposed to be composed of individuals at some level or another, and mechanistic functions are due to the coordinated acts of these individuals. But how could such an account be of any value to ordinary science?

I do not know how to investigate the prehensions of the constituent individuals involved in mechanical functions. All I can do is infer what the prehensions are from my scientific studies of the mechanistic functions. But then the process account seems superfluous. For instance, once I have determined the physical and chemical mechanisms of muscle contraction, an additional account in terms of subjective aims and physical prehensions that are manifested in the contractions of muscle cells does not add anything of practical value to my understanding. In fact, this additional account seems Incongruous with scientific method, for we are introducing unnecessary entities into our explanation and thus violating the principle of parsimony.

Still, I don’t see any reason to close the doors to further inquiry into the possible benefits of process concepts for scientific explanations. Maybe we will discover radically different ways to envision aggregate functions, ways that involve thinking in terms of populations of individuals acting in concert. I am not suggesting a return to primitive animistic notions but an advance to new forms of animistic explanation through process thought. For instance, Hartshorne has described the functions of aggregates of cells in terms of "waves of mob feeling." I think it is important to let ideas like this stimulate one’s imagination and to try to apply them to a variety of phenomena. Although it does not make much sense now, it is not inconceivable that we might find ways of understanding the operations of ordinary machines like, say, a diesel engine in terms of feelings of pressure, friction, fatigue, and so on in the constituent occasions. It might turn out that animistic interpretations informed by process thought will give us a richer understanding of how both organic and inorganic mechanisms work and lead to unique predictions and new methods of control.

Another door might be opened by the discovery of phenomena that do not fit neatly into the ordinary scientific scheme and can more easily be understood in terms of process concepts. We may be close to this in some areas of brain research. One of the most interesting phenomena that is currently being studied is the emergence of two separate individuals when the connections between the cerebral hemispheres are severed. The concepts of the theory of societies seem to apply particularly well to this phenomenon, and they may provide a better explanation of it than to ordinary scientific concepts. But all this is just conjecture, and the immediate fact is that there is no obvious way of enhancing scientific explanations with process concepts. In the meantime, I think it will be more fruitful to look elsewhere for the immediate value of process cosmology for neurobehavioral research.

For Inquiry

It’s beginning to be dawn on the knoll. I can make out the shapes of leaves and apples against the eastern sky. How do I know what these thing are? How do I prehend the shapes of aggregates? The data of prehensions are the objective features of individuals and nothing else. The shape of a leaf as a whole can’t very well be a feature of the individuals that make up the leaf. It must be that the leaf is part of an overarching individual so that the shape of the leaf is an objective feature of the overarching individual that I prehend. Maybe we are inside a cell. How can we find out?

Process cosmology raises new questions, and I believe that this is where its immediate value for scientific research lies -- it expands the range of inquiry. In the remainder of this paper I want to show how process concepts can give rise to new hypotheses, new areas of experimentation, and new methodologies. To illustrate the scope of the research implications, I will describe several different hypotheses and experiments that range from the ordinary to the extraordinary. Also, I will cover three diverse fields of research in the neural and behavioral sciences, namely, neuroanatomy, psychophysics, and comparative psychology. (See reference in note 6 for additional experiments in neurophysiology.)

I would like to begin by returning to the wealth of ideas for research that are suggested by Hartshorne’s speculations in PPS. For instance, the notion of affective continuity among the senses has implications for neuroanatomical research. Recall that Hartshorne proposes that all sensory qualities are composed of some combination of basic dimensions of feeling. This suggests several hypotheses that can be tested by routine neuroanatomical procedures involving methods of histochemistry and electrophysiology. For instance, according to the theory, particular sensory qualities are innately related to particular emotional qualities, e.g., yellowness is related to gaiety. We know that certain groups of neurons respond to yellow stimuli and certain other groups mediate positive affects. We might expect to find histological or physiological evidence of special connections between these groups of neurons.

There are also implications for comparative neuroanatomical studies. We might look for evidence that the sensory and the emotional-motivational systems of the brain evolved from a common pool of primitive neurons. There is already evidence that discrete sensory pathways have gradually replaced a relatively undifferentiated network of neurons (the reticular system), which initially mediated all sensory input. The primitive neurons of this network, which still function in our brains, typically do not discriminate distinctly among the different sensory modalities. But they seem to be sensitive to common dimensions of feeling, such as intensity and hedonic tone. As one might expect, the emotional-motivational system is still closely connected to these primitive neurons.9

Process concepts also suggest more creative possibilities for neuroanatomical research. For instance, according to the theory of societies, we can envision the structures which we find in the brain as being products of social interactions among individuals. Understood in this way, these structures can serve as clues to the nature of the social organizations and of the individuals that make up the brain. One might look for aesthetic or symbolic forms that are found in human societies or even for familiar artifacts of everyday life. It is not clear where this line of research might take us, and this is part of the adventure here. Let me give an idea of what one might find.

With the aid of modern techniques of microscopy and a little imagination, one can find plenty of evidence of hierarchies of individuals and complex social interactions among and within brain cells. For instance, motion pictures of living brain cells taken through a microscope reveal tiny microglial cells that look like spiders and climb the trunks and branches of neurons cleaning up debris and performing who knows what other functions. At a higher level of magnification you can see inside the neurons where little corpuscles stream down the long axons like traffic down a highway. You can see collisions and traffic jams. At yet higher magnification, a slice through a neuron viewed in an electron microscope looks like a landscape seen from an airplane -- one anatomist calls it the "cytoscape." At the highest magnifications we begin to see things that look like spiral galaxies.

Turning now to the field of psychophysics, let us consider some of the implications of the notion of concrescence here.10 This notion raised a question about the evolution of the sense organs. The answer I proposed suggests that we should be able to receive some kinds of information from our environment in the absence of normal sensory functions. Let me make this more explicit. Recall the idea that each sense organ is like a selective channel for a particular type of data. The data coming through each channel can be thought of as forming a peak of distinctness in our experience. The "landscape’’ of our experience generally has several peaks, one for each sensory modality. But, according to the notion of concrescence, no data are completely excluded from experience, and so, between the peaks of ordinary sensory input should be troughs of vague feeling that seep in diffusely through other routes. These are the primitive modes of knowing the world that are largely walled out in evolution as the selective sensory windows evolve. Let us refer to these modes that fill the gaps between the senses as "intersensory prehensions" and see how one might find evidence for them.

First of all, the kind of information conveyed through intersensory prehensions might well involve ordinary physical energies such as electromagnetic waves. Second, there is little reason to expect intersensory prehensions to be particularly distinct or complex, not necessarily anything like some of the remarkable phenomena studied by ESP researchers. What I would look for first, to test the hypothesis of intersensory prehension, is straightforward, reliable evidence of a vague awareness of presences (a feeling of feelings in the environment) in the absence of normal sensory input. For instance, there have been studies of the ability of blindfolded people to estimate locations of large objects such as a wall nearby. It was found that people were able to use such cues as heat radiation to make estimates. Another phenomenon that is well established is the ability of some people to identify colors by touch. This also seems to be a function of sensing different frequencies of radiation. In gifted people this phenomenon is robust and highly repeatable. The influence of ambient electromagnetic fields on experimental animals is currently being studied by neuroscientists, and it seems that certain frequencies and intensities can affect brain function and behavior.

These lines of research have not been of major interest in sensory psychology, and possibly one reason is that they have not had interesting theoretical implications. However, in the framework of process cosmology these lines of research become much more interesting. One might want to explore the range of intersensory prehensions by determining the types of environmental stimuli that people can detect, the degrees of accuracy that are possible, and the conditions that enhance or impede detection. Furthermore, one can think of specific hypotheses that can easily be tested. For example, hybrid physical prehensions should be intersensory insofar as they involve something other than ordinary sensory stimuli. Therefore, one might predict that people deprived of ordinary sensory input will detect the presence of other people in a room more reliably than they detect the presence of aggregates such as a piece of furniture.

The evolutionary considerations also suggest other hypotheses that are easy to test. For example, if intersensory prehensions are primitive modes of feeling that are suppressed during the course of evolution, then one might predict that lower animals will perform better in detection tasks when deprived of sensory input than will people. Also, insofar as ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny, children should perform better than adults.

Finally, let us look at the empirical implications of process cosmology for research in the field of comparative psychology. Hartshorne’s concept of social feeling is especially relevant here because it is a version of prehension that emphasizes the empathic nature of human experience and the commonality of feelings among all species of individuals. This concept led to Hartshorne’s ethological research on bird song. In Born to Sing he presents a novel interpretation of bird song that is based on his empathic impressions of the feelings that birds have when they sing.

There are especially difficult experimental problems involved in testing hypotheses about the experiences of other individuals. I think it is possible to get relevant empirical evidence, but we will probably have to be satisfied with less conclusive results than we get in other fields of research. One reason for doing research in this field is to find out just how much we can learn here. Consider the possibilities for the following method of inquiry.

According to the concept of social feelings, under appropriate conditions people should generally agree in their empathic impressions of a given individual’s feelings, be it a human, a bird, or an atom. If this is true, then we should be able to get reliable indices of the feelings of an individual by using a "behavioral assay" method for feelings. What this would involve is using people’s empathic reactions to an individual as an index of that individual’s feelings. This procedure is analogous to the bioassay method commonly used in biology. Here the presence of substances whose chemical structures are unknown is inferred on the basis of the reactions of living tissues to the substances.11

I have done a little work on developing model behavioral assay procedures for studying the experiences of laboratory rats. Such procedures might be helpful in identifying subtle effects of nutritional, social, or other environmental variables upon an animal’s emotional life. We must first find out what happens when people are asked to respond empathetically to individual rats and determine optimal conditions for empathic studies.

In contrast to the common stereotype, rats that are raised as pets are gentle and friendly creatures that enjoy interacting with people. They can conveniently be housed on a card table that contains a shelter, playthings, and food -- sort of a "rat plateau.’’ In one preliminary study students were assigned a small family of tame rats to take home for observation and interaction. In this study the student is not a detached observer, but he or she enters into the life of the subjects. The student is instructed to interact with the rats as though they were little people and to anthropomorphize freely in describing their behavior.

I have been more interested in the empathic responses of the students than in the behavior of the rats in these studies. One rather consistent finding is that before long the students begin to feel affection for the rats. At first one rat seems like another, but after interacting with them for a while, the students usually find themselves responding differently to different individuals. Some students believe that they can recognize distinctive personalities in the individual rats, and that they can tell what a rat’s experiences are like in much the same way that they can tell what another person’s experiences are like.

What should be done next is to determine the reliability and the validity of the empathic impressions. Will different persons give the same descriptions of individual rats? Can a person identify individual rats on the basis of anthropomorphic descriptions of their personalities? Will empirical implications of empathic impressions consistently be verified by objective behavioral and physiological tests? Even if it turns out that there are no useful applications of behavioral assay methods with rats, these studies should be interesting in themselves because they may tell us something about our ability to determine what it is like to be another organism.12

There are also possibilities here for entering more novel areas of inquiry. For instance, astronomers have been searching the macrocosmos for signals that might indicate the presence of intelligence. Process cosmology suggests that we look into the microcosmos as well and that we use our empathic powers to find signs of sentience, as well as use our usual analytic methods to find signs of intelligence. To illustrate the range of possibilities for this line of research, I will describe a gedanken experiment in which a behavioral assay of feelings is employed to test the hypothesis that atoms are sentient individuals.

First of all, we will have to monitor spontaneous, complex events in individual atoms and transduce these events into a form that can readily be perceived. Suppose, for example, we could record the pattern of emission of nuclear particles from a radioactive atom. The pattern can be presented to people for behavioral assay in various ways -- it can be stretched out or compressed in time; it can be presented in a sequence of auditory, visual, or tactual stimuli; or it can be transformed to a spatial pattern. For comparison similar patterns can be generated by random procedures or by mechanical means. Now we want to find out if people react differently to the atomic and the control patterns. Suppose it turned out that people regularly sense something aesthetically or emotionally familiar in the atomic patterns but not in the control patterns’? This would not by itself be convincing evidence that there is sentience present. But it would raise interesting questions for further inquiry.13

Now, that was just a gedanken experiment, one not really feasible with current technology. But if we move up the hierarchy of individuals to the level of cells, then many experiments like this become technically feasible. I would like to offer an empathic interpretation of a cellular event that is easy to monitor, and let the reader think of experiments to test it.

I recently visited a laboratory in which the activities of individual neurons were being monitored by transducing the neural impulses to pulses of sound. In the midst of the "popping" sounds of the neural impulses I heard a soft moan. The researcher told me it was the sound of a dying cell -- a high-frequency discharge as the cell’s life ebbed away. Here is my empathic interpretation of this event which you may treat as an empirical hypothesis. I believe that the moan was an expression of a feeling that all sentient creatures share -- it was a feeling of perishing.

How do I know this?

I have a mind myself and recognize

Mind when I meet with it in any guise.14

Notes

This work was supported by Grant GM 30777 from NIH. I thank Robin Frost, Nora Peck, and Lisa Wolf for editing this paper.

1. I limit this discussion to what I shall refer to as "ordinary science" -- traditional mechanistic, reductionistic approaches to research. Other approaches, such as general systems theory, have somewhat different relations to process cosmology, which I do not consider in this paper. Also, the process cosmology I speak of is that of Hartshorne and Whitehead only.

Also, some comments on my biases and some qualifications are appropriate here. My scientific thinking has been most influenced by the liberal behaviorism of Neal Miller and the psychobiology of Curt Richter -- rough-hewn, pragmatic, common-sense approaches. At the same time, my perception of nature is more akin to that of Anglo-American Romanticism. Thus I feel most closely connected to the strand of thought in American philosophy that runs from Pierce to Hartshorne and intertwines empirical and romantic approaches to nature.

In view of this rather anomalous combination I want to qualify the claim that my judgments represent contemporary thought in the neural and behavioral sciences. I do believe that my analyses reflect sound scientific thinking. But there are many intangible factors that result in divergences in final judgments between me and my colleagues. We may agree that a notion is reasonable in terms of its compatibility with scientific facts and its clarity, consistency, and completeness of meaning, but at the same time differ in our judgment of its plausibility. In my experience many scientists find the notions of process cosmology hard to believe (and also hard to understand). For instance, after I had presented a long and careful account of the notion that the basic actualities that make up the world are sentient creatures, a very intelligent and scholarly neuroscientist said to me, "I still can’t imagine what it would be like for an atom to have feelings, and I still can’t see any good reason to believe this in the first place." This notion about basic actualities and reasons for belief in them arise from a different way of seeing the world in the first place. Certainly process cosmology has a more immediate appeal to a person who sees experience at the heart of nature than to one who perceives the world as an insentient mechanism.

2. I’d like to quote a poem by Emily Dickinson which expresses what I am trying to say here in a most remarkable way.

The Brain -- is wider than the Sky --

For -- put them side by side --

The one the other will contain

With ease -- and you beside--

The Brain is deeper than the sea --

For -- hold them -- Blue to Blue --

The one the other will absorb --

As Sponges -- Buckets -- do --

The Brain is just the weight of God --

For -- Heft them -- Pound for Pound --

And they will differ -- if they do--

As Syllable from Sound --

3. Concrescence is a complex notion, and this account describes only one aspect of it which is particularly relevant to science. However, I want to mention briefly the essential role of feeling in concrescence because the ability of process cosmology to explain the kinds of experiences that I am concerned with in this paper depends on it, Also the notion of feeling will come up again in later sections of the paper, and so I want to state my understanding of it explicitly.

The time-cone of concrescence is nothing but a creative synthesis of feelings. Hartshorne states the thesis plainly -- "all experience is feeling of feeling." What this means is that the actual world that enters into a concrescence is ultimately made up of sentient individuals, and the facts of the world are the objective manifestations of their feelings. Likewise, everything in subjective experience is a form of feeling -- the colors and palpable textures, the thoughts and intentions as well as the emotional tones are all articulations of feelings derived from the world. I will have to bypass the many interesting implications and problems of this "social theory of feeling" because they are too complex to deal with adequately in the space available here.

4. There is a more general issue that arises from this analysis of concrescence. I have shown that the objective meaning of concrescence is compatible with the scientific notion of causality. But concrescence also has a subjective meaning; it states that every elementary event involves an experience. Is this compatible with scientific method, which eschews subjective language and adheres strictly to the law of parsimony? I think it is. To show how, I would like to rephrase the question as follows. Should the ontology of the cosmological framework of science be as limited as the ontology of science itself’? It seems that many scientists would like the two domains to be congruent. The apparent advantage of this is that science then ranges over all of reality; it can potentially explain everything that exists. But this is accomplished by a contraction of the domain of existence; it is too easy. Insofar as speculative cosmology aims for more generality and concreteness than science does, it needs a richer ontology. In fact, at the final metaphysical level, one should want the richest ontology possible, because each thing that is omitted from the ontology is a thing whose possible mode of existence is no longer subject to inquiry. Finally, there is no reason to think that a rich ontology in the framework will intrude into the limited domain of science within the framework. Scientific method automatically insures against that. Abstraction is the natural mode of scientific thought. It isolates relevant variables and disregards the rest. So, while it may be true that science functions best in a "desert landscape," it is also true that there is plenty of room for such a landscape in the endless domain of speculative cosmology (a sort of "garden of delights").

5. This brief account omits many details and problems. This is not the place for a technical discussion of concrescence and evolution, but I would like to clear up one bit of confusion that the account might have generated. In what sense can one say that there is a limit to how many data an organism can handle if all the data of the actual world are involved in the concrescence? The limit is manifested in the number of data that can be harmonized in the satisfaction. This is finite. The remaining data which are discordant are also involved in the satisfaction but do not contribute to the intensity of the experience. What the sensory systems do is begin the process of sorting out relevant and irrelevant data on the way to the final percipient occasion.

6. See my paper ‘‘Psychological Physiology from the Standpoint of a Physiological Psychologist,’’ Process Studies 11(1981): 274-91.

7. Whitehead discusses this in The Function of Reason and in the first chapter of Process and Reality.

8. I use Hartshorne’s terminology of "individuals" and "aggregates" according to the following understanding of these terms. Individuals correspond roughly to Whitehead’s personally ordered societies. When time is reduced to a limit, "individual" becomes roughly synonymous with "actual occasion." Hartshorne gives as examples of individuals: animals, cells, and atoms. It is important to keep in mind that to call a thing an individual does not imply that the thing is an individual all the time. For instance, a cell might have only brief moments of unified experience -- in the case of a neuron this might occur only at the moment when the membrane potential reaches the threshold for triggering an all-or-none impulse. At other times the cell would be just an aggregate. The term "aggregate" includes anything that is not an individual (more precisely, that does not attain moments of individuality). Examples of presumed aggregates are a leaf, a machine, any assortment of things. The distinctions between different types of aggregates are not relevant to the present discussion. But it is worth mentioning that there are important problems here and that approaches such as general systems theory attempt to work out taxonomies of aggregates and to identify characteristics of aggregate hierarchies that are necessary and sufficient for emergence of various forms of holistic functioning, including individuality. It is also worth noting here that the theory of societies envisions everyday physical things (individuals or aggregates) as made up of hierarchies of individuals and aggregates. For example, an animal (individual) is made up of organs (aggregates), which are made up of tissues (aggregates), which are made up of cells (individuals), and so on down to basic actualities which have to be individuals (assuming that there are basic actualities).

9. Recently, a study was published that addressed the problem of reconciling the neuroanatomical structure of the sensory projection areas with their functions. The study involved commentaries by thirty-six neuroscientists and philosophers. The problem was how to resolve the merely quantitative neuroanatomical differences among the various cortical projection areas with the qualitative differences among the sensory experiences mediated by these areas. Although this problem is more philosophical than experimental, I mention it here because of the striking relevance of the theory of affective continuity to it. (See R. Puccetti and R. W. Dykes, "Sensory Cortex and the Mind-Brain Problem,’’ The Behavioral and Brain Sciences 1 [19781: 337-76.)

10. Psychophysics is a field of research which measures the relations between changes in the physical properties of stimuli and changes in the evoked sensory experience. Strictly speaking, the research I describe here asks some questions which extend beyond the ordinary boundaries of this field. But I think it is appropriate to put this work under the heading of psychophysics because they both arise from the same tradition of thought. Psychophysics was founded by Gustav Fechner, unquestionably a predecessor in the field of modern process cosmology, and the long history of this field is evidence of the value of this kind of thought for research in the behavioral sciences.

11. One might ask whether this analogy is misleading. The inference from the bioassay can potentially be confirmed by chemical tests, but how can we confirm the inference from a behavioral assay? Although there is obviously a sense in which we can not get at subjective features in the same way that we can get at objective features, this does not preclude the efficacy of converging operations for confirming hypotheses about subjective features. For example, if the individual whose feelings are being inferred is a person, or even a higher animal, we can potentially confirm empathic judgments by looking at neurophysiological data. Suppose, for instance, that we have an empathically derived hypothesis that a bird is experiencing pleasure when it sings. Suppose we had identified a particular brain chemical that is released from binding sites whenever animals are placed in conditions that are usually associated with pleasant feelings. Suppose further that we confirmed this with tests on our own brain when we were having pleasant feelings. Clearly if we found that this chemical were released whenever the bird began to sing, this would be a strong bit of evidence in favor of our hypothesis. There are other ways to get converging evidence on empathic hypotheses that can also strongly affect our confidence. For instance, if we judge that an individual is having a pleasant experience, we would expect him to favor conditions that produce this experience. Here we could use behavioral preference tests to get empirical evidence. Still, when it comes to making judgments about another individual’s subjectivity, we can always be fooled in the end-it could be an insentient computer, after all. But in the meantime we can increase our confidence in our empathic hypotheses without limit so long as successive converging operations confirm our expectations. I do not ask more from ordinary science than this. And finally, returning to our bioassay and chemical tests, we can always be fooled in the end here too -- it could be gremlins, after all.

12. I think it is important to be especially concerned about the welfare of the animals in this kind of study. Unlike research aimed at important practical goals such as medical treatment, this highly speculative research does not justify causing the animals any undue discomfort. Besides, it would be entirely contrary to the spirit of this kind of inquiry.

13. One factor that I overlook in this design is the contiguity of the feeler and the feeling felt. It seems to me that something important might be lost by recording the objective display of the feeling and interjecting it between the feeling and the feeler. But I cannot imagine how this could be done otherwise in this case.

Finally, if it turns out that it is indeed possible to transform the behavior of imperceptible individuals into a form which can be appreciated empathically by people, then we could conceivably use behavioral assay procedures to look for macrocosmic as well as microcosmic individuals. Giving imagination free play for a moment, one can conceive of behavioral assay studies of immense, slowly changing entities. For instance, what might we see if we looked at a time-lapse telescopic motion picture of some large segment of the universe taken over a period of millions of years and played back within the period of an hour? Perhaps we might see some familiar-looking actions -- perhaps something resembling organismic, purposive behavior.

14. And then Robert Frost adds,

No one can know how glad I am to find

On any sheet the least display of mind.

 



Response by Charles Hartshorne

The researches (for several years intensively pursued) which were part of my preparations for the book on sensation to which Wolf reacts so generously and imaginatively were made about a half century ago. (The book is still in print.) The basic theory of sensation the book presents came to me sixty years ago and is the subject of one chapter of my doctoral dissertation, written in 1923. The experience in France referred to by Wolf was in 1917 or 1918. I then knew almost nothing of the many evidences in the history of philosophy and psychology that various philosophers and psychologists have had somewhat similar intimations that reality as immediately given is indeed an "ocean of feelings." I refer to some of these writers in the book mentioned. They all show a phenomenological thread in the history of speculative idealism, a thread less manifest in Husserl’s writings than in those of Heidegger, and, before him, in writings of Berkeley, Goethe, Rickert, Croce, and many others. One of the ways in which philosophers differ in personality, and, in part, a cause of their theoretical differences, is in their sensitivity, or lack of it, to certain aspects of experience.

The sensation book pleased a few psychologists, e.g., Carroll Pratt, author of an excellent book on the psychology of music, who some years ago told me he thought my book was in some respects well ahead of those by the general run of psychologists. One prominent psychologist, misled by a misprint (one of only two in the book) which happened to come early (p. 27) and seemed to imply that I did not know the difference between millimeter and millimicron, saw little merit in the book. In fact it was not I that put "milli-meter" in the manuscript but an editor at the press who made no other serious mistake. What I had put was an abbreviation, two Greek letters -- -- for millimicrons. I corrected in the galleys the erroneous spelling of the abbreviated word but by a moment of carelessness missed its persistence in the page proofs -- the worst proofreading error of my career. No student of Leonard Troland (parts of whose great psychophysiology I almost memorized) could fail to recall his frequent use of ‘‘millimicron," and I knew that millimeter is a very different magnitude. Another psychologist who praised the book became an administrator and was not prominent as a researcher thereafter. Some philosophers did think highly of the work, including, oddly, a self-styled materialist. Wolf’s explanation of why the book did not exert much influence is to the point. An additional reason, though, is that the work has some flaws of presentation which, again unluckily, but also partly arising from inexperience (it was my first book), occur quite early and so might easily lead some to stop reading further. The flaws included an indulgence in some arguments so vague that now I wonder if they are anything but special pleading. I had enough more definite arguments to make my case, which was only weakened by attempting the doubtful ones. Another mistake was to show more scorn than was tactful or altogether seemly in an outsider, a nonprofessional in psychology, for some standard psychological notions.

I still think, however, that in some ways psychology has tended to miss the biological-emotional function of sensation, which is far deeper than mere "associations" and individual learning. Natural sweet-tasting substances are nourishing, and the taste encourages us to eat them; natural sour, bitter, or salty-tasting substances tend to be unnourishing or even poisonous, especially in substantial quantities, and the tastes discourage us from eating or drinking such things, e.g., sea water. The evolutionary explanation is obvious and has nothing to do with personal learning. My thesis is that something less obvious, but in basic principle similar in biological-evolutionary meaning, is true of all sensations. And I am sure that the psychology of music or painting will never go very deep until it is realized that underneath the role of personal learning is an innate basis in the sense organs themselves, or the sensory areas of the brain, which gives sounds and colors their emotional character. This is part of the explanation of the fact that bird song is intelligible as music to mammals such as ourselves, crossing a deep gulf between classes of animals. It is why no one has to learn what a growl, by which a newborn infant would be frightened, means. It means danger, and does this for inherited evolutionary reasons, not reasons of individual experience.

My work on bird song was my other attempt to be an empirical scientist, somewhat more successful than the other in getting the attention of experts. In 1973 I knew better how to relate to professionals than I did in 1934. And I did far more direct observing and simple experimenting, such as replaying songs, sometimes at slower speeds. Also I got help from those who knew how to use computers.

Although I was trying to get at birds’ feelings, in the process I discovered objective, quantitative facts not hitherto observed, facts for which my "aesthetic hypothesis" is an intelligible explanation. No alternative explanation for them has been found. The standard account of why song evolved in certain animals is not such an explanation; for my theory is a special form of that standard account, and only what is special about it explains the objective behavioral and environmental facts in question.

Evolution explains the adaptiveness of certain behaviors of singing animals, but there are two ways of conceiving adaptive behaviors. One is to take them as merely mechanical, like some contrived feedback arrangement (my father made one for our furnace when I was a child). The other is to suppose that the adaptive behavior is motivated by certain feelings, as avoidance of painful burns is motivated by the pain itself, or engaging in sexual reproduction is motivated by the pleasure of the action. Adopting the second view not only fits our natural intuitions of the other animals, especially the higher forms, but fits also the evolutionary scheme according to which our human traits are intensifications and elaborations of traits found in our prehuman ancestors. It also, I argue, explains certain special facts about the distribution of singing skills among species and about how birds sing (avoiding monotony, for instance,) in a fashion not explicable by mere chance, and adaptive only on the hypothesis that to act in certain useful ways it is necessary to have and satisfy the emotional motivations that favor such acting. Scientists today do not usually deny feelings to other animals, as the Cartesians did, but, as William James shrewdly noted, they often proceed as if for all practical purposes animals were indeed mere insentient machines. Any feelings that might be there are treated like "idle wheels" that do nothing.

Wolf uses the word "dismal" in connection with the view of nature as an assemblage of mere mechanisms. Only extreme materialists fail to feel this dismalness. But there are two ways of trying to escape from it. One is to suppose that, while most of nature is purely mechanical, at some point in the evolutionary ascent there appears a new principle, either life or mind, depending upon where the point is supposed to be. This is the dualistic way. Traditional vitalism was of this kind, in Driesch, for example. Theories of emergent evolution generally took this form. Wolf is an example of a scientist who feels that dualism is an unsatisfactory compromise, with some of the disadvantages of both extremes. The other way of escaping the dismal view, or what Fechner called the "night-view," is to reject mechanism altogether, so far as it is supposed strictly true of even the most "inanimate" parts of the world. A distinguished biologist, the entomologist Wheeler, once remarked that while philosophers and biologists were arguing about mechanism and vitalism the physicists took mechanism and "quietly dumped it into the sea." The first physicist to do this, I like to insist, was not any quantum theorist but the chemist, physicist, astronomer, logician, mathematician, and philosophical idealist Charles Peirce, our American universal theorist, who had no notion of quantum theory. Before Peirce the most definite anticipation was in the system of the Greek materialist Epicurus, for whom even atoms had some freedom.

The details of Wolf’s speculations I leave to others. I am not well equipped to make useful comments on them. These are large, difficult issues about which scientists and philosophers may have much to say. In any case I lack the energy at a busy time, and probably should not take the space, to deal with them. But I do wish to say that in all my many contacts with George Wolf for nearly two years now I have found him an admirable example of a scientist who is also by nature a philosopher, or one who wishes to retain the sense of the larger whole while he plies his limited specialty. It has been a privilege indeed to know him.

Some final remarks. Throughout this conference it has been made clear that process philosophy is not a panacea, a magic formula, thanks to which we can soar above our human limitations and all agree upon the perfect truth. Every speaker has felt that there are difficulties still, topics that we scarcely know how to deal with, or upon which we cannot agree. If the search for the truth is better than simply having it (Lessing), we can be content for the search to go on while the species endures -- if, in spite of its appalling quarrelsomeness, it can manage to do so.

Long ago I heard a professor in the Harvard Divinity School, the learned George Foot Moore, remark, "It is civilization that destroys nations. What else could destroy them?" We can today see the element of truth in this more easily than the man who said it or his hearers could. Whatever our philosophy, we had better use it to moderate the tendency that is in all of us to look to violence to settle issues between groups in a world whose technology makes violence against groups ever more likely to destroy all who participate in it, or advocate it, along perhaps with nearly everyone else. Neither process philosophers nor any other philosophers have yet shown us the way out of this terrible impasse. We Americans have relied on nuclear weapons to make up for the inferiority of our conventional arms and training. Now that our enemy is similarly equipped to join us in destroying mankind, the whole matter must be reconsidered. Our own invention has been reduced to a ghastly absurdity. This result was predictable enough; but who of us had the courage to face the prospect and draw a rational conclusion?

What is the relation of process philosophy to this grim dilemma’? At least this: To do justice to the issue it is necessary to care deeply about goods and ills far transcending one’s own personal career. For most of us are old enough to hope that the unthinkable catastrophe will most likely come after our career is finished. Moreover, believing in an "afterlife" has only ambiguous implications for motivating our behavior. If what really matters is achieving, or being granted, heaven, and escaping hell, even nuclear warfare may seem not our major concern. Dying soon or late is after all a very minor matter, compared to life everlasting, either in very happy or more or less unhappy circumstances. The Buddhist-Whiteheadian view of the self implies with radical clarity that the rational aim of the individual must in principle transcend any mere good of that individual, whether between birth and death or everlastingly. We are nothing apart from what our moments of living contribute to future life, and this means to some or all of the following: our own future experiences; future experiences of other human beings, nonhuman animals, or plants; divine experience, this last contribution containing all the value whatsoever that our moments can have. This is the meaning of loving God with all our being. We contribute ourselves to enriching the lives of others, all such enrichment being entirely embraced in its objective immortality in the Life of lives. An incinerated earth will certainly enormously curtail our possible direct or indirect contributions.

Whatever our philosophies, and it seems clear that human beings are not about to agree to any one philosophy, we are all mortal, and even the lower animals act as if their aims stretched beyond their own lives to their offspring. And the Marxists, too, are critical of merely self-regarding views of life’s meaning. This conference is a remarkable illustration of cooperation on a very high level. Perhaps we can take it as a sign that our species can somehow surmount the worst of its threats for the near future.

To George Wolf, and to all the other contributors, and to the planners of this conference, for the extraordinary pains they have taken for this occasion, thanks are due not only from me but, no doubt, from many others who were present or who may benefit from its results

Chapter 8: Overcoming Reductionism by John B. Cobb, Jr.

John B. Cobb, Jr. is Ingraham Professor of theology, School of Theology at Claremont, and Avery Professor of Religion at Claremont Graduate School.



Process philosophy has undertaken to overcome the reductionism of the Newtonian world view within a naturalistic context and guided by the actual course of scientific thought. The greatest single contribution to this work has been by Alfred North Whitehead. Yet there are limitations to his achievement as well. In The Nature of Physical Existence1 Ivor Leclerc has both acknowledged Whitehead’s crucial contribution to the philosophy of nature and criticized him for continuing reductionistic tendencies. The purpose of this paper is to set Charles Hartshorne’s contribution to the overcoming of reductionism against the background of Whitehead’s work.

Section I briefly clarifies what is meant by reductionism and its status in the current discussion, Section II presents Whitehead’s systematic refutation of reductionism. Section III describes and evaluates Leclerc’s critique of Whitehead. Section IV reviews Whitehead’s position in the light of Leclerc’s critique. Section V describes Hartshorne’s distinctive contribution.

I.

The problem of reduction is often discussed today in terms of levels and their relations. Different sciences treat the world at different levels ranging, for example, from the level of subatomic particles, through molecules and cells, to the level of human behavior. These sciences have demonstrated that much can be learned about each level without referring to other levels. Hence a considerable degree of autonomy is possible for theory at each level without referring to other levels.

On the other hand, the study of one level is sometimes able to illumine what is taking place at a higher level. Chemistry clarifies biological phenomena, for example, and physics throws light on chemistry. A great deal of scientific advance has taken place by interpreting phenomena at one level in terms of events at a lower level.

Indeed, many scientists have believed that the complete explanation toward which science moves is necessarily reductive in this sense. If biological phenomena are fully understood, this will be through biochemical explanation. If all physical events could ever by fully explained, this would be in terms of the behavior of quanta. This is the view of thoroughgoing reductionism.

Historically, reductionism has been associated with materialism and determinism. The units of which the world is made up were thought to be material particles which remained unchanged in themselves as they moved about in space and formed the diverse configurations which made up the physical objects in our world. Some thinkers still picture the world in this way. They interpret the principle of indeterminism as indicating limits on the possibility of human knowledge of this world but not as indicating that the cosmology is incorrect. Even if the shift from deterministic to statistical laws with respect to these physical existents is accepted as reflecting an actual indeterminacy in their behavior, the reductionism is not greatly affected. The ideal remains that events at other levels are to be explained in terms of these statistical laws governing events at this basic level.

By no means all scientists today accept this ideal of reductionism. Many are impressed by the degree of autonomy characterizing phenomena at other levels. They do not deny that some levels have been reduced to others and that further reductions are possible, but they see that success in reduction has often been exaggerated. Rather than assume that reduction must ultimately be possible throughout science, they take it as an open question whether particular physical existents at higher levels are reducible to physical existents at lower levels.2

For the philosopher of nature this raises an interesting question. Since complex physical existents can be broken down into component physical existents, how can they have properties that the components lack? The tendency is to answer this question in terms of structure or architecture or system. When smaller existents are organized in a certain pattern, the properties of the patterned system will be different from the properties of the elements that constitute it.

There can hardly be any doubt that this is true, in some sense. Even a pile of rocks will have properties that none of the rocks individually possess -- instability for example -- but this is hardly a significant challenge to the reductionist goal. The properties of the pile, while not characterizing the individual rocks, can be derived from what is known of rocks and their behavior in external relation to other rocks. From the time of Democritus, reductionists have never questioned the importance of spatial arrangements.

The kind of structure which is now emphasized is quite different from this. It makes possible complex interactions among the structured elements so that the whole structure operates in relation to other structures in ways quite unlike the operations of the components apart from that structure. It is highly improbable that laws describing the behavior of the particles within this structure and information about spatial relations could ever explain the behavior of the structure as a whole.

This is remarkably like the old organismic view which held, rightly, that the whole is more than the sum of its parts. But like the earlier view it is weak in explanatory power. It is now evident that the properties of the whole are not found in the parts except as they are organized into that whole, and that for this reason the reductionistic program is not successful. The question remains, Why? Is there, as vitalists supposed, in addition to the mechanism some other principle at work? If so, What? If not, how does the arrangement of the parts produce properties which are not ultimately functions of the parts together with their spatial relations?

II.

Much of Whitehead’s cosmology is a response to questions of this sort. This response is rich and complex. There are three major ways in which his philosophy opposes reductionism.

1. The most fundamental basis for rejecting reductionism as adequate to explain the physical world is his doctrine of prehensions or internal relations.3 According to this doctrine the relations of one entity to others are constitutive of the entity in question. It is for this reason that the properties of a system cannot be derived from the properties of its constitutive parts, that is, from the properties possessed by these entities when outside the system. It is well known, for example, that a virus outside a cell lacks important properties it exhibits when in the cell. But in less dramatic ways this is true of atoms and molecules. Molecules exhibit properties that cannot be derived from the properties of the atoms constituting them when these atoms exist outside the molecular structure. If the properties of the molecule are derivative from those of the atoms, this can only be from the properties which the atoms have in this molecular structure.

The doctrine of internal relations has important implications for the scientific enterprise. That enterprise has been for the most part committed to analysis. The doctrine of internal relations explains why analysis is of limited, although real, value. Alongside the autonomous study of phenomena at each level and the reductive study of phenomena at one level in terms of those at a lower level, we need a study of phenomena at each level as they are shaped by phenomena at a higher or more inclusive level.4

The effect of the doctrine of internal relations on the understanding of the nature of the physical existent is radical. It destroys the notion of material substance and substitutes that of an event in which ~the many become one, and are increased by one."5 Since both relativity and quantum theory up until now have been couched in terms of substance, the theoretical effects of a shift to event thinking would be vast. These effects might provide the basis for the still needed synthesis of relativity and quantum theories. But that is not the project of this paper.

2. At least in the instance of the living cell, Whitehead believed that the constitutive entities are not all physical in the usual sense. There are entities or events also in the empty space. It is these events, and not the molecular structure of the cell, that account for the life of the cell. The molecules provide the necessary stability, but only the occurrences or "occasions" in empty space are capable of the novelty and spontaneity that are the distinguishing mark of life. Thus Whitehead posits a type of entity wholly neglected in ordinary reductionistic accounts.

3. The doctrine of internal relations and the assertion of occasions in the empty space of living cells still do not do justice to the reasons that complex entities cannot be explained in terms of the simpler ones of which they are composed. Whitehead saw that in the human instance we have immediate understanding of ourselves as unified experiences that cannot be identified with the experiences of the physical units making up our bodies. These human experiences are the dominant, presiding, or final percipient occasions which constitute us as "living persons." Similar occasions are to be found among other high-grade animals. Hence the full analysis of these animals requires not only the recognition that all the entities that make up their bodies are internally related to other such entities but also that there is present another set of entities of a much higher grade of experience which constitute the psyche, soul, or mind of the animal. These psychic experiences are internally related to the bodily ones, and the bodily ones are internally related to them.

III.

In his renewal of emphasis upon the philosophy of nature, Ivor Leclerc has recognized the importance of the contribution of Whitehead. Indeed, much of Leclerc’s writing has been an explanation and defense of Whitehead’s project. However, Leclerc is an original thinker in his own right, and in The Nature of Physical Existence he criticizes Whitehead in important ways, especially for what he sees as a remaining tendency to reductionism. It will be useful to examine his criticisms, and to reexamine Whitehead in their light before presenting Hartshorne’s contribution to these central issues.

Leclerc recognizes that Whitehead tries to deal with the properties of larger and more complex entities in his doctrine of societies. But Leclerc believes there are limitations in Whitehead’s solution of this problem. He insists that such compounds of lower-level entities as atoms, molecules, and cells must be recognized as having individual existence in their own right, whereas he finds Whitehead attributing to them only social unity. Leclerc develops his own position through a double criticism of Whitehead.

Leclerc’s first criticism centers on the doctrine of causality. In Leclerc’s interpretation of Whitehead, activity or agency is located entirely in the perceiver. What is perceived functions as a passive datum for the new event or occasion. Leclerc interprets Whitehead’s position to be like that of Leibniz in presenting the cause-effect relation as one of perception. This implies that no force is exercised by the datum perceived. The agency is entirely in the perceiver.

Leclerc juxtaposes to this the proposal that acting be "conceived as an ‘acting on’ and thus as a ‘relating’."6 He believes that among the entities composing a compound "this reciprocal acting constitutes a tie or bond between them, this bond being the relation -- which exists only in the acting, and not as some tertium quid. The word ‘relation’ -- in this respect like the word ‘perception’ -- connotes both the act, the relating, and what the act achieves."7

Up to this point, I believe, Leclerc’s differences are not with Whitehead’s philosophy as developed in Process and Reality and Adventures of Ideas. They are with earlier writings in which the doctrine of causal efficacy was not developed. They are also with Whitehead as interpreted in some secondary writings, including Leclerc’s own otherwise valuable commentary in Whitehead’s Metaphysics: An Introductory Exposition. In that book he repeatedly cautions the reader not to take Whitehead’s language at face value, since Leclerc is sure that Whitehead could not mean what the language says. For example, whereas Whitehead consistently speaks of past occasions as actual, Leclerc says that Whitehead could not mean this. In Leclerc’s interpretation, "only concrescing, i.e., ‘acting’ entities are actual in the full, proper sense. The acting of antecedent actualities is completed; as such they are, in the strict sense, no longer ‘actual’."8 Whereas Whitehead speaks of past occasions as "functioning" in the self-creation of new occasions, Leclerc tells us that in Whitehead’s systematic position this "functioning" cannot imply agency.9 He adds: "This should be stressed because the contrary supposition might arise from Whitehead’s statement . . . that upon objectification an actual entity ‘acquires causation whereby it is a ground of obligation characterizing creativity’." 10

My point is that, at the time Leclerc wrote his interpretation of Whitehead, he understood Whitehead’s systematic position to be that past actual entities function in the present concrescence only as passive perceived data, not as truly causally efficacious. His interpretation of Whitehead did not change as he came later to recognize that this is not an adequate doctrine of cause. The results are odd. Whereas Whitehead repeatedly stressed that it is the distinctive task of his philosophy to show how one actual entity is constitutively present in other actual entities, Leclerc criticizes Whitehead for picturing past entities as remaining passive data for perception. Whereas Whitehead understands an actual entity to be constituted by the creativity which he defines as the many becoming one and being increased by one, Leclerc criticizes him for thinking that the many merely characterize a creativity which then leaves them behind as it constitutes a new entity.

Although it is unfortunate that Leclerc has in this way introduced confusion into the discussion,11 it is fortunate that we have his strong and independent corroboration of the importance of a doctrine of real causal relationality bonding the entities of the world together. Whitehead would certainly agree with Leclerc that actual entities exercise true agency on other actual entities, and that this "acting constitutes a tie or bond between them, this bond being the relation -- which exists only in the acting and not as some tertium quid."12

Although Leclerc’s criticism of Whitehead’s doctrine of causality is based on misinterpretation of the texts, Leclerc goes on to draw antireductionistic conclusions beyond those of Whitehead summarized in the preceding section. The passage just cited continues as follows: "This means that by virtue of the mutual activity of relating, there exists a form or character common to the entities acting. This form or character is not one inhering in each entity separately and individually -- in which case the character would be a mere class name -- but is a character of a relation."13

These sentences are not entirely clear. They could be interpreted as saying nothing different from what Whitehead asserts, namely, that in the case of a society the form or character common to the entities is derived by all subsequent ones in their prehension of earlier ones. But Leclerc elsewhere makes clear that he means more than this. "Specifically the question here is: which are to be identified as ‘acting’ entities in the primary sense -- as opposed to being only derivatively acting, that is, by virtue of the acting of the constituents of the entity in question? For example, are we to conceive chemical atoms as active in the primary sense while molecules are active only derivatively? But atoms, in current theory, are themselves composites; does this then imply that they too are derivatively active, it being their constituents, electrons, protons, etc., which are primarily active? But some at least of these constituents, e.g., protons, would themselves seem to be composite, so that by the logic of this argument the truly active entities must be identified with the ultimate constituents, those which are not themselves composite."14

Leclerc finds that the evidence of modern science counts against such a reduction. "The action of one compound ‘atom’ on another is not, by the scientific evidence, an aggregate action of the electrons and protons individually on each other."15 Molecules and cells also function as units of action, hence as real individual physical existents or substances.

Leclerc believes that when the subordinate entities in a compound act upon one another in a fully reciprocal way, so that they share in one another’s constitution, the whole attains a unity that is not attributable to its parts. This whole he calls the dominant monad. "There is a most important difference between the dominant monad and the other constituents of the ‘corporeal substance’. The dominant monad will not be simply one monad among others, differing from them only in having a greater internal complexity -- having consciousness, for example; the dominant monad will in a certain sense be inclusive. . . . What has emerged in this new position is the conception of a monad or substance which is not a constituent of a compound but itself a compound."16

This does not mean for Leclerc that the constituent parts lose their identity in the compounds. "The actual unity of necessity transcends the constituents individually, and since it is the unity which is actual, in relation to it the constituents must necessarily be potential; this is necessarily entailed in the relationship. In themselves, however (that is, not in reference to the actual unity) they are actual substances, and must be in themselves actual in order to be able to be constituents. Furthermore, they must be in themselves actual in order to be able to act; the actualized unity is not due solely to the acting of the dominant or unifying monad, for the latter acting to be an ‘acting on’ requires a responsive acting in the others."’17

IV.

Leclerc pictures the world as composed of a hierarchy of individuals each of which is compounded of smaller individuals until the ultimate stratum is reached. A similar vision can be found in Whitehead, especially in Science and the Modern World. For example, after asking whether a molecule in a human body is affected by the decisions of the dominant human occasion, he says that it would be more consonant with his philosophy to say that the direct effects would be negligible, but that the indirect effects would be important. "We should expect transmission. In this way the modification of total pattern would transmit itself by means of a series of modifications of a descending series of parts, so that finally the modification of the cell changes its aspect in the molecule -- or in some subtler entity."18

This passage clearly suggests that the bodily organs prehend the dominant occasion, the cells prehend the organs, and molecules prehend the cells. From the point of view established in Process and Reality, if prehensions are attributed to organs and cells and molecules, then there are actual occasions at these successive levels. Furthermore, in Process and Reality, there are several passages that imply that there are molecular prehensions19 and others that indicate that there can be occasions at successive levels, for example, electronic occasions and still more ultimate ones.20 Hence it is misleading for Leclerc to contrast his view so sharply with Whitehead’s on this topic. Something like Leclerc’s doctrine can be derived from Whitehead’s. Also, Leclerc’s critique ignores other features of Whitehead’s way of overcoming reductionism which were discussed in Section II.

Nevertheless, there are differences between Leclerc’s position and the one that is most fully articulated in Process and Reality. As Whitehead developed his doctrine in that book, he seems to have conceived all actual occasions as minuscule in size. This is true not only of physical ones but also of those in the empty spaces of the cells and those constituting the animal psyche. Despite the indications, just noted, that there are occasions at various levels, such as subelectronic, electronic, and molecular, his most detailed analysis indicates that the larger units are societies of mutually external smaller entities and do not have the unity of actual occasions. The animal does have a series of unifying, dominant occasions which jointly constitute the psyche, but even these can exist only in the interstitial spaces in the brain.

The most interesting case, and the one to which Whitehead gave most attention, is the living cell. For Leclerc the cell is a dominant monad which is a compound of all its subordinate elements. Whitehead’s analysis was discussed in Section II where the important concept of occasions in empty space was discussed. The question now, however, is that of the unity of the cell. Does the cell have the unity of an occasion so that the cell as cell prehends and acts? Or are all the prehensions and actions of the cells the prehensions and actions of its constituent parts, either those constituting the molecules or the occasions in empty space?

In the analysis of the cell Whitehead introduced the distinction between the nonsocial nexus of living occasions in the empty space of the cell and societies of occasions (e.g., molecules) constituting its physical components. In this connection he considered the possibility that the living occasions in the cell might constitute a single personally ordered society rather than a nonsocial nexus.21 That would mean that at any moment there would be a single living cellular occasion internally related to the world rather than a great multiplicity of minuscule occasions to which severally the internal relations of the cell must be attributed.

His reason for rejecting this theory is interesting. He had in view at that point in his writing two types of occasions: those socially organized and those not organized into societies. Social order was constituted for him by deriving a common character from antecedent events. In short, social order involved repetition of form. In a nonsocial nexus, on the other hand, the unit events could be spontaneous. They need not derive their character from antecedent events. Given these choices, social order explains the mechanical character of relationships. To explain life one must turn to occasions in nonsocial nexus. Hence to see the cell as governed by a single personally ordered society would deny the life and spontaneity which was the reason for turning to the occasions in the empty spaces.

There are obvious problems with this position. Whitehead at that point was forced to explain the order in the cell in terms of its molecular structure, to which spontaneity was denied, and to explain the life of the cell in terms of the events in its empty space, which he depicted as radically unordered. It is hard to think that this combination can account for the type of order and the type of spontaneity actually exemplified in a cell.

Whitehead recognized this problem, and even while writing Process and Reality he advanced beyond this point. He developed an understanding of another type of entity which combines order and life.22 He did so because he recognized that there is something like social order in the human soul and that this is combined with life and freedom. If successive human experiences constituted simply a nonsocial nexus, they would lack significant connection through time. But for them to constitute a society, as Whitehead had conceived of societies up to that time, each would have to repeat identical characteristics derived from antecedent members. Experience would have to be either chaotic or endlessly repetitive. In fact it is neither.

Whitehead saw that the problem had arisen because he had described societies in terms of the derivation of a common character from antecedent members. That meant that the more social an occasion is, the more it is conformal to its past. But another pattern is possible. The main requirement for social order is derivation of its characteristics from some aspects of the past members of the society. This derivation can be from their originative elements rather than from those that they have derived from their antecedents. In Whitehead’s terms, an occasion may prehend the conceptual feelings of antecedent occasion, not only the physical feelings of those occasions. In this way spontaneity in one moment can be transmitted to the next as the base from which its own spontaneity arises. Whitehead called this quite different ordering of occasions a "living person."

In Process and Reality Whitehead did not employ this new concept in conceptualizing the cell. Indeed, he explicitly rejected such application.23 But in Adventures of Ideas his comments on life suggest that he may have changed his mind. There he stressed that it is the coordination of spontaneities that constitutes life.24 His discussion is more reminiscent of what he said in Process and Reality about a living person than of what he said about a nonsocial nexus.

Even if Whitehead had clearly affirmed the presence of a cellular "living person" and also of molecular and atomic ones, there would remain a difference with Leclerc. The locus of the cellular living person would not have been the cell as a whole but the empty space within the cell. Even in the case of the human living person the locus is not the brain as a whole. Instead, Whitehead posits that the "route of presiding occasions probably wanders from part to part of the brain."25 Whitehead seems to have thought that all occasions, including dominant or presiding ones, must occupy spatio-temporal regions external to the regions of all other occasions. In this sense, even dominant occasions do not include other occasions in the spatial sense but lie alongside of them.

In summary, although Whitehead developed categories for understanding the unity of a society as more than the commonality of its tiniest parts, he applied these categories explicitly only to the higher animals. Even here his account indicates that he thought of the dominant monads as spatially minuscule in extension rather than as spatially inclusive of the occasions at lower levels. Hence, despite Whitehead’s extremely important contributions to overcoming reductionism, Leclerc is not wrong in detecting a continuing tendency to a particular type of reductionism. He affirms complex societies, and societies of societies, in some of which there are dominant occasions or monads. But the dominant monads are pictured as members of the societies rather than as compound individuals.

V.

Leclerc published his theory in 1972. He seems to have been oblivious to the fact that Charles Hartshorne had published an almost identical theory in 1936, even using much of the same terminology, in "The Compound Individual." The chief difference is that, whereas Leclerc developed his views through criticism of Whitehead, Hartshorne thought of himself as interpreting and developing ideas partly derived from Whitehead.

Hartshorne focuses on atoms and cells as clear instances of individuals.26 He notes that "all individuals apparent to the senses are compounded of numerous much smaller individuals."27 Such compounds are distinguished from composites in the same way Leclerc distinguishes compounds from aggregates. The constituents of the aggregates lack the degree of mutual immanence characteristic of those in compounds. Like Leclerc, Hartshorne, in this essay, uses "substance" as the equivalent of individual.

Hartshorne, like Leclerc, holds that where there is a true compound individual there is a "dominating unit."28 For him, as for Leclerc, this includes the constituent entities without reducing their own substantial identity.

To point out the unrecognized similarity of Leclerc’s "new" proposals of 1972 and the position espoused by Hartshorne at least since 1936 is, on the one hand, to claim originality for Hartshorne and, on the other, to indicate that the independent and thorough work of Leclerc adds to the credibility of Hartshorne’s speculations. It might also suggest that future work should build on Leclerc’s more recent and better-documented formulations. The remainder of this essay argues that this would be a mistake -- that Hartshorne’s formulations have more far-reaching applicability and greater power of illumination.

Leclerc develops his theory in direct consideration of the objects of scientific inquiry. Like Whitehead prior to Science and the Modern World, he brackets out the human knower from the world he studies. Hence his formulations are adapted to a world of objects and their relations. He does not exclude certain kinds of subjectivity from this world, indeed he insists on activity in a sense that goes beyond observed phenomena. But he does not wrestle with the question of where an instance of such activity can be humanly observed. His work is, as he states, exclusively in the field of the philosophy of nature.

Whitehead had recognized that our one direct access to a unitary entity is in our own immediate experience. Much of his analysis of the dynamic structure of every unitary entity is based on phenomenological analysis of his own experience. He speculated that to be an actual entity at all was to have a dynamic structure analogous to that of human experience. Yet much of his thinking about the natural world was done before he made this move.

For Hartshorne this approach was eminently congenial. In his case it did not have to achieve reconciliation with another, more objective, study of nature that had occupied him for many years. On the contrary, its application in cosmology as in metaphysics was direct and unproblematic. Accordingly, Hartshorne’s whole cosmology reflects the model of human experience more directly than does Whitehead’s.

From the point of view of cosmology this difference is not entirely in Hartshorne’s favor. Cosmology has never been Hartshorne’s chief interest, and difficult questions may be too easily answered when one is not immersed, as Whitehead was, in the relevant science and mathematics. Nevertheless, some modifications of Whitehead by Hartshorne, even in the area of cosmology, lead to differences of doctrine which seem to be marked advances.

Since Hartshorne begins with human experience, the first cosmological question that arises for him does not have to do with atoms and molecules but with the relation of human experience to the body, especially to the central nervous system and the brain. Approached in this way the most natural answer is that human experience is the unified subjective concomitant of the complex pattern of physical events that constitute the body or some portion thereof. At different times Hartshorne has written of this as the body as a whole, the central nervous system, and the brain. It is my own judgment that the evidence favors the view that human experience occurs in a more or less extended portion of the brain rather than in the brain as a whole.29 But discussion of these important topics belongs to another paper. Here the brain will be taken as the physical correlate of human experience, and the flow of human experience will be termed the psyche. The traditional mind-body problem will be discussed as the psyche-brain problem. In these terms, then, for Hartshorne the psyche is located where the brain is located, not in some tiny point within it. The numerous, more limited, brain events occur in portions of the same region in which the unified human experience is taking place.

Hartshorne and Whitehead both assume that evolutionary evidence implies full continuity between human beings and other animals. Hence, where similar physiological structures and behavior occur, both posit that there are unified animal experiences analogous to unified human ones. Neither attempts to identify the exact point at which such experiences emerged in evolution. Both suppose that they are lacking in plants. That means that the internal relations of the plant to its environment are to be found in the parts of the plant as these are discovered in analysis. Both also suppose that the smallest units of reality have a character which resembles human experience at least in that it involves internal relations. But beyond this they diverge.

Whitehead’s account showed why complex organisms cannot be reductively explained by the activities of their component parts when these are studied apart from the structures of the organism. It gave additional reasons why the cell cannot be reduced to its molecular components. But when dominant occasions in animals and the occasions in empty space in cells are included in the animal and cellular societies, then the activities of the societies can be explained by the activities of the components when they are components of those societies. In societies other than animals and cells these component parts are finally only the subatomic entities.

Hartshorne proposes that wherever the evidence counts against reduction, we posit that the entities in question are real individual agents, internally related to the environment. The case of the living cell may be taken up again. If the activity of the cell suggests that it is taking account of its environment as a cell, then we should attribute internal relations and unified activity to the cell as a cell. That means that we should view the cell by analogy with our own experience and see the relation of the cell to its constitutive parts on the analogy of the relation of our own experience to our brains. There is no need to locate the cellular experience at some point within the cell, associating it exclusively either with the molecules or with the empty space. The cellular experience is the subjective unification of the whole complex of events. That means also that the cell as cell interacts with other cells in the larger organism.

The structure of the human brain gives rise to unified subjective experience. It does not appear that anything analogous occurs by virtue of the structure of a rock or even of a tree. The question as to whether the structure of a cell is more like that of a brain or of a tree is a factual one. If, as seems to be the case, unicellular organisms are responsive to their environment in their unity, then the evidence supports the attribution to them of internal relations to that environment. In this case the cell constitutes an important level not reducible to lower ones for the same reason that animal life constitutes a level not reducible to physiology.

If this is so, then the internal relations of the tree to its environment can be located in its cells. Does that mean that the level of the tree can be reduced to the level of the cell? No. What happens in the growth and death of the tree can, indeed, be best studied at the cellular level, but the cells in the tree behave as they do because of the structure of the tree. One cannot explain the tree by a study of the cells apart from the tree.

The question of which levels have the radical autonomy introduced by their own internal relations and which are irreducible only by virtue of the internal relations and actions characterizing their parts is always a factual one. Hartshorne attributes internal relations and action to many levels of organization -- for example, to atoms and molecules. Clearly these are for him factual questions to be settled by such evidence as we can acquire. It is this freedom from prejudice against the attribution of internal relations and action at whatever level the evidence suggests them that is most promising for guiding further investigation. It is the use of the psyche-brain analogy that provides a clarity to Hartshorne’s treatment lacking in Leclerc’s and shows that the paradigm that solves an important problem in philosophy of nature also solves a crucial problem in philosophical anthropology.

In employing a single paradigm to solve a variety of problems Hartshorne follows Whitehead’s direction. Whitehead taught that all reality should be understood through a common categoreal scheme. Hartshorne’s doctrine of compound individuals goes beyond Whitehead but conforms to his spirit and program. It has also helped Hartshorne to formulate a doctrine of God and the world that goes beyond Whitehead’s at a point at which Whitehead’s doctrine strains his categoreal scheme to the limit.

That God is different from everything else is to be expected. If God were not profoundly different, God would not be God. On this point there is no disagreement between Whitehead and Hartshorne. But both are also convinced that to view God as an exception not only to the general character of creaturely beings but to metaphysical principles as well is to render talk of God finally nonsensical. They declare that God is not an exception to the categories but instead their chief exemplification.

Hartshorne takes an additional step. He has already used the psyche-brain analogy to understand the world of physical existents. He proposes that we use it also with respect to God.

Such a move was not available to Whitehead. For him the soul at any moment is located at some one point in the brain. To think of God as similarly located at one point in the cosmos would be absurd. It would not help to think of God as flitting around in the interstices. Accordingly Whitehead opted for thinking of God as unlike everything else in that God is nonextended spatially.

When Whitehead declared God to be without spatial extension, he had the primordial nature chiefly in view. The primordial nature is God’s mentality, and in Whitehead’s scheme mentality is not, of its own nature, spatio-temporal in character. Hence no problem arose. But Whitehead went on to affirm that God has a physical pole as well which feels all the feelings of the world. This seems to introduce something like spatial extensiveness into God. In the world it is physical relations that are in their very nature extensive. Whitehead does not explain how the physical feeling of the world in God leaves God free from the extensiveness of that which God feels. It is also not clear how God has this immediate feeling of all feelings without being spatially proximate to the feelings felt.

Answers to these questions are possible within Whitehead’s framework, and speculations about God are notoriously difficult. But where a simpler and more satisfying answer is available, obscurity and complexity appear unnecessary. Hartshorne offers the simpler and more satisfying answer.

Hartshorne conjectures that God is related to the universe as we are related to our brains. We are not our brains, but what happens in our brains is immediately related to our experience. We are spatially immediately present to every event in our brains. We are coextensive with the sum of these events. But we are numerically different from the sum of these events, and our experience is not exhausted by them. For example, we enjoy consciousness, whereas probably none of the brain events are thus favored. Further, our decisions affect the events in the brain just as these events affect us.

This doctrine does not differ greatly from Whitehead’s. It may even be that he in fact adopted something very like it, for in Modes of Thought he identified God with the whole in a way that is highly congenial to this doctrine. In traditional terms this is the doctrine that God is everywhere instead of the doctrine that God is nowhere. Both conceptually and religiously it seems superior.

All analogies have limits. The limits of this one appear quickly. We have no conscious awareness of the events in our brains, even though they largely determine the content of our consciousness. Our consciousness is directed to the external world. God has no external environment. God’s consciousness is of those events that, for God, are analogous to the brain events for us. That would indeed be a very different mode of consciousness! But this model does not pose the radical puzzle of nonextensive experience of extensiveness.

Conclusion

Hartshorne has understood himself more as a metaphysician than as a cosmologist. His concern is more with the question of what anything must be to be at all than with determining which entities in the universe have which characteristics. On the whole he has accepted and adopted Whitehead’s cosmology. Nevertheless, much in his thought is distinctively his own, and this is true of some of his cosmological ideas. In this paper I have argued that his wide extension of a paradigm derived from reflection about the relation of the psyche to the brain has proved fruitful in carrying forward a basically Whiteheadian way of overcoming reductionism.

Notes

I. Ivor Leclerc, The Nature of Physical Existence (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1972).

2. For a recent mainstream discussion of levels and the possibility of reduction, see John Cowperthwaite Graves, The Conceptual Foundations of Contemporary Relativity Theory (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1971). Graves writes on page 20: "I will assume, along with Carnap, Nagel, and most other philosophers of science, that a theoretical reduction of one level A to another level B requires the following two things: (1) Each term that appears in A should be definable in terms of the language of B. At best such definitions should be explicit, but if this fails one can use something like a system of ‘reduction sentences.’ Putting the same point in more ontological terms, each entity in A should be fully characterized in terms of the properties and relations of the entities in B. This would constitute a reduction of the material aspects of A into the language of B. (2) Once this translation has been carried out, we can express the laws of A in terms of the language of B. But at this stage these A-laws will appear only as unjustified assertions within B. To complete the reduction, we must also show that the A-laws as expressed in the language of B, can indeed be derived from the basic laws of B by some deductive procedure. Success here would constitute a reduction of the formal aspects of A to those of B.’’ While not denying that in specific cases this reduction can be carried out, Graves sees no evidence of its universal success.

3. Alfred North Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (New York: Macmillan, 1925), p. 152.

4. In Science and the Modern World, pp. 115-16, Whitehead wrote: "The concrete enduring entities are organisms, so that the plan of the whole influences the very characters of the various subordinate organisms which enter into it. In the case of an animal, the mental states enter into the plan of the total organism and thus modify the plans of the successive subordinate organisms until the ultimate smallest organisms, such as electrons, are reached. Thus an electron within a living body is different from an electron outside it, by reason of the plan of the body. The electron blindly runs either within or without the body; but it runs within the body in accordance with its character within the body; that is to say, in accordance with the general plan of the body, and this plan includes the mental state. But the principle of modification is perfectly general throughout nature, and represents no property peculiar to living bodies."

In Process and Reality, corrected edition, ed. David Ray Griffin and Donald W. Sherburne (New York: The Free Press, 1978), p. 100, Whitehead wrote: "The first stage of systematic investigation must always be identification of analogies between occasions within the society and occasions without it. The second stage is constituted by the more subtle procedure of noting the differences between behavior within and without the society, differences of behavior exhibited by occasions which also have close analogies to each other. The history of science is marked by the vehement, dogmatic denial of such differences, until they are found out.’’

5. Process and Reality, p. 21.

6. The Nature of Physical Existence, p. 309.

7. Ibid., pp. 309-10.

8. Ivor Leclerc, Whitehead’s Metaphysics. An Introductory Exposition (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1958), p. 101.

9. Ibid., p. 110.

10. Ibid.

11. In his presentation at the First International Whitehead Symposium at Bonn, August 25-28, 1981, Leclerc repudiated his earlier interpretation and criticism of Whitehead on this point, recognizing that Whitehead seriously intended to affirm the causal efficacy of past occasions.

12. The Nature of Physical Existence, p. 309.

13. Ibid., p. 310.

14. Ivor Leclerc, ‘‘Some Main Philosophical Issues Involved in Contemporary Scientific Thought," in Mind in Nature, ed. John B. Cobb, Jr., and David Ray Griffin (Washington: University Press of America, 1977), pp. 103-4.

15. The Nature of Physical Existence, p. 311.

16. Ibid., p. 303.

17. Ibid., p. 305.

18. Science and the Modern World, p. 215.

19. Process and Reality, p.323.

20. Ibid., p. 91.

21. Ibid., p. 104.

22. Ibid., pp. 106-7.

23. Ibid., p. 107.

24. A. N. Whitehead, Adventures of Ideas (New York: Macmillan, 1932), p. 262.

25. Process and Reality, p. 109.

26. Charles Hartshorne, "The Compound Individual," in Philosophical Essays for Alfred North Whitehead, ed. F. S. C. Northrop (New York: Russell and Russell, 1936), p. 193.

27. Ibid., p. 194.

28. Ibid., p. 215.

29. Hartshorne’s formulations are sometimes quite similar to this, e.g., a man’s consciousness is everywhere in some limited area in his nervous system, rather than localized in a point." Charles Hartshorne, A Natural Theology for Our Time (LaSalle, Ill.: Open Court, 1967), p. 95.



Response by Charles Hartshorne

Cobb’s account of Whitehead and Leclerc I find highly illuminating. His account of me is entirely acceptable. The issues between Leclerc and Whitehead have always seemed to me rather difficult to grasp. So far as I understand them, they are as Cobb says.

It is true that I am more a metaphysician than a cosmologist (student of the special structures of this cosmic epoch). I know the history of philosophy far better than I do current science, except some small parts of the latter having to do with sensation and animal behavior. I do know with some intimacy what it is to he an empirical scientist, but only as dealing with some very special ranges of phenomena.

Cobb does not mention the fact that my application of the mind-body analogy to the idea of God is Platonic. I refer to the idea of the World Soul in the Timacus. As a Harvard student of philosophy I chose Plato and Spinoza as my special topics in the history of philosophy; and I have always been something of a Platonist; though never much of a Spinozist. I have been strongly influenced by the challenge Spinoza issues to us all to take seriously the question of the modal structure of reality. We should learn from him to choose among: complete necessitarianism or denial of any contingency at all; a wholesale contingency of the system of nondivine things, between the parts of which there is no further contingency; piecemeal contingency among the parts of the system as well as of the system as a whole. Spinoza took the first of these options. But his reasons are unconvincing, once one sees that his definition of God as absolutely infinite substance is either meaningless or contradictory, since there are incompossible yet positive possibilities. As Whitehead saw, and so many have not seen, "all actuality is finite," only possibilities can be absolutely infinite. Definiteness is "the soul of actuality," and definiteness means this but not that, or that but not this, where this and that are alike possible, genuinely conceivable. One cannot prove anything by assuming the logical coherence of the classical idea of an ens realissimum or unsurpassable actuality, for this coherence is in no way known or knowable. In addition the sheer denial of contingency violates the principle of contrast. "Everything is necessary" deprives ‘necessity’ of any distinctive meaning.

Granting contingency, which alternative is more reasonable: within the world there is no contingency, all is tightly interlocked, there are no open possibilities for choice or decision; or there are such inner-worldly open possibilities? That there is this world, not some other, is without ultimate necessity, and so it exists by free choice or mere chance, yet within the world there is no chance or free choice at all -- is this a reasonable view? Theistically it amounts to giving God and God alone effective freedom to decide; for the rest there is just the content of the divine decision. In that case how could we, who have no libertarian freedom, conceive the freedom we attribute to God? Linguistically (linguistic analysts please note) this is an incoherent position. If our apparent freedom to select among truly open possibilities is not genuine, neither can we know what such freedom would be in God.

If all is to be conceived by analogy with our human nature, then either Spinoza is right and the eternal, immutable essence of the cosmic soul necessitates everything in the cosmic body, and there is no chance, randomness, or genuinely open alternatives either within the world or as between this and other possible worlds; or there is freedom both in our decisions and in God’s. Either only the real is possible, or, in both the human and the cosmic mind-body relation, there is contingency. Contingency is not an irrational idea; deductive reason is subsidiary to the ultimate rationality, which, as Whitehead says, is the wise, free creation of novel orders. Causal explanation is misunderstood if taken as the effort to show necessities. Rather it is the effort to show possibilities and impossibilities, so that we avoid wasting our energies attempting the latter and make reasonable choices among the former.

Spinoza does give one a sense of the unity of the world and of the world with God, even though he exaggerated this unity, or conceived it too simply. But his predecessors mostly underestimated the unity in both respects. Above all they attempted to combine belief in divine knowledge devoid of inner contingency or change with the assertion, rejected by Aristotle for clear and logically cogent reasons, that the world known by this knowledge is contingent. Aristotle avoided the contradiction by denying divine knowledge of the contingent aspects of the world, Spinoza, by denying all contingency. There remains the admission of contingency both in the world and in God as knowing that world. Socinus took this remaining option and Spinoza noted the fact. Too bad that so few others did note it. They might have learned something. For, unlike Spinoza. they were unwilling to deny all contingency.

I do not comment in detail on Cobb’s paper. He is as clear as I can be about the things he discusses. It is gratifying to be so well understood as I feel I have been by the four former students participating in this volume, the other three being Peters, Alston, and Ogden.

Chapter 7: Hartshorne and Peirce: Individuals and Continuity by Manley Thompson

Manley Thompson is professor philosophy at the University of Chicago..



Peirce scholars are indebted to Charles Hartshorne not only for his work in coediting with Paul Weiss the first six volumes of the Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce,1 but also for three stimulating papers on Peirce’s theory of categories.2 In the second of these papers (1964) Professor Hartshorne argues that ‘Peirce’s greatest single mistake . . was his ‘Synechism’, which consisted in trying to make continuity the key principle to every relationship, both of actuality and possibility" (MR, 467). This same theme is argued again in the most recent paper (1980). I want to explore briefly Peirce’s use of continuity in his account of individual existence and then to review this account in the light of Professor Hartshorne’s criticisms.

I.

"Our initial hypothesis,’’ Hartshorne declares, "should be that actuality is discrete, but with our minds open among the unlimited conceptual, but mutually incompatible possibilities for discontinuity,"; Peirce, on the contrary, "wanted actuality . . . to be continuous" (M, 286). Yet as Hartshorne, of course, realized, Peirce clearly wanted it both ways. Actuality is in a sense discrete and in a sense continuous. As Pierce developed his position, actuality or existence is the mode of being of individuals as opposed to reality, which is the mode of being of universals. According to his preferred definition, "an individual is something which reacts" (3.6l3).3 Actuality (existence, secondness) consists in reactions, and reactions as instantaneous must be discrete. After giving his preferred definition of an individual, Peirce remarks that it is no objection to the definition that it makes an individual unintelligible, for an individual is unintelligible in the sense proclaimed by the definition. As he declares about this time (1902-3), in another context, "An existing thing [an individual] is simply a blind reacting thing to which not merely all generality, but even all representation is utterly foreign" (5.107).

The unintelligibility of individuals as discrete existences is emphasized again and again in Peirce’s later writings, and he was well aware that with this position he was left with the problem of explaining how we can ever talk about individuals -- how we can ever represent them. We experience them through sensations of brute reaction, and these sensations are not re-presentable. I am groping my way about in the dark. My outstretched hand meets a solid object that resists further forward movement of my arm. The resistance that I feel -- the sensation of reaction -- is something absolutely discrete and individual. When I put my withdrawn arm forward a second time, I may say I feel it again, but the "it" in this case refers to the object I take to be causing the resistance and not to the sensation of reaction I felt a moment before. In judging that I feel the object again, I assume that the object, unlike my initial sensation of reaction, continued to exist during the interval between my first and second sensations. I say that I had different sensations of the same individual object. I have thus said something about an individual and not merely experienced it through sensations of reaction, but I have done so only by invoking continuity as well as discreteness. I represent the individual as having continued existence through time while my sensations of reacting with it remain instantaneous and discrete. My representation is cognitive, intelligible, judgmental. It may be false. The object I felt the second time may not be the object I felt the first time, no matter how short the interval between my two sensations. But my sensations are noncognitive, unintelligible, nonjudgmental. They are neither true nor false; they simply are. An individual taken simply as that which reacts is simply that which is experienced in a sensation of reaction. As such it is unintelligible, unrepresentable.

Peirce seems to have had considerations like the above in mind when, after defining an individual as something which reacts, he went on to proclaim that "everything whose identity consists in a continuity of reactions will be a single logical individual" (3.613). If the identity of an individual consists in its reactions, it retains its identity -- remains one and the same individual -- only to the extent that it continually reacts. My judgment that I felt the same individual twice can be tine only if the individual retains its identity during the interval that separates my two sensations. But I can represent it as thus retaining its identity only by thinking of it as continuing to react during the interval, even though it is not reacting with me. For my judgment implies that if I had put my arm forward at any point during the interval I would have reacted with the object at that point. The object was then reacting with something (with the air or other objects in its surroundings) and it would still have been reacting with me if I had been in an appropriate position. If I think of the object as having ceased to react during the interval, I think of it as having ceased to exist, and I must then judge that my second sensation is of a different object.

Murray Murphey finds Peirce’s declaration that individual identity consists in a continuity of reactions to be inconsistent with ‘‘either the definition of reaction or of continuity -- there cannot be a continuum of instantaneous events."4 Peirce, of course, entertained different definitions of continuity, and his views on the subject changed. When he gave his definition of individual identity, the view of continuity he had in mind would seem to be the "common sense" one he came to through a modification of Kant’s definition ‘‘that a continuum is that of which every part has itself parts of the same kind" (6.168). While this definition, Peirce adds, "seems to be correct . . . it must not be confounded (as Kant himself confounded it) with infinite divisibility." For it "implies that a line, for example, contains no points until the continuity is broken by marking the points." It thus ‘‘seems necessary to say that a continuum, where it is continuous and unbroken, contains no definite parts; that its parts are created in the act of defining them and the precise definition of them breaks the continuity.’’ Peirce ends the paragraph by remarking that this ‘‘common sense idea of continuity" is not that found in "the calculus and theory of functions," according to which continuity "is only a collection of independent points."5

Whatever Peirce meant by declaring individual identity to consist in a continuity of reactions, he did not mean that it consists in a collection of independent reactions. The point is not that each reaction consists of shorter reactions, or that between any two reactions there is always a shorter. Infinite divisibility in this context can never yield more than a collection of independent reactions. The point is rather that indicated by a remark he makes to underscore his contrast between the common-sense idea of continuity and that found in the calculus and theory of functions. "Breaking grains of sand more and more will only make the sand more broken. It will not weld the grains into unbroken continuity" (6.168). Peirce wants a notion of individual identity according to which reactions are welded into unbroken continuity.

The inconsistencies Murphey finds in Peirce’s attempt to define individual identity are unavoidable if one begins with the assumption that the identity of an individual consists in a collection of independent reactions. The infinite divisibility of every item in the collection will not weld the items into an unbroken continuity that constitutes the identity of an individual. Peirce, as I read him, never made this assumption. The assumption he made instead is that the existence of an individual, but not its individual identity, consists simply in reaction, opposition, pure secondness. "[T]he mode of being of the individual thing is existence; and existence lies in opposition merely" (1.458). An individual in its mode of being is thus unintelligible; it is experienced, bumped up against, reacted with, but never cognized as an identical object. Cognition always involves thirdness, the mode of being of a universal or general idea. While ‘‘a reaction may be experienced . . . it cannot be conceived in its character of a reaction; for that element evaporates from every general idea" (3.613). Yet this is not to say that we have no concept of individual existence, that we cannot conceive of it in general. ‘Existence, though brought about by dyadism, or opposition, as its proper determination, yet, when brought about, lies abstractly and in itself considered, within itself" (1.461, Peirce’s emphasis). We thus come to the concept of "numerical identity, which is a dyadic relation of a subject to itself of which nothing but an existent individual is capable." This identity, unlike that "of a quality with itself" is not "empty verbiage" but "a positive fact." Red is always red and never anything else, but an individual that is now red may change its color. Yet, no matter how much its qualities change, an individual does not lose its numerical, its individual, identity. "Throughout all vicissitudes its oppositions to other things remain intact, although they may be accidentally modified; and therein is manifest the positive character of identity."6

The subtle point Peirce seems to be urging here is the difference between experiencing individuality (existence, actuality) and conceptualizing that experience. As experienced, individuality is simply a sensation of brute reaction, and as such it is unintelligible. As conceptualized it is simply that which reacts, an individual, and as such it is intelligible as that which remains numerically one and the same throughout its reactions. This is not to say, however, that since an individual retains its identity whatever its reactions may be, its identity is intelligible without reference to its reactions. Existence consists in reaction, and an individual maintains its identity only as long as it exists. But since it always exists through a time and reactions are instantaneous, its identity is not that of a single reaction. But then how is a collection of reactions welded into a single individual?

For Peirce, this is like asking how a collection of points is welded into a single line. The question is put the wrong way round. One begins with the notion of a line and asks how it consists in a collection of points. The answer then is that the identity of a line consists in an unbroken continuity of points, but that none of its properties is determined until certain of its points are actually fixed, e.g., by specifying numbers or laying down certain conditions for a geometrical construction. There is no question about how the points once they are fixed are welded into a line. One begins with the concept of line identity and fixes points in order to determine properties of a particular line. When two points are fixed, the identity of the line connecting them consists in an unbroken continuity of intervening points. As such, the points on the line are already welded into a line and actually fixing any of them simply breaks the continuity. It is senseless to ask how these fixed points are welded into a line, for there is no question of constructing the line out of fixed points but only of fixing points on the line. It is of course impossible actually to fix them all, even with the completion of an infinite enumeration, since their multitude is nondenumerable. The properties of a line are determined only by fixing points. But its identity as a line does not consist in a continuity of fixed points; it consists in the unbroken continuity of all the points on the line.

In this geometrical illustration, a point by itself apart from the concept of a line is unintelligible. It is the geometrical analogue of a reaction. Just as one has first the concept of line identity and then fixes points in order to determine properties of a particular line, one has first the concept of individual identity and then experiences a reaction that determines properties of a particular individual. When my outstretched hand meets a solid object as I grope my way about in the dark, the reaction fixes a "point" in my spatial environment. I already have the concept of individual identity. The reaction I experience is individual and discrete; as such it is unintelligible. But through the concept of individual identity, I conceptualize the experience as an encounter with an individual existent.

It is not necessary for this conceptualization that I experience more than a single reaction and then judge that I encountered the same object twice. The conceptualization is not simply an objectification of the sensation of reaction, merely the conceiving of this sensation as a single instantaneous object. The sensation itself is not the object with which I react, but something in me and not something outside of my consciousness that opposes me. To take the conceptualization in question here as simply the objectification of the sensation would be to conflate what Peirce called ‘‘the feeling-element of sense with ‘‘the compulsion, the insistency, that characterizes experience" (6.340). With conceptualization merely of the feeling-element, I could say only that I felt hardness or solidity. I could not say that I felt a hard or solid individual object. In conceptualizing the object I cannot take its individual identity to consist in its hardness, solidity, or any other quality. The qualities of an individual, "however permanent [and peculiar] they may be, neither help nor hinder its individual existence . . . they are but accidents, that is to say, they are not involved in the mode of being of the thing; for the mode of being of the individual thing is existence; and existence lies in opposition merely" (1.458).

To conceptualize the object merely as that which stands in opposition to me -- to my sensation -- I must conceive of it as opposed to sensation in a respect that is both basic to sensation and yet has nothing to do with sensory qualities. The only thing basic to sensation apart from its feeling-element is the respect in which it involves a sense of reaction, and in this respect "it does not involve the sense of time (i.e. not of a continuum)" (8.41). It is sensed as discrete and instantaneous. The respect in which I conceive of an individual object as distinct from my reaction with it is then that I conceive of the former but not the latter as retaining an identity through time. When I judge on the basis of a single reaction that there is an object there in the dark I have bumped against, I must apply the concept of individual identity as consisting in a continuity of reactions. I cannot conceive of the identity of the object as consisting in the single reaction I experienced, for a single reaction as such is unintelligible. Individual existence is intelligible, as opposed to being merely experienceable, only as something that persists through time. And this persistence is intelligible only as a continuity of reactions; a collection of discrete reactions can never be welded into an individual identity.

Actuality or existence is thus discrete in the sense that "the compulsion, the insistency, that characterizes experience" is discrete, but it is continuous in the sense that an individual existent retains its identity through time. It seems to me that Peirce’s use of continuity in his account of individual existence as I have sketched it is open to some but not to all of the criticisms Hartshorne has urged against it. I turn now to these criticisms.

II.

Hartshorne objects (1) that although Peirce "had an ontology of relations in the idea of relative actualities, he lacked any definite terms or subjects for the relations. There seems to be a succession of experiences, but (if the succession is a continuum) there are no single experiences" (M, 286); (2) that Peirce "fell into a subtle but complete mistake" when he held that since "continuity leaves open possibilities which discontinuity excludes . . . the burden of proof is upon discontinuity" (MR, 467-68); (3) that ‘‘he could not, in the continuum of becoming which he posited, give meaning to the idea of a definite single event" (M, 287).

(1) The first objection, I think, is the one against which Peirce has the clearest defense. The succession of experiences is discrete as a succession of sensations of reactions, and there are single experiences in this sense. But as single the experiences are unintelligible. Intelligibility is obtained through the concept of individual identity as consisting in a continuity of reactions. With this concept Peirce could account for definite singular terms in general, though he could not with his "pragmaticistic"7 theory of meaning distinguish one such term from another as he could distinguish one general term from another. ‘[I]t must be admitted," he wrote, "that pragmaticism fails to furnish any translation or meaning of a proper name, or other designation of an individual object" (5.429). Yet this failure does not prevent the pragmaticist from granting "that a proper name . . . has a certain denotative function peculiar to that name and its equivalents’’ and ‘‘that every assertion contains such a denotative or pointing-out function." While this function "in its peculiar individuality" must be excluded from "the rational purport of the assertion . . . the like of it, being common to all assertions, and so, being general and not individual, may enter into the pragmatistic purport." The generality intended here is supplied by Peirce’s concept of individual identity. His next sentence is: "Whatever exists, ex-sists, that is, really acts upon other existents, so obtains a self-identity, and is definitely individual.’’

The denotative function of a proper name that enters into the pragmaticistic purport (the intelligibility) of every assertion is the function performed in quantificational logic by individual variables. When a variable is replaced by a proper name or other designation of an individual, no new element of intelligibility is added. The function performed by individual variables in general is then performed by one symbol in particular. It is the function of singling out a subject of which a certain general term or predicate is true. The function is the same whether the subject is any, at least some one or other, or only a single individual. What is singled out is intelligible not as an individual in its individuality (what Peirce sometimes called a "hecceity"8 but only as that which continually reacts through a period of time and thereby remains one and the same.

With this denotative function common to all assertions Peirce has a way of accounting for definite terms or subjects for relations. Complications arise when an individual is considered to be spatial as well as temporal. But these complications relate to Hartshorne’s third objection, and I will postpone consideration of them here.

(2) Peirce’s defense against the second objection, that he fell into a subtle but complete mistake when he thought the burden of proof was with discontinuity, lies in his use of Kant’s distinction between what is constitutive and what is merely regulative of experience. In the passage Hartshorne cites, Peirce is concerned with proclamations of discontinuity as assumptions that "block the road of inquiry" (1.170). His examples are the questions of how one mind can act on another and how one particle of matter can act on another at a distance from it. He objects to what he calls the "nominalistic" assumption that, because there is ultimate discontinuity between one mind and another, and between one particle and another, these questions are absolutely unanswerable. He acknowledges that, with the state of physics at the time of his writing (c. 1897), we can only say "that we know that one thing does act on another but that how it takes place we cannot very well tell." But this uncertainty in no way licenses the assumption that, since we have not succeeded in telling exactly how they act on each other at a distance, particles of matter must be ultimately discontinuous. Such an assumption blocks the road of inquiry, whereas the assumption that all particles of matter may be continuous leaves the road open to the possibility of eventually explaining action at a distance, starting with the hypothesis "that one portion of matter acts upon another because it is in a measure in the same place."

Peirce remarks in the next paragraph: "The principle of continuity is the idea of fallibilism objectified. For fallibilism is the doctrine that our knowledge is never absolute but always swims, as it were, in a continuum of uncertainty and of indeterminacy. Now the doctrine of continuity is that all things so swim in continua" (I. 171, Peirce’s emphasis).

From these remarks, it would seem that fallibilism is the regulative principle that no hypothesis should be regarded as absolutely determinate and certain, while the doctrine of continuity, or "synechism," as Peirce usually called it, is the corresponding constitutive principle that the things constituting reality are never absolutely determinate and discrete. But this view conflicts with a later statement (1902): "Synechism is not an ultimate and absolute metaphysical doctrine; it is a regulative principle of logic, prescribing what sort of hypothesis is fit to be entertained and examined" (6.173). I do not think the conflict here is serious. The word ‘fallibilism’ occurs in the Collected Papers as the expression of a doctrine only in 1.171 and in another fragment (1.8-14) of the same date (c. 1897), and I have never seen the word used in this way in writings not included in the Collected Papers. Even in 1. 170 Peirce advocated the assumption of continuity in things (minds and particles of matter) because it avoided blocking the road of inquiry. He did not also claim that it was metaphysically true. So even here the assumption is, in the Kantian sense,9 regulative of inquiry rather than constitutive of experience. Constitutively, experience is discrete; it is constituted by sensations of brute reaction. But as such it is unintelligible. Intelligibility arises only when reactions are followed by judgments concerning what is experienced, and judgments as regulated by the principle of continuity are always fallible. The judgment that one particle of matter is spatially separated from another may be true in a sense but false when taken as implying an absolute separation in reality.

Although Peirce’s use of the regulative/constitutive distinction may provide a reason for his belief that the burden of proof is with discontinuity, I think there is more than a use of this distinction underlying Hartshorne’s charge that with the belief Peirce fell into a subtle but complete mistake. The further issue, however, seems to me best approached in the light of Hartshorne’s third objection.

(3) In discussing the first objection, I remarked that complications arise with Peirce’s account of definite terms or subjects for relations when an individual is considered to be spatial as well as temporal. After declaring that "everything whose identity consists in a continuity of reactions will be a single logical individual," Peirce explained: "Thus any portion of space, so far as it can be regarded as reacting, is for logic a single individual; its spatial extension is no objection" (3.613). But how is a portion of space to be determined, and how are we to decide when it can be regarded as reacting? A few sentences later Peirce remarks that "space is nothing but the intuitional presentation of the conditions of reaction, or of some of them." This remark suggests a Kantian position according to which space is the form of Outer sense. Whatever is outer, external to my consciousness, and therefore capable of reacting against me, is spatial. As long as my outstretched hand continues to encounter resistance as I move it about spatially, I determine a portion of space I regard as reacting and judge to be a single individual.

Peirce never accepted just this Kantian position, but he remained close to it. While he rejected the view that space and time are forms of intuition, he retained the Kantian notion of outer and inner sense corresponding, respectively, to space and time (cf. 8.41, 8.330). He thus was prevented by his philosophical position from conceiving of space-time as a four-dimensional continuum. Peircean individuals, like Newtonian and Kantian particles, are located in space and time, not in space-time. I see no defense for Peirce against Hartshorne’s third objection, that he could not give meaning to the idea of a definite single event. For the idea Hartshorne intends here, I think, is that of an event in space-time, and Peirce could give no meaning to this idea because in his philosophy he lacked any notion of space-time. I suggest that it is to the reason for this lack rather than, as Hartshorne avers, to an "uncritical love for continuity" (M, 286), that we should look when we want to account for Peirce’s failure to develop the idea of a definite single event. I will return to this point shortly.

III.

I remarked that I think there is more than a use of the regulative/constitutive distinction underlying the objection that Peirce places the burden of proof on discontinuity. The further issue is the basically epistemological and Kantian orientation of Peirce’s philosophy, early and late. Like Kant in his critical period, Peirce’s initial philosophical stance is that of a knower with human cognitive faculties for processing given input into cognitions of reality. Reality is then what is represented in the final output of the unlimited community of such knowers. But then how is the reality of the original unprocessed input to be explained? If this input has no contact with reality, if it is not in itself real, how can any processing of such input, even when indefinitely prolonged, result in a representation of reality?

These questions present no special difficulty if one’s philosophical stance is external to the human knowers one is considering as subjects; if, in other words, one speaks of knowers only in the third person. Original input is then simply the stimulation of a subject’s sensory receptors; there is no question of its reality because it is in direct causal contact with reality. Nor need there be a question of how the subject is conscious of the stimulations, since with a third-person perspective one may remain a radical behaviorist and agree with Quine: "What to count as observation now can be settled in terms of the stimulation of sensory receptors, let consciousness fall where it may."10 But the question of consciousness can of course not be dismissed when the philosophical stance is that of oneself as a human knower; and if cognitive consciousness is always the result of processing an input, as it appears to be with Kant’s doctrine of synthesis, consciousness of the input cannot be a cognition of reality. Any such cognition from this first-person perspective will be output. As Barry Stroud has put it recently, ‘‘In my own case I have nothing but ‘output’ to work with."11

In his early papers on cognitive faculties, Peirce held that every cognition was determined by a previous cognition. There was thus only output. He argued that the assumption of an absolutely first cognition (one not determined by previous cognitions) is no more required to account for the fact of cognition than the assumption of an absolutely first distance to be traversed is required to account for the fact that Achilles overtakes the tortoise (cf. 5.263). The argument leaves untouched the question of how a cognition is ever in contact with reality and not just with previous cognitions. With regard to this argument alone, it might seem plausible to think of Peirce as misled by an uncritical love for continuity. He seems to have seen only the logical problem of accounting for the completion in a finite time of a process for which it is impossible to specify an absolutely first beginning. He missed entirely the epistemological problem of explaining how cognition is initially in contact with reality. But if it was from an uncritical love of continuity that he missed the problem, it was also from a love of what he regarded, by the time had come to see the problem, as a confusion of infinite divisibility with tine continuity.12

In Peirce’s later philosophy, cognition is initially in contact with reality via a perceptual judgment, which is "the cognitive product of a reaction" (5.156). As we have already noted, reaction in its mode of being as an existent is unintelligible. What is intelligible is not its existence but its individual identity as consisting in a continuity of reactions. Yet the continuity here is not the infinite divisibility of discrete items in a collection but the unbroken continuity that welds the items into the identity of an individual. Continuity in this sense is regulative of experience which, constitutively, is discrete, being nothing but sensations of reactions. Input as input is simply the brute reaction of experience; its contact with reality is immediate, for existence simply consists in reaction. But any judgment as to individual identity is output and is regulated by its principle of continuity.

With a basically metaphysical stance, on the contrary, what is viewed constitutively is not experiential contact with reality but reality itself. Reality is then constitutively continuous as possibility or potentiality, but in actuality it is discrete. To place the burden of proof on the assumption that there is ever discontinuity is then tantamount to skepticism as to whether there is any ultimate actuality -- whether there is a real external world as opposed to the infinite possibilities realizable in thought. This attitude toward discontinuity inevitably appears as skepticism when one begins with a metaphysical stance that takes a real world of existing actualities as given. The reverse is the case, however, with Peirce’s epistemological stance. Nothing existential is given but sensations of reaction that give rise to cognition of reality. With this cognition, reactions are welded into a continuity of reactions constituting an individual identity, and an individual is cognized as instantiating a real universal or law. The reality of a law does not consist in a collection of independent individuals any more than a line consists in a collection of independent points. A real law, like a line, is an unbroken continuum.13 Ultimate discontinuity, with this epistemological stance, is ultimate inexplicability, brute facts unrelated by laws. Any hypothesis of ultimate discontinuity blocks the road of inquiry and appears as dogmatic skepticism -- -a proclamation of absolutely unknowable reality. Hypotheses of this sort are excluded from inquiry regulated by synechism.

It is not enough with Peirce’s epistemology to say merely that "an individual is something which reacts." The essential point epistemologically is "that it might react, or have reacted, against my will" (3.613; cf. 8.41). It is only as it reacts against my will (e.g., my will to move straight ahead in the dark) that I receive input from which I construct cognitions that for me determine reality. As reacting against my will, an individual must exist external to me, and I must therefore conceive of it as located outside my consciousness. This location cannot be temporal, for its reaction against my will and the sensation I internally experience occur at the same time. As external to me, it must have spatial location; it must be "a portion of space" that ‘‘can be regarded as reacting." When I conceive of its individual identity as consisting in a continuity of reactions, I am conceiving of a portion of space continually reacting.14

If I were to say instead "a portion of space-time," I would have no way to draw the epistemological distinction between internal and external that is central to the Kantian orientation of Peirce’s philosophy. If I were to conceive of both myself and the object as world-lines in space-time that intersect on the occasions when the object reacts against me, I would view myself as an object in the world of existents and there would be nothing external to me in the epistemological sense of an external world. I would have no reason to conceive of the object as having an identity consisting in the continuity of the reactions of a portion of space while I conceived of my own identity quite differently.15 I would have the idea of a definite single event as an event in space-time, and I could conceive of both my own identity and that of the object as consisting in a collection of events. Though discrete, the events would not be independent but internally related, for unlike Peircean reactions and mathematical points they would not be in themselves unintelligible. Such events through their internal relations are "welded into an individual identity," to borrow Peirce’s language. There is no need to conceive of the identity as consisting in an unbroken continuity -- as something whose mode of being is distinct from the mode of being of the events. The fact that Peirce conceived of individual identity in this way is not, I would urge, simply the result of an uncritical love for continuity. It is rather the result of a basically Kantian orientation that permeated his philosophy and rendered the notion of space-time foreign to his thought.

I want to close with some brief comments in which I expand a bit on what I mean by a Kantian orientation and its philosophical consequences.

IV.

I do not intend by my remarks about space-time to imply that, if Peirce had known relativity physics, he would have given up his notion of individual identity as consisting in a continuity of reactions and accepted the idea of a definite single event as intelligible by itself. I do not know whether he would have done this or not, since I believe that with his pragmatism he might have accommodated relativity physics without altering his epistemology, though I cannot go into the question here.16 What seems to me clear is that the philosophical issues underlying Hartshorne’s criticisms of Peirce cannot be settled by theories of physics or the mathematics of continuity. I will try to give some indication of what I mean, starting with a few remarks by Whitehead.

In the Preface to Process and Reality Whitehead declared that "in the main the philosophy of organism is a recurrence to pre-Kantian modes of thought."17 Later in the work he explained: ‘‘The philosophy of organism is the inversion of Kant’s philosophy. The Critique of Pure Reason describes the process by which subjective data pass into the appearance of an objective world. . . . For Kant, the world emerges from the subject; for the philosophy of organism, the subject emerges from the world."18 With Peirce’s pragmatic definition of reality, the world emerges from the inquiry of the unlimited community. But such inquiry presupposes individual inquirers who process given input into cognitive output that to some extent represents a determination of reality. The concept of individual identity as consisting in a continuity of reactions functions as a regulative principle for the process that renders the output (ultimately the world) intelligible. In the pre-Kantian philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, individual substances have specific identity by participating in or being essentially constituted by intelligible form, and rational subjects emerge (are actualized) in the apprehension of such form. The apprehension constitutes the actualization of the subjects but not of the world.

There are, to be sure, aspects of Peirce’s philosophy that appear to represent a return to pre-Kantian modes of thought, notably his "scholastic realism." But his is a unique sort of scholastic realism; its orientation is epistemological rather than metaphysical. Real universals are defined with reference to the output of scientific inquiry rather than to the input that makes such inquiry possible. Pace Whitehead, Peirce has real universals emerging from inquiry rather than inquiry emerging from real universals. His "scholastic realism," despite appearances to the contrary, hardly represents a return to pre-Kantian modes of thought. I think a similar remark holds for his cosmic evolution, his logic of events, his objective idealism, and other parts of his metaphysics, although I admit that the point needs to be argued.

The notion of space-time is not difficult to fit into pre-Kantian modes of thought. In a recent elementary text on relativity physics, the author begins with space-time as "the collection of all possible events" and proceeds to develop the notion first in terms of what he calls "Aristotelianized spacetime."19 I have difficulty conceiving of Kantianized space-time, and I suspect Peirce would have too. But I do not think the philosophical issues concerning the epistemological role Kant assigned to space and time as forms, respectively, of outer and inner sense, are simply resolved by introducing the notion of space-time in physics. Whether in philosophy one should conceive of actuality as comprising individuals that maintain their identity in portions of space continually reacting through time, or as comprising events in space-time, is not a question of physics or of mathematics. Hartshorne’s criticisms of Peirce seem to me to assume that the second alternative is the philosophically sound one.



Notes

1. Charles Hartshorne and Paul Weiss, eds., The Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1931-58). Volumes 7 and 8 were edited by Arthur W. Burks.

2. "The Relativity of Nonrelativity: Some Reflections on Firstness," Studies in the Philosophy of Charles Sanders Peirce, ed. Philip P. Wiener and Frederic H. Young (Cambridge; Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1952), pp. 215-24. "Charles Peirce’s ‘One Contribution to Philosophy’ and His Most Serious Mistake," in Studies in the Philosophy of Charles Sanders Peirce, second series, ed. Edward C. Moore and Richard S. Robin (Amherst, Mass.: University of Massachusetts Press, 1964), pp. 455-74. References to this paper are given in the text as MR followed by page number. "A Revision of Peirce’s Categories,’’ Monist 63, no. 3 (1980):277-89. References to this paper are given in the text as M followed by page number.

3. This reference is to volume 3, paragraph 613 of the Collected Papers of Charles Sanders Peirce. All references in the text to this work are given in this fashion. In contrast to his preferred definition, Peirce gave a "more formal’’ one: "an individual is an object (or term) not only actually determinate in respect to having or wanting each general character and not both having and wanting any, but is necessitated by its mode of being to be so determinate’’ (3.611). I have discussed these two definitions in "Peirce’s Conception of an Individual," in Pragmatism and Purpose: Essays Presented to Thomas A. Goudge (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1981), pp. 133-48.

4. Murray G. Murphey, The Development of Peirce’s Philosophy (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1961), p. 398.

5. Peirce elsewhere referred to this mathematical idea of continuity as yielding a ‘‘pseudo-continuum." Cf. 6.176.

6. In his logical algebra and logical graphs, Peirce regarded identity as a second intentional relation (cf. 2.315, 2.548, 3.398, 3.490, 4.80 ff.). But he never confused this logical notion of identity ("things are identical" when every predicate is true of both or false of both’’ [3.398]) with the notion of individual identity through time, which is at issue here.

7. In his later writings (1905 and afterwards) Peirce sometimes referred to his own position as ‘‘pragmaticism" to distinguish it from what James and others were calling "pragmatism." Cf. 5.414.

8. Hecceities are "determinations not of a generalizable nature" (3.612).

9. That Peirce had Kant in mind when he spoke of a regulative principle is indicated by his reference to Kant in 3.612.

10. W. V. Quine, Ontological Relativity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1969), p. 84.

11. Barry Stroud, "The Significance of Naturalized Epistemology," Midwest Studies in Philosophy, VI, ed. Peter A. French, Theodore E. Uehling, Jr., Howard K. Wettstein (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1981), p. 464.

12. Cf. 6.168, where Peirce says he himself initially fell into Kant’s confusion of continuity with infinite divisibility.

13. I have discussed this point in "Peirce’s Verificationist Realism," Review of Metaphysics 32, no. I (1978):74-98.

14. I ignore here the question of motion, which requires identifying portions of space in a way that allows for change of relative position. Such identification must be given by scientific laws. I consider this question in my "Peirce’s Verificationist Realism."

15. Cf., e.g., the remarks on the nature of a person in 5.421 and the remarks in 6.338 beginning: ‘‘All thought is dialogic inform."

16. I have in mind passages like 5.496, in which the relations between metaphysics and epistemology are reassessed in the light of pragmatism.

17. A. N. Whitehead, Process and Reality (New York: Macmillan,

1929), p. vi.

18. Ibid., pp. 135 -- 36.

19. Robert Geroch, General Relativity from A to B (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), p. 11.



Response by Charles Hartshorne

Manley Thompson has chosen to deal with an extremely subtle aspect of Peirce’s philosophy. So far as I can judge, his account of Peirce’s view is essentially faithful to the evidence in Peirce’s writings. Peirce did make use of a rather unusual notion of individual identity as analogous to a continuous "line," a continuity, of reactions. Continuity here means, as Thompson says, "containing no definite parts," such as points. Now this is why I have trouble finding in Peirce’s doctrine definite terms for definite spatial or temporal relations. If individual X reacts now to a remembered past experience (as in what Peirce calls immediate memory), it is the individual now that reacts to the individual then. But with continuous change what is the now? A point-instant? Thompson’s discussion seems to limit "reaction" to transactions with simultaneous or contemporary entities; but Peirce as I read him allows memory (as in surprise) to instantiate secondness or reaction.

The lack of definite parts is the reason for Peirce’s denial that we ever, in a single definite experience, intuit or know a single other definite experience. Hence his rejection of the claim to immediate intuition. Always we are remembering an infinite series of remembering of remembering of . . . whatever we want to intuit, no matter how close to the present it is. And always, if we first intuit red and then yellow, we have, in any finite time, however short, gone through a continuum of intermediate hues. It is such contentions that seem to me to indicate an attachment to continuity. Thompson may be right, and I believe he is, that Peirce had other reasons or inclinations (including an influence of Kant) supporting his conclusion; but it is demonstrable from his own language in praise of the wonders of continuity that he did have this reason. So did his father, as the latter’s philosophical writings show.

It is hardly mere coincidence that Peirce not only had no encounter with quantum theory, with its emphasis on discontinuity, but that he did not want physics to develop any such theory. He tried to derive indications from his philosophy concerning suitable further developments in physics. This was to be one of the tests of the philosophy. Yet he never dreamed of anything like quantum physics. This is all the more remarkable in that it was the introduction of quanta which first caused physicists generally to take seriously the idea, so courageously defended by Peirce, of a tychistic or random aspect of the physical world. As Thompson says, Peirce had an argument favoring his synechism: since all things swim in continua, measurement is inevitably inexact, more or less indefinite or approximate, so that absolute determinism could never be observationally confirmed. I see a subtle error here. True, where continuity is in question, exact measurement is out of the question, whereas quanta can in theory be counted. However, the combination of quanta and continuity is, if possible, even more obviously recalcitrant to exact observation than either is alone. And the point is that laws, to be useful, must deal with possibilities as well as actualities, and the ultimate possibilities are, as Peirce rightly says, continuous. The wave functions of quantum theory illustrate this.

Consider light reflection. The amount of light going through a glass depends on the angle of incidence. The angle can presumably vary continuously. Alter the angle slightly, and more or fewer photons will be reflected in a given time; alter it sufficiently slightly, and it may not be enough to cause a single added or subtracted photon. What it will do is alter the probability of such an addition or subtraction. Consider the all-or-none law in neurology. Alteration in the forces at a synapse means either no change, or a fixed finite amount of change, beyond the synapse. Again, the law must be a probability law as to the number of discharges, each of fixed amount. Still again, an atom of uranium decays into an atom of lead -- when? No law prescribes the time for a single atom. But half of a large collection of such atoms will decay in a time fixed by the law. Probabilistic causality fits the case, not classical causality. Did Peirce realize this consequence of quanta? It favors his tychism at least as well as his synechistic view does.

Thompson mentions another argument that I consider fallacious -- that continuity allows for all possibilities, whereas discontinuity excludes some possibilities, so that we should initially approach reality with the completely open idea of continuity. But sheer continuity excludes an infinite variety of possible discontinuities and is thus the most exclusive view of all, unless discontinuity is simply impossible, inconceivable. Peirce himself in "The Logic of Continuity" seems to argue that it is primordial possibility that is continuous and that actualization consists in introducing some kind of discreteness, as when we draw a chalk line on a continuous blackboard.

I am puzzled by Thompson’s suggestion that Peirce can talk about definite experiences as sensations of reaction, whereas the continuity is in the reactions, not the sensations. Would Peirce’s argument against definite intuitions then not hold?

Thompson is right of course that synechism was put forth by Peirce as regulative, not constitutive. The arguments given were indeed for it as regulative, yet even as such the arguments seem misleading. The very idea of atomism, so immensefully fruitful in the history of science, was always a kind of departure from synechism, so far as I can see. I suspect the better regulative principle is to seek the right combination of continuous possibilities and discrete actualities. The wave-particle complementarity seems to indicate what this amounts to. "Wavicle" is perhaps a good term for the idea.

The important argument for synechism -- that merely discrete entities cannot intelligibly influence each other -- is not necessarily unambiguous in excluding all discreteness. We have here the question of internal relations. It is of first importance not to forget that Peirce is definitely and unambiguously committed both to external and to internal relations. His definition of firstness is one of the most precise definitions in the literature of the idea of external or nonconstitutive relation, and the definition of secondness is equally precise as definitive of internal or constitutive relations, except for the arbitrary limitation to dependence upon just one other entity. In my revision of the categories I remove this limitation. Events, as I construe Peirce (also Whitehead), depend on their predecessors; perhaps they depend also on their contemporaries (Peirce is less clear as to that), but not on their successors. Relations to the future are not to particular later events but to more or less general aspects of the future as expressed by probabilistic laws, laws tolerant of a tychistic aspect. Peirce suggests that things are where they act, but it does not follow that things act, or are, everywhere throughout space and time. We cannot act on our remote ancestors, and are not in their world at all, though they are in ours, which is why we can talk about them as they could not about us.

Peirce was an immense genius, but he was a physicist perched in a world with a physics about to change to the foundations. Thompson wrote in his book on Peirce that Peirce’s idea of existence calls for clarification in the direction of an Aristotelian or similar conception of individual substances. I agree that clarification is needed, but perhaps it should be in a less traditional direction, or, taking the Orient into account, in a more Buddhistic direction, into a clear doctrine of change as succession of acts of becoming, not instantaneous but unitary.

Peirce’s phrase "the logic of events’’ points forward to contemporary physics and Whitehead, as much as, if not more than, back to Aristotle or other pre-quantum thinkers. Note, too, that Peirce greatly admired Buddhism and made declarations that in some ways are the most nearly Buddhistic to be found in American philosophy before Whitehead. Here the influence of synechism was relatively helpful. We are, as Saint Paul had it, "members one of another."

A strong argument against unqualified synechism is given by Von Wright. Peirce himself somewhere says that an individual is determinate, conforming to the law of excluded middle as to predicates; but he also says, and by his tychism must say, that according to this definition there are no individuals, strictly speaking. Now Von Wright argues that continuous change makes it impossible to have any wholly definite actuality. In any time, however short, a subject will be first P and then not-P, with respect to some predicate or other. With continuous change, only in an instant could this contradiction or violation of excluded middle be avoided, but then in an instant nothing can happen. Time does not consist of instants. Would Peirce have accepted this? Whitehead had a somewhat different form of Zeno argument.

Peirce admired Aristotle as cordially as anyone ever has, calling him "by far the greatest intellect" in human history. I incline to call Peirce the greatest modern Aristotelian. But he wanted to go beyond Aristotle. In his theory of time as "objective modality," in some aspects of his theories of firstness, secondness, and thirdness and of his synechism, I think he did so. But perhaps one has to go further still away from Aristotle. Once when I was standing beside Bochensky and he heard me remark to a third person, "Reality consists of events," Bochensky said, "Aristotle says that. He didn’t dot all the i’s or cross all the t’s. . . ." I often think about this remark of Bochensky’s. Peirce dotted some of the i’s and crossed some of the t’s. But are there not more to be dotted or crossed?

Peirce’s idea of a continuum of reactions as defining individuality in a seemingly strict sense is troublesomely abstract, oversimplified. A human person seems to be only intermittently conscious, What is reacting when the person is in dreamless sleep? The body? But that is billions of cellular individuals, and far from an identical collection of them from moment to moment. Peirce was not unaware of the complexities of human personality. Consciousness, he wrote, is a sort of public spirit in the brain cells. The process theory of sequential societies of actualities, each of which is created and then persists thereafter as an objectified datum of prehension in later actualities, seems calculated to take the complexities into account more definitely and naturally than any talk about a rigorous continuity of action defining a single, identical, yet changing individual.

Peirce himself says that a person is an idea. I recall Whitehead independently saying to Raphael Demos, "There’s the Demos idea" and going on to explain how this was the "identifying characteristic" which made the society called Demos the same from moment to moment. There are indications that Peirce was to some extent, in Matthew Arnold’s words, "between two worlds, one dead and the other powerless to be born." So were countless other people at the time. Only in some ways, as in his logic, his tychism and probabilism, was Peirce well into the new world.

I agree with Thompson that Peirce is not a systematic writer. He has materials for a system, clues to one, but it never quite crystallizes. He even had a theory to justify this. He forces one to make one’s own system. In some ways I find Peirce more helpful than Whitehead, for instance, in the Peircean theory about the primordial continuum of possible qualities out of which anything so definite as blue (or a certain quality of emotion) is an emergent, not an eternal object.

One of the subtleties of the question of continuity is that, even if one accepts the theory of discrete actualities, the limitations of our powers of introspection (which is really, as Ryle says and Whitehead implies, a form of memory) prevent us from clearly identifying definite intuitions of or by single experiences. Rather the discreteness is blurred for our awareness, as Whitehead admits. There is reason to think we come close to single experiences in noting the number of successive musical notes we can be aware of in a second. So, although for practical purposes our lack of intuitive certainties is much as Peirce says, theoretically we can say what we mean by definite relations and definite terms, and this seems an advantage.

Permit me to summarize my view about Peirce on continuity and individuality. When Peirce discusses individuals, he is writing about what for me are sequential societies of actualities, not single actualities. About these societies I, with Whitehead and the Buddhists, would accept much of what Peirce says about individuals. Their relations to our knowledge and to each other are very much as Peirce says. The disagreement concerns rather their relations to their own momentary states, also the details of the mind-body distinctions involved.

Individuals or societies are not wholly definite; their identifying traits are partly conventional or arbitrary (When did I first become myself? When will I cease to be myself?). Societies are not "simply located" in space but are partly internal to one another. Also the distinction between a person’s experiences and the person’s bodily states is extremely complex and subtle. The body is a vast society of societies; the mind or psyche is a single, personally ordered society whose primary immediate data are indistinctly intuited momentary actualities forming the bodily societies.

My criticism of Peirce’s synechism concerns primarily his assertion that actual becoming is continuous and that, in a finite time, we have an infinity of experiences, each infinitesimally short, temporally.

My accusation that Peirce made a definite mistake in arguing that the initial assumption of inquiry must be that actuality is continuous, since otherwise one would be ruling out possibilities, may be put as follows. A continuum is indeed an infinity of possibilities, but none of these possibilities is realizable except in an actualized discontinuity. An actualized continuity is an impossibility, and this impossibility is all that the assumption of discreteness rules out. It does so on the ground that, just as continuity is the order among possibilities, so discontinuity is the order among actualities. Any particular discontinuity rules out all the other possible ones in a given case. Hence no particular discontinuity should be assumed a priori. That there must in every actual case be some discontinuity or other, rules out no particular discontinuity, and hence no possibility. Peirce’s argument is invalid.

That individuals are not wholly external to one another (not simply located in space) is acceptable, but only in terms of a real discontinuity of momentary actualities. Only past actualities are internal to a present actuality. However, an actuality in my personal series may be internal to a later actuality in yours, and vice versa. In this way we are internal to each other, react to each other. Peirce has not reached the final level of analysis. Nor had Kant reached it.

Do I not react continuously? If "I" refers to me as conscious individual, then in dreamless sleep what is my reaction? I see none. Common-sense individuals are not ultimate terms of analysis. The Buddhists saw that so well.

Peirce’s own doctrine that dichotomies are crude tools of analysis may be cited here. Besides universals and changing individuals there are actual entities which are created but do not change. Also a human person or metazoan animal is not merely a single individual but many individuals on various levels.

I do not recall "instantaneous reactions" as Peirce’s doctrine. For me an actual entity reacts or has secondness to its predecessors in a finite portion of time, and this action is a creation, not a change. The finiteness is not an internal trait of the entity but measures it in relation to other actual entities and their time of becoming. In the fraction of a second it takes a single actual entity on the human level to become, a multiplicity of briefer entities can become on subhuman levels. But in this we are deep in difficult problems of physics and biophysics, also in the problem of relating quantum theory and relativity theory, a problem about which no one seems completely happy.

I congratulate those who arranged these meetings upon their including a real expert on the philosopher whose writings were one of the big things in my life. I have never regretted time spent reading Peirce. It was a huge piece of luck to be given as a task an occupation which was an education and a delight throughout. That it was so much a delight as it was, especially in the latter part of the job, was partly because of a second piece of luck, Paul Weiss’s turning up to help with a substantial part of what, as a one-man job, would have been excessively difficult and have taken up too large a portion of the career of one as eager to do his own writing as I (or as Weiss) was.

My cordial thanks to Manley Thompson.