I watched the final rounds of the Scripps National spelling Bee yesterday and, as always, was impressed by the composure as much as the erudition of the young folks in the final round.
The contestant who won second prize -- Tim Ruiter of Centreville, Va. -- was finally eliminated by the word "Maecenas," meaning "a generous patron, especially of literature or art."
Maecenas doesn't have a very helpful etymology. It comes from a proper name -- in this case, from the name of Gaius Maecenas, a Roman statesman of the first century BC. With many words, a speller who knows etymology, definition, etc. (the points spellers are allowed and encouraged to ask about in these contests) can infer the right spelling. But in the case of a proper name, poor Tim would have to have seen it -- or guessed it rightly.
His guess began with My ... and he was done.
Well, not entirely. For the remaining speller in such circumstances is not allowed to win by elimination. She had to get her word right. If Kavya Shivashankar had gotten her next word (Laodicean) wrong, Tim would have been asked back on stage, and the contest would have continued.
Kavya did know Laodicean, and took the title. I confess I not only would not have been able to spell the word, I had no idea what it meant until the ABC commentators on the spelling-bee program explained it to me. The term means indifference or lukewarmth in matters of religion.
And it too is a proper name in origin, though the name of a place rather than a person.
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religion. Show all posts
29 May 2009
22 March 2009
Religion in America
In a newly released study, a group based at Trinity College, Hartford, CT surveyed 54,461 American adults on the subject of their religious views, and found a significant growth (since a similar survey done in 1990) in the number of respondents who call themselves "non-denominational Christian." The number self-described that was was just 0.1% in 1990. It was 3.5% in 2008.
The ranks of non-denom Christians are growing at the expense of the traditional denoms, especially what were once called the "mainline Protestant" denoms: Lutherans, Methodists, Episcopalians.
The percentage of Pentecostals has remained stead -- it was 3.5% in 1990, and is 3.5% still.
The number of survey participants who identify themselves as being of no religion increased from 8.2% to 14.2%. Intriguingly, that group grew in EVERY state. The pace of growth differed, but there was no state out of the fifty in which fewer people said "no religion" in 2008 than had in 1990.
Mormon numbers have remained steady at 1.4%.
The number of religiously observant Jews has declined.
I'm not drawing any conclusions, I'm just putting some numbers out there.
The ranks of non-denom Christians are growing at the expense of the traditional denoms, especially what were once called the "mainline Protestant" denoms: Lutherans, Methodists, Episcopalians.
The percentage of Pentecostals has remained stead -- it was 3.5% in 1990, and is 3.5% still.
The number of survey participants who identify themselves as being of no religion increased from 8.2% to 14.2%. Intriguingly, that group grew in EVERY state. The pace of growth differed, but there was no state out of the fifty in which fewer people said "no religion" in 2008 than had in 1990.
Mormon numbers have remained steady at 1.4%.
The number of religiously observant Jews has declined.
I'm not drawing any conclusions, I'm just putting some numbers out there.
05 October 2008
Pentacostalism
Pentecostalism is newly in the news, with both a Sarah Palin connection and a "subprime lending" connection.
Such news items have exposed my own ignorance of such practices as the "dedication" of a baby. In the background in which I was raised, an infant was baptised. I early became aware, of course, that there are Christian churches that don't believe in infant baptism, but that they have what seems a sociological substitute, the practice of dedication, is new to me.
This is a ceremony at which the parents ask for the congregation's help in raising their child.
Okay, live and learn.
A Newsweek article on Palin said that she doesn't consider herself a Pentacostalist, that her Church in Wasilla is "most remarkable for being unremarkable," but that she attends a Pentacostal church in Juneau when she's there -- doing Gubernatorial stuff.
It makes no difference to me, no more than Mitt Romney's Mormonism. I mention it because I can't help but consider the "speaking in tongues" phenomenon characteristic of that denomination a sociological/psychological oddity. Still, one is entitled to one's sociological oddities on a Sunday morning.
What about the subprime mortgage connection? That is expounded by David Van Biema in TIME, in a piece called, "Maybe We Should Blame God for the Subprime Mess."
Mr. Van Biema attributes this connection to Jonathan Walton, of the University of California at Riverside.
Again: live and learn.
Such news items have exposed my own ignorance of such practices as the "dedication" of a baby. In the background in which I was raised, an infant was baptised. I early became aware, of course, that there are Christian churches that don't believe in infant baptism, but that they have what seems a sociological substitute, the practice of dedication, is new to me.
This is a ceremony at which the parents ask for the congregation's help in raising their child.
Okay, live and learn.
A Newsweek article on Palin said that she doesn't consider herself a Pentacostalist, that her Church in Wasilla is "most remarkable for being unremarkable," but that she attends a Pentacostal church in Juneau when she's there -- doing Gubernatorial stuff.
It makes no difference to me, no more than Mitt Romney's Mormonism. I mention it because I can't help but consider the "speaking in tongues" phenomenon characteristic of that denomination a sociological/psychological oddity. Still, one is entitled to one's sociological oddities on a Sunday morning.
What about the subprime mortgage connection? That is expounded by David Van Biema in TIME, in a piece called, "Maybe We Should Blame God for the Subprime Mess."
Mr. Van Biema attributes this connection to Jonathan Walton, of the University of California at Riverside.
Again: live and learn.
03 August 2008
Hume's History of England
"Luther, a man naturally inflexible, vehement, opinionative, was become incapable, either from promises of advancement or terrors of severity, to relinquish a sect of which he was himself the founder, and which brought him a glory superior to all others, the glory of dictating the religious faith and principles of multitudes."
Those are the words of David Hume, best known these days as a hyper-skeptical philosopher, was more successful in his own time (1711-1776) as a historian.
Hume was the author of a six volume work called, revealingly enough, "The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution of 1688." One measure of the success of these volumes is that despite his subsequent renown as one of the triumvirate of "great British empiricists," as the man who woke Kant from his "dogmatic slumber" and all that, the British Library, and the Cambridge University Library both still list Hume's works under the heading, "David Hume, historian."
I'm delighted to discover that "Project Gutenberg" has put the whole thing on line. It is now freely available to all the curious. And though I would imagine few of my readers will be able to invest the time necessary to read through the whole of it, the format makes it easy to take a dip here and there -- reading the table of contents of a volume, then going to the page or pages that interest you.
You'll find yourself addressed by a distinctive voice. At the beginning of Vol. III, for example, he introduces the subject of the Protestabt Reformation by discussing the clerical profession, and the reason any wise state must keep an eye on them.
"Each ghostly practitioner, in order to render himself more precious and sacred in the eyes of his retainers, will inspire them with the most violent abhorrence of all other sects, and continually endeavor, by some novelty, to excite the languid devotion of his audience. No regard will be paid to truth, morals, or decency, in the doctrines inculcated."
The creation of a state-supported Church helps the magistrates keep order, Hume continues. Without it there would be continual warring amongst the sects inspired by such "ghostly practitioners." But with state support for one Church, the clergy of that one lose the incentive to excite the devotion of their audience in such ways. Their audience is guaranteed them, and their salaries assigned.
"And in this manner ecclesiastical establishments, though commonly they arose at first from religious views, prove in the end advantageous to the political interests of society."
These general views being first clearly stated, we are unsurprised when we come to read what Hume has to say specifically -- in the passage I quoted above -- about the disturber of the official Church of all of western Europe to whom he soon turns his attention -- Martin Luther.
Those are the words of David Hume, best known these days as a hyper-skeptical philosopher, was more successful in his own time (1711-1776) as a historian.
Hume was the author of a six volume work called, revealingly enough, "The History of England from the Invasion of Julius Caesar to the Revolution of 1688." One measure of the success of these volumes is that despite his subsequent renown as one of the triumvirate of "great British empiricists," as the man who woke Kant from his "dogmatic slumber" and all that, the British Library, and the Cambridge University Library both still list Hume's works under the heading, "David Hume, historian."
I'm delighted to discover that "Project Gutenberg" has put the whole thing on line. It is now freely available to all the curious. And though I would imagine few of my readers will be able to invest the time necessary to read through the whole of it, the format makes it easy to take a dip here and there -- reading the table of contents of a volume, then going to the page or pages that interest you.
You'll find yourself addressed by a distinctive voice. At the beginning of Vol. III, for example, he introduces the subject of the Protestabt Reformation by discussing the clerical profession, and the reason any wise state must keep an eye on them.
"Each ghostly practitioner, in order to render himself more precious and sacred in the eyes of his retainers, will inspire them with the most violent abhorrence of all other sects, and continually endeavor, by some novelty, to excite the languid devotion of his audience. No regard will be paid to truth, morals, or decency, in the doctrines inculcated."
The creation of a state-supported Church helps the magistrates keep order, Hume continues. Without it there would be continual warring amongst the sects inspired by such "ghostly practitioners." But with state support for one Church, the clergy of that one lose the incentive to excite the devotion of their audience in such ways. Their audience is guaranteed them, and their salaries assigned.
"And in this manner ecclesiastical establishments, though commonly they arose at first from religious views, prove in the end advantageous to the political interests of society."
These general views being first clearly stated, we are unsurprised when we come to read what Hume has to say specifically -- in the passage I quoted above -- about the disturber of the official Church of all of western Europe to whom he soon turns his attention -- Martin Luther.
14 October 2007
Robert Barclay
In the words of Robert Barclay, one of the first generation of Quakers:
"All true and acceptable worship to God is offered in the inward and immediate moving and drawing of his own Spirit, which is neither limited to places, times, nor persons: for though we be to worship him always, and that we are continually to fear before him, yet as to the outward signification thereof in prayers, praises or preachings, we ought not to do it in our own will, where and when we will; but where and when we are moved thereunto by the stirring and secret inspiration of the Spirit of God in our hearts; which God heareth and accepteth of, and is never wanting to move us thereunto when need is, of which he himself is the alone proper judge. All other worship then, both praises, prayers or preachings, which man sets about in his own will and at his own appointment, which he can both begin and end at his pleasure, do or leave undone as himself seeth meet, whether they be a prescribed form, as a liturgy, &c., or prayers conceived extempore by the natural strength and faculty of the mind, they are all but superstitions, will-worship, and abominable idolatry in the sight of God, which are now to be denied and rejected, and separated from in this day of his spiritual arising, however it might have pleased him (who 'winked at the times of ignorance,' with a respect to the simplicity and integrity of some, and of his own innocent Seed, which lay, as it were, buried in the hearts of men under that mass of superstition) to 'blow upon the dead and dry bones,' and to raise some breathings of his own and answer them; and that until the day should more clearly dawn and break forth."
"All true and acceptable worship to God is offered in the inward and immediate moving and drawing of his own Spirit, which is neither limited to places, times, nor persons: for though we be to worship him always, and that we are continually to fear before him, yet as to the outward signification thereof in prayers, praises or preachings, we ought not to do it in our own will, where and when we will; but where and when we are moved thereunto by the stirring and secret inspiration of the Spirit of God in our hearts; which God heareth and accepteth of, and is never wanting to move us thereunto when need is, of which he himself is the alone proper judge. All other worship then, both praises, prayers or preachings, which man sets about in his own will and at his own appointment, which he can both begin and end at his pleasure, do or leave undone as himself seeth meet, whether they be a prescribed form, as a liturgy, &c., or prayers conceived extempore by the natural strength and faculty of the mind, they are all but superstitions, will-worship, and abominable idolatry in the sight of God, which are now to be denied and rejected, and separated from in this day of his spiritual arising, however it might have pleased him (who 'winked at the times of ignorance,' with a respect to the simplicity and integrity of some, and of his own innocent Seed, which lay, as it were, buried in the hearts of men under that mass of superstition) to 'blow upon the dead and dry bones,' and to raise some breathings of his own and answer them; and that until the day should more clearly dawn and break forth."
09 September 2007
Consistency
I carry a large load of ideas around in my head, and it isn't at all obvious that they are consistent with one another. Indeed, I usually have no need to check for consistency.
So, for example, in certain contexts I may assert that emotions get in the way of rational judgment, while in others I might assert quite as sincerely that, "you'll never get it right if you don't feel it!" The different social contexts might prevent me from ever having to straighten out my views on the epistemic value or disvalue of passion.
And ... so what? Unless it is my business to get such things right, I can live with such inconsistencies. My guess is that most people do.
That's why this site is such a challenge.
http://www.philosophersnet.com/games/god.htm
The software uncovered the following inconsistency in my own answers (I'll use its words and will refrain from arguing with it): "The contradiction is that on the first ocassion (Loch Ness monster) you agreed that the absence of evidence or argument is enough to rationally justify belief in the non-existence of the Loch Ness monster, but on this occasion (God), you do not."
The software found two other alleged contradictions in my statement -- I won't paste them here, as it would become redundant.
There are two distinct ways to suffer a loss in this game. Either the software finds a contradiction in your views, which is called "taking a hit" from a logical sniper, OR you "bite a bullet," i.e. you assert a belief "that most people would find strange, incredible or unpalatable." For example, if I were willing to say that belief in the Loch Ness monster is rational even after years of searching for the monster have yielded nothing, so long as it remains logically possible that the monster is successfully hiding from us -- I would have bitten a bullet.
The point, of course, is that it is rather difficult to avoid one or the other, to straighten out one's beliefs in God consistently while also avoiding belief in strikingly counter-intuitive things, to avoid both the sniper and the biting exercise.
So, for example, in certain contexts I may assert that emotions get in the way of rational judgment, while in others I might assert quite as sincerely that, "you'll never get it right if you don't feel it!" The different social contexts might prevent me from ever having to straighten out my views on the epistemic value or disvalue of passion.
And ... so what? Unless it is my business to get such things right, I can live with such inconsistencies. My guess is that most people do.
That's why this site is such a challenge.
http://www.philosophersnet.com/games/god.htm
The software uncovered the following inconsistency in my own answers (I'll use its words and will refrain from arguing with it): "The contradiction is that on the first ocassion (Loch Ness monster) you agreed that the absence of evidence or argument is enough to rationally justify belief in the non-existence of the Loch Ness monster, but on this occasion (God), you do not."
The software found two other alleged contradictions in my statement -- I won't paste them here, as it would become redundant.
There are two distinct ways to suffer a loss in this game. Either the software finds a contradiction in your views, which is called "taking a hit" from a logical sniper, OR you "bite a bullet," i.e. you assert a belief "that most people would find strange, incredible or unpalatable." For example, if I were willing to say that belief in the Loch Ness monster is rational even after years of searching for the monster have yielded nothing, so long as it remains logically possible that the monster is successfully hiding from us -- I would have bitten a bullet.
The point, of course, is that it is rather difficult to avoid one or the other, to straighten out one's beliefs in God consistently while also avoiding belief in strikingly counter-intuitive things, to avoid both the sniper and the biting exercise.
28 May 2007
The origin of "taps" -- fact and fiction
It's such a simple and yet haunting bugle call, and always breaks some of us down at a military funeral. There was bound to be a myth about its creation.
The facts behind it are straightforward. It was created during the Peninsular Campaign of the Civil War, in the late spring and early summer of 1862. This was some of the toughest fighting of the war. The Union forces under McClellan had inched their way from Yorktown to the gates of Richmond before Davis made the inspired move of putting Robert E. Lee in charge of the army that stood in McClellan's way. Lee immediately took the offensive, within days driving the Army of the Potomac back to its boats.
During that period, one of the generals under McClellan (Brig. Gen'l Daniel Butterfield) decided that his men could use a "lights out" signal, so he asked his buglar to work up a call. That buglar was Oliver W. Norton. He apparently devised the now-famous melody by revising an older call, with the odd name of Scott Tattoo. It was soon adopted by the rest of the army and, indeed, quickly crossed the lines as Confederate buglars picked up on it. The funereal use was a natural enough extension.
The legend most often told about Taps is somewhat different. It is said that a Union captain named Ellicombe discovered his son dying on the field at the end of a day of battle. He wasn't aware his son had even enlisted. What was more shocking -- his son was wearing grey.
The dying child was musically gifted (he had left his family shortly before the war broke out to study music in Richmond) and there was one final composition in his uniform pocket as he passed away. That was Taps.
Okay, that isn't true. There isn't even any record of the existence of a Captain Ellicombe. But it's a fine story, often tripped out in a variety of further sentimental detail, and it does no harm so long as history and mythology are kept distinct.
The facts behind it are straightforward. It was created during the Peninsular Campaign of the Civil War, in the late spring and early summer of 1862. This was some of the toughest fighting of the war. The Union forces under McClellan had inched their way from Yorktown to the gates of Richmond before Davis made the inspired move of putting Robert E. Lee in charge of the army that stood in McClellan's way. Lee immediately took the offensive, within days driving the Army of the Potomac back to its boats.
During that period, one of the generals under McClellan (Brig. Gen'l Daniel Butterfield) decided that his men could use a "lights out" signal, so he asked his buglar to work up a call. That buglar was Oliver W. Norton. He apparently devised the now-famous melody by revising an older call, with the odd name of Scott Tattoo. It was soon adopted by the rest of the army and, indeed, quickly crossed the lines as Confederate buglars picked up on it. The funereal use was a natural enough extension.
The legend most often told about Taps is somewhat different. It is said that a Union captain named Ellicombe discovered his son dying on the field at the end of a day of battle. He wasn't aware his son had even enlisted. What was more shocking -- his son was wearing grey.
The dying child was musically gifted (he had left his family shortly before the war broke out to study music in Richmond) and there was one final composition in his uniform pocket as he passed away. That was Taps.
Okay, that isn't true. There isn't even any record of the existence of a Captain Ellicombe. But it's a fine story, often tripped out in a variety of further sentimental detail, and it does no harm so long as history and mythology are kept distinct.
27 May 2007
Memorial Day
Memorial Day began as Decoration Day. Like the haunting bugle call "Taps," it has its origin in the American civil war.
In 1868, General John Logan, commander in chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, issued Order No. 11.
"The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit."
Over time the day of commemoration shifted to the final Monday of May, and the commemorated sacrifices likewise expanded, to include the American dead of all wars, and the dead of both sides of the war Gen'l Logan had in mind. Both sides, after all, saw their own soldiers as fighting and dying "in defense of their country," though they understood that differently.
Taps, both as a lights-out signal and as a funeral dirge, originated during the Civil War -- specifically during the Peninsular Campaign. More on this tommorrow.
In 1868, General John Logan, commander in chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, issued Order No. 11.
"The 30th day of May, 1868, is designated for the purpose of strewing with flowers or otherwise decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country during the late rebellion, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, and hamlet church-yard in the land. In this observance no form of ceremony is prescribed, but posts and comrades will in their own way arrange such fitting services and testimonials of respect as circumstances may permit."
Over time the day of commemoration shifted to the final Monday of May, and the commemorated sacrifices likewise expanded, to include the American dead of all wars, and the dead of both sides of the war Gen'l Logan had in mind. Both sides, after all, saw their own soldiers as fighting and dying "in defense of their country," though they understood that differently.
Taps, both as a lights-out signal and as a funeral dirge, originated during the Civil War -- specifically during the Peninsular Campaign. More on this tommorrow.
23 May 2007
Hurtling Toward the Series Finale
This Sunday's episode of The Sopranos was up to the high standards the HBO series has set for itself over the years.
Two more such Sundays remain, and fans, such as yours truly, have to wonder how the creative people behind Tony, his associates, and his family will choose to bring the curtain down.
I remember years ago, in perhaps one of the very first episodes, when we saw and heard Tony and Carmela Soprano's two children -- Meadow and AJ, discussing a poem.
Meadow hadn't gone off the college yet. She and her little brother still lived under the same roof, and were portrayed as closer than later they seemed. The poem we heard them discuss was "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. Meadow attempted to explain to her bro that the narrator was contemplating his mortality, and that the white of snow can signify death. He didn't get it.
This Sunday's episode also shows AJ obsessing over a poem. This time Meadow can't help him. And this time it's a greater poem, by a greater poet. It's Yeat's "The Second Coming" -- and that famous devastating ending help push AJ over the edge into a suicide attempt.
Yeats conflated the Christian hope of a Second Coming of our Lord with the idea of an Antichrist or "Beast," and asks "what rough beast, its hour come round at last,/
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
What beast indeed? Meanwhile, Tony has a meeting with two FBI agents who want his help looking for a mysterious chap of middle eastern origins whom they suspect of terrorist connections. They're willing to forgive homegrown organized crime families to the extent those families can assist them in the War on Terror. In a nice touch, one of the agents still suffers from a stomach virus he picked up on a trip to Afghanistan a couple of years ago, apparently in the line of duty.
With only two episodes left to go, I think it's pretty obvious that these two plot lines will connect for a devastating finale.
I have to say one other thing. In that heart to heart talk between Meadow and AJ this week (shortly before his botched suicide effort) ... she looked at his hastily-closed-up laptop computer and suggested that he had just been looking at internet porn. He denied this, and opened the laptop for her. "Al Jazeera?" she said.
We've got all the pieces here. AJ, struggling for something that might make life worth living -- or, in the alternative, something that might make for a death worth dying, is looking at Al Jazeera. Perhaps another Al, al Qaeda really does have an operative in the neighborhood, who will solicit AJ for a suicide bombing mission. AJ will recognize the "rough beast" and his own destiny, and will agree.
He doesn't really get Yeats, but I think he finally gets stopping by the woods on a snowy evening.
Two more such Sundays remain, and fans, such as yours truly, have to wonder how the creative people behind Tony, his associates, and his family will choose to bring the curtain down.
I remember years ago, in perhaps one of the very first episodes, when we saw and heard Tony and Carmela Soprano's two children -- Meadow and AJ, discussing a poem.
Meadow hadn't gone off the college yet. She and her little brother still lived under the same roof, and were portrayed as closer than later they seemed. The poem we heard them discuss was "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost. Meadow attempted to explain to her bro that the narrator was contemplating his mortality, and that the white of snow can signify death. He didn't get it.
This Sunday's episode also shows AJ obsessing over a poem. This time Meadow can't help him. And this time it's a greater poem, by a greater poet. It's Yeat's "The Second Coming" -- and that famous devastating ending help push AJ over the edge into a suicide attempt.
Yeats conflated the Christian hope of a Second Coming of our Lord with the idea of an Antichrist or "Beast," and asks "what rough beast, its hour come round at last,/
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?"
What beast indeed? Meanwhile, Tony has a meeting with two FBI agents who want his help looking for a mysterious chap of middle eastern origins whom they suspect of terrorist connections. They're willing to forgive homegrown organized crime families to the extent those families can assist them in the War on Terror. In a nice touch, one of the agents still suffers from a stomach virus he picked up on a trip to Afghanistan a couple of years ago, apparently in the line of duty.
With only two episodes left to go, I think it's pretty obvious that these two plot lines will connect for a devastating finale.
I have to say one other thing. In that heart to heart talk between Meadow and AJ this week (shortly before his botched suicide effort) ... she looked at his hastily-closed-up laptop computer and suggested that he had just been looking at internet porn. He denied this, and opened the laptop for her. "Al Jazeera?" she said.
We've got all the pieces here. AJ, struggling for something that might make life worth living -- or, in the alternative, something that might make for a death worth dying, is looking at Al Jazeera. Perhaps another Al, al Qaeda really does have an operative in the neighborhood, who will solicit AJ for a suicide bombing mission. AJ will recognize the "rough beast" and his own destiny, and will agree.
He doesn't really get Yeats, but I think he finally gets stopping by the woods on a snowy evening.
20 May 2007
Converts to the Church of Rome
The religious precincts of the blogosphere are abuzz these days with the name of Francis J. Beckwith, a new and surprising convert to Roman Catholicism.
Surprising because Beckwith was, until his conversion, president of the Evangelical Theological Society, an association of Protestant theologians.
(I should say that I don't feel any personal stake in Beckwith's move. I grew up as an observant Catholic, but that was decades ago, and feels as if it might have been in another galaxy. I comment only as a curious observer.)
Beckwith has become a prominent figure in church-state issues in recent years, taking predictable positions for an ETS head, arguing in favor of the teaching of "intelligent design" in public schools, for example.
Here's his blog, rightreason.ektopos.com
He has explained himself, and his new faith, there. Most of his account is absorbed in issues of timing and mechanics. Once a very visible Protestant philosopher makes such a decision, how should he best make the fact known publicly without doing damage to an institution, the ETS, for which he continues to have good will? That was his quandry. He didn't want to play into historical suspicions about "the Jesuitical secrecy of these papists," but he didn't want to make an open and dramatic break, either.
The issue of mechanics may well have been wrenching for him, but concerns me not at all. What I want to know is: what did the conversion feel like? Was it impelled by reason, or by a non-rational inner light, or something else?
I had to scroll down rather far in the piece before he addressed that at all.
"As you probably know," he says at last, "my work in philosophy, ethics, and theology has always been Catholic friendly, but I would have never predicted that I would return to the Church, for there seemed to me too many theological and ecclesiastical issues that appeared insurmountable. However, in January, at the suggestion of a dear friend, I began reading the Early Church Fathers as well as some of the more sophisticated works on justification by Catholic authors. I became convinced that the Early Church is more Catholic than Protestant and that the Catholic view of justification, correctly understood, is biblically and historically defensible."
Justification. Ah, that's the crux. Roman 1:17. "The righteous shall live by faith." The idea, as Luther and others have expounded upon it, is that faith leads to good works, but that it is the faith, not the good works, that justifies one before the Lord, that makes righteous.
What was the Catholic view on justification? The scandals that enraged Luther (the implication especially that one could buy an "indulgence" and either free a deceased friend from Purgatory or limit one's own stay there) were genuinely outrageous and no one today defends that.
So Beckwith said that key to his own conversion was a look at the Patristic writings. It was a very intellectual/academic sort of conversion experience, I gather. Like Cardinal Newman.
There may be another, even higher-profile, conversion to the Church of Rome soon.
Tony Blair is said to have been waiting for the end of his tenure at Ten Downing Street before declaring himself a Catholic -- the faith of his wife, Cherie.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article1801237.ece
Surprising because Beckwith was, until his conversion, president of the Evangelical Theological Society, an association of Protestant theologians.
(I should say that I don't feel any personal stake in Beckwith's move. I grew up as an observant Catholic, but that was decades ago, and feels as if it might have been in another galaxy. I comment only as a curious observer.)
Beckwith has become a prominent figure in church-state issues in recent years, taking predictable positions for an ETS head, arguing in favor of the teaching of "intelligent design" in public schools, for example.
Here's his blog, rightreason.ektopos.com
He has explained himself, and his new faith, there. Most of his account is absorbed in issues of timing and mechanics. Once a very visible Protestant philosopher makes such a decision, how should he best make the fact known publicly without doing damage to an institution, the ETS, for which he continues to have good will? That was his quandry. He didn't want to play into historical suspicions about "the Jesuitical secrecy of these papists," but he didn't want to make an open and dramatic break, either.
The issue of mechanics may well have been wrenching for him, but concerns me not at all. What I want to know is: what did the conversion feel like? Was it impelled by reason, or by a non-rational inner light, or something else?
I had to scroll down rather far in the piece before he addressed that at all.
"As you probably know," he says at last, "my work in philosophy, ethics, and theology has always been Catholic friendly, but I would have never predicted that I would return to the Church, for there seemed to me too many theological and ecclesiastical issues that appeared insurmountable. However, in January, at the suggestion of a dear friend, I began reading the Early Church Fathers as well as some of the more sophisticated works on justification by Catholic authors. I became convinced that the Early Church is more Catholic than Protestant and that the Catholic view of justification, correctly understood, is biblically and historically defensible."
Justification. Ah, that's the crux. Roman 1:17. "The righteous shall live by faith." The idea, as Luther and others have expounded upon it, is that faith leads to good works, but that it is the faith, not the good works, that justifies one before the Lord, that makes righteous.
What was the Catholic view on justification? The scandals that enraged Luther (the implication especially that one could buy an "indulgence" and either free a deceased friend from Purgatory or limit one's own stay there) were genuinely outrageous and no one today defends that.
So Beckwith said that key to his own conversion was a look at the Patristic writings. It was a very intellectual/academic sort of conversion experience, I gather. Like Cardinal Newman.
There may be another, even higher-profile, conversion to the Church of Rome soon.
Tony Blair is said to have been waiting for the end of his tenure at Ten Downing Street before declaring himself a Catholic -- the faith of his wife, Cherie.
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article1801237.ece
29 April 2007
Bulverism
"Bulverism" was the name of an essay by C.S. Lewis, outlining a fallacy that he believed was quite prevalent, especially in discussions of religion.
I'll adopt one of his examples. Suppose I believe that I have a large positive net worth. After doing all my books, adding up all my assets and liabilities as best I can, I conclude that the former exceed the latter by a comfortable sum.
This surprises the fictional character "Bulver" that Lewis invented, So Bulver says, "You say that because you are of an unrealistically optimistic temperament, the cause of which...." and so forth.
The point, Lewis said, is that Bulver simply assumes my statement is wrong, and in place of any argument why I am wrong, why my reasons are inadequate, he offers an account of the psychological cause of my (presumed and unproven) error.
Now, IF I am wrong, the fact should show itself in an examination of the books. If after looking over my accounts, you can make a reasonable case that I failed to count some liability I should have, then you can (if you wish) go on to speculate about the causes of that error, by unrealistic optimism, etc. It wouldn't be an error in that context.
Bulverism is an error whenever and because the discussion of causes substitutes for a discussion of reasons.
Lewis was writing in the heyday of Freudianism in the English-speaking world, and there was a certain amount of reductionism as applied to religion that justified itself in Freudian terms. "You believe in an all-powerful God because that is how you resolve your Oedipus complex, by planting your father-figure in the heavens." That is the kind of reasoning that Lewis wanted to rule "out of court," so to speak, by inventing the label of Bulverism.
Although Lewis had a point (of sorts) here, it may not have been quite the point he thought it was.
In "Why I Am Not A Christian," Bertrand Russell wrote as follows: "I do not think that the real reason why people accept religion has anything to do with argumentation. They accept religion on emotional grounds.... Religion is based, I think, primarily and mainly upon fear. It is partly the terror of the unknown and partly, as I have said, the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes."
Russell believed, at this point in the essay, that he had provided counter-arguments to the most common sorts of theistic argumentation. He believed (in terms of Lewis' analogy) that he had already shown that the books were erroneous, and now was free without fallacy to move on to the psychological question.
And, of course, there are cases where the theistic argumentation itself takes on an explicitly emotional cast, so that the distinction between reason and motive breaks down on its own.
There are, as always, wheels within wheels. Lewis gets credit for inventing a useful term. I'm reminded of this quatrain, which gives us a fitting close.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint; and heard great argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by the same door as in I went.
I'll adopt one of his examples. Suppose I believe that I have a large positive net worth. After doing all my books, adding up all my assets and liabilities as best I can, I conclude that the former exceed the latter by a comfortable sum.
This surprises the fictional character "Bulver" that Lewis invented, So Bulver says, "You say that because you are of an unrealistically optimistic temperament, the cause of which...." and so forth.
The point, Lewis said, is that Bulver simply assumes my statement is wrong, and in place of any argument why I am wrong, why my reasons are inadequate, he offers an account of the psychological cause of my (presumed and unproven) error.
Now, IF I am wrong, the fact should show itself in an examination of the books. If after looking over my accounts, you can make a reasonable case that I failed to count some liability I should have, then you can (if you wish) go on to speculate about the causes of that error, by unrealistic optimism, etc. It wouldn't be an error in that context.
Bulverism is an error whenever and because the discussion of causes substitutes for a discussion of reasons.
Lewis was writing in the heyday of Freudianism in the English-speaking world, and there was a certain amount of reductionism as applied to religion that justified itself in Freudian terms. "You believe in an all-powerful God because that is how you resolve your Oedipus complex, by planting your father-figure in the heavens." That is the kind of reasoning that Lewis wanted to rule "out of court," so to speak, by inventing the label of Bulverism.
Although Lewis had a point (of sorts) here, it may not have been quite the point he thought it was.
In "Why I Am Not A Christian," Bertrand Russell wrote as follows: "I do not think that the real reason why people accept religion has anything to do with argumentation. They accept religion on emotional grounds.... Religion is based, I think, primarily and mainly upon fear. It is partly the terror of the unknown and partly, as I have said, the wish to feel that you have a kind of elder brother who will stand by you in all your troubles and disputes."
Russell believed, at this point in the essay, that he had provided counter-arguments to the most common sorts of theistic argumentation. He believed (in terms of Lewis' analogy) that he had already shown that the books were erroneous, and now was free without fallacy to move on to the psychological question.
And, of course, there are cases where the theistic argumentation itself takes on an explicitly emotional cast, so that the distinction between reason and motive breaks down on its own.
There are, as always, wheels within wheels. Lewis gets credit for inventing a useful term. I'm reminded of this quatrain, which gives us a fitting close.
Myself when young did eagerly frequent
Doctor and Saint; and heard great argument
About it and about; but evermore
Came out by the same door as in I went.
22 April 2007
Religion and News From Scotland
I'm human companion for a handsome sheltie named Angus, who's just turning two years old about now, so I've decided I have a vested interest in matters Scottish.
Let's recall a classic episode of The Simpsons, in which the stereotypical kilts-wearing Scotsman "Willie," the school groundskeeper, observes a brother and sister playing together with a surprising degree of amiability.
He tells the principal (and you'll have to imagine the burr here, I'm going to keep the spelling conventional), "It won't last. Brothers and sisters are natural enemies. Like Scots and the English. Or Scots and the Irish. Or Scots and the French. Or Scots and other Scots."
"Yes, you Scots sure are a contentious people."
"You've just made yourself an enemy for life, principal Skinner!"
(I dislike ethnic stereotype, BTW. But there do exist erudite Jews, argumentative Scots, uptight WASPs, and maybe even a Greek or two whose gifts require wary examination.)
This is Sunday, so let's speak of the Kirk. Within the post-Reformation tradition in Scotland, the tradition of John Knox, one finds of course, the established Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland (which broke off in 1900), the United Free Church of Scotland (formed in 1929), the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, the Associated Presbyterian Churches, and the Free Church of Scotland (Continuing).
The good news is that, contrary groundskeeper Willie's presumptions about his nation, they have been coming together of late. Last September the Church of Scotland signed a covenant with the United Free Church allowing for shared services and other common activities. Talks continue between the CS and the FCS toward similar ends, which have resulted in a joint statement "of mutual recognition and understanding and a mutual commitment to cooperate in the advancement of the kingdom of God."
All the ecumenical warmth generated by reading such a statement led me to go to the home page of the FCS, http://www.freechurch.org
where I found a fascinating statement of the difficulties that face its ministry.
http://www.freechurch.org/issues/2007/april07.htm
The minister is pulled in several directions by his congregants, I'm told.
"The traditionalists think we are there to maintain their traditions (not other people’s); the radicals think we are too traditional and want us to follow their new traditions; the liberals are theologically confused but for some reason like some aspects of the Church and want us cater for their particular tastes; the charismatics don’t understand why we don’t get it; the pietists are always bemoaning other people’s lack of spirituality (especially their ministers) and the legalists are always looking for the next war in the church to fight."
Divisiveness in religion isn't, then, a trick promoted by an elite to prevent the wonderful egalitarian unity that might break out otherwise. Divisiveness comes from the ranks and works its way up. Well ... that's one way to look at it.
A shot of whiskey, a round of "fetch" with Angus, and we'll leave the future in the hands of a higher power ("however we choose to conceive of it" as they say at AA).
Let's recall a classic episode of The Simpsons, in which the stereotypical kilts-wearing Scotsman "Willie," the school groundskeeper, observes a brother and sister playing together with a surprising degree of amiability.
He tells the principal (and you'll have to imagine the burr here, I'm going to keep the spelling conventional), "It won't last. Brothers and sisters are natural enemies. Like Scots and the English. Or Scots and the Irish. Or Scots and the French. Or Scots and other Scots."
"Yes, you Scots sure are a contentious people."
"You've just made yourself an enemy for life, principal Skinner!"
(I dislike ethnic stereotype, BTW. But there do exist erudite Jews, argumentative Scots, uptight WASPs, and maybe even a Greek or two whose gifts require wary examination.)
This is Sunday, so let's speak of the Kirk. Within the post-Reformation tradition in Scotland, the tradition of John Knox, one finds of course, the established Church of Scotland, the Free Church of Scotland (which broke off in 1900), the United Free Church of Scotland (formed in 1929), the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, the Associated Presbyterian Churches, and the Free Church of Scotland (Continuing).
The good news is that, contrary groundskeeper Willie's presumptions about his nation, they have been coming together of late. Last September the Church of Scotland signed a covenant with the United Free Church allowing for shared services and other common activities. Talks continue between the CS and the FCS toward similar ends, which have resulted in a joint statement "of mutual recognition and understanding and a mutual commitment to cooperate in the advancement of the kingdom of God."
All the ecumenical warmth generated by reading such a statement led me to go to the home page of the FCS, http://www.freechurch.org
where I found a fascinating statement of the difficulties that face its ministry.
http://www.freechurch.org/issues/2007/april07.htm
The minister is pulled in several directions by his congregants, I'm told.
"The traditionalists think we are there to maintain their traditions (not other people’s); the radicals think we are too traditional and want us to follow their new traditions; the liberals are theologically confused but for some reason like some aspects of the Church and want us cater for their particular tastes; the charismatics don’t understand why we don’t get it; the pietists are always bemoaning other people’s lack of spirituality (especially their ministers) and the legalists are always looking for the next war in the church to fight."
Divisiveness in religion isn't, then, a trick promoted by an elite to prevent the wonderful egalitarian unity that might break out otherwise. Divisiveness comes from the ranks and works its way up. Well ... that's one way to look at it.
A shot of whiskey, a round of "fetch" with Angus, and we'll leave the future in the hands of a higher power ("however we choose to conceive of it" as they say at AA).
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