Some Thoughts on Love

My love for her becomes my love for myself; my love for God becomes my love for her; my love for her becomes my love for God; my love for God becomes my love for myself; the two become one in spirit and body; the love for myself, for her, and for God forms an intrinsic unity in an image of Trinitarian Love.

Philosophical Methodology vs. the Modus Vivendi of Authentic Philosophy

I’ll probably edit and expand this later, but I had this thought a few days ago[1] and just wanted to put it out there. Have a blessed Easter Sunday!

Academic “disciplines” are defined and constituted by their methodologies,^[2] but philosophy does not have a “methodology” as such; it is a way of life, a modus vivendi ("mode of living"), a pursuit of truth in the broader sense, or the “love of wisdom” in the ancient and restricted etymological sense. Wherefore philosophy is not a “discipline” since philosophy as such transcends methodology qua modus vivendi.

“Schools of philosophy” may be considered “disciplines” since very often “schools” are defined not just by their founder or his works, but by his methodology, or by the methodology of extracting his thoughts and his way of thinking from his texts.

But such a narrowly-construed “philosophy” is dubitably philosophical, for in so reducing Philosophy to this-or-that methodology—and thereby creating a “philosophical discipline” properly so-called—the movement away from the “mode of living” has already been completed, for Philosophy is relegated to the solitary confinement of the academic department, cut off from communication with the broader world of wanderers, tourists, and pilgrims on their journey to the truth.

Only a way of living in pursuit of truth that transcends academic disciplinary methodology is worthy of the name Philosophy.

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[1] Original fragment composed 25 March 2016, ~12:55-1:17am PST (Good Friday).

[2] This was a notion I argued for and discussed in my Theology 401 final essay, reproduced on Philosophical Living as “The Propriety of Magisterial Authority in Academic Theological Discourse”.

On the Necessary Similitude Between the Mythic and the Mundane

There has been much hype in the Star Wars community surrounding the infinite possibilities of havoc and hope which a Disney self-emancipated from any semblance of continuity with the entire artistic corpus of “The Maker” George Lucas—including, most especially, Lucas’ crowning masterpiece, The Prequel Trilogy—could reap upon the Star Wars franchise. But if one conjectured possibility—time travel or dimensional rifts—were admitted into Star Wars, it would fundamentally alter the similitude of “The Galaxy Far, Far, Away” (GFFA) to our own, thereby destroying the power of epic myth, in which there must be commonality and yet distance. The iconic opening line of the saga establishes the necessity of linear progression as the means of establishing a human manner of interacting with the GFFA: A long time ago in a galaxy far [, far] away… is only intelligible within the framework of our everyday experience vis-à-vis reality, that is, of a linear past and a three-dimensional expansion of space.

 

We exist in a linear progression of time; time travel would turn the epic into mere science fiction. By this I do not mean to imply that science fiction franchises such as Dr. Who, et al. are not amazing things in themselves, but nobody would contend that they contain the same power of epic myth that Star Wars always had since its very debut. These create interesting moral situations and things, but the element of time travel detaches them from our common experience of linear temporality, in which concrete actions and choices cause future results and which cannot be undone. Anakin's radical choice in Star Wars III is an example. He goes down the path of the Dark Side, and forever it "dominates his destiny". He cannot undo what he has done; he even remarks in horror at his fundamental choice "What have I done?!" while still in Palpatine's office; it is only in the linear progression of his actions and his son's actions that he is able to make a contrary choice; he cannot undo what was done, but—like us—he can make a choice for the good no matter how much evil has been done.^[1]

 

There is a fundamental distinction, however, between going impossibly large distances in a short amount of time, and going back/forwards in time itself: the former is a mere variation of degree in a thing that bears familiarity; the latter is a fundamentally distinct kind of interaction with time. While I concede that the GFFA is not of necessity subject to our physical laws and often ignores them in the Saga itself—to the horror of a post-logical modern scientific establishment baptized in the name of the logically dubious methods of induction, inference, and generalization—I maintain that the physical laws of the GFFA should, in order to preserve the necessary similitude between our experience and the experience of the epic myth, be distinguished only in degree, and not in kind, regarding the effects—and not necessarily the causes—of those laws.^[2]

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[1] The preceding originally a Facebook comment, 5:55-6pm, 3 December 2015.

[2] The preceding originally a Facebook comment, 4:46pm, 4 December 2015.

The Logic of Mystery in the Concept of Analogy

“Analogy” must rise to the transcendental plane of mystery, for if it is reduced to mere logic then “analogy” as such is destroyed in metaphysical contradiction. This metaphysical contradiction—“metaphysical” as understood by Aristotelian logical philosophy—is being and not-being at the same time and in the same respect; it is the union and intersection of being different and the same, necessarily both at the same time and in the same respect, since without being the same in the same respect there could be no commonality between things related by analogy, while without being different in the same respect there could be no meaningful distinction between such things. This notion of simultaneously being the same and being distinguished in the same respect flatly contravenes logic, i.e. the Principle of Non-Contradition. The only way to save analogy is for it to rise above the plane of mere logic; analogia must retreat from logic to inhabit the plane of mysterium.[1]

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[1] Originally thought of on 19 November 2015, 1:40-1:45am; Expanded 30 November 2015, 8:45-9:15pm PST.

Star Wars and the Unfolding of Narrative Art

A certain Star Wars fan made the following social media remark regarding another Star Wars essay:

"his claim that Episodes I-III are supposed to be seen after Episodes IV-VI…is of course a total nonsense (those films wouldn´t be called Episodes I, II, III, IV, V and VI if that was true)"

I have written the following short essay in order to show that such claim, while it may be false, is by no means "of course a total nonsense".

 

I tried an experiment once: I had a friend who hadn't ever seen Star Wars and didn't even know the story (she was truly shocked when she learned that Darth Vader was Luke's father!). I told her, "I've never done this, but I want to try it: I want to introduce you to these films in their numerical order, but I'll skip the end of Star Wars III for a reason that will become apparent later, and we'll return to that after Star Wars VI.” She agreed.

 

Well, I had never closely watched these films ‘for the first time’ since I had actually watched them for the first time, and my dad showed me the Original Trilogy (IV, V, & VI) first, then the Prequel Trilogy (I, II, & III) second. I began to notice many subtle things that are 'assumed' in the Prequel Trilogy that are already covered in the Original Trilogy.

 

For example: In Star Wars II, the understanding of Obi-Wan's Jedi mind trick is assumed—and it isn't really explained in Star Wars I, but in Star Wars IV. The best two examples of all, examples which I think are beyond dispute, are the culturally ubiquitous "I am your father" of Star Wars V and the climactic Luke/Leia sibling reveal of Star Wars VI. In Star Wars III, these two dramatic twists are wrapped into one scene, the Padmé birth scene, but clearly these were never intended to be revealed in such an anticlimactic manner; these familiar facts are assumed knowledge during Star Wars III, allowing the birth scene to serve other purposes in the unfolding of the story.

 

One of the more subtle examples, but nevertheless very relevant, would be the music of Star Wars—all the themes composed by John Williams, and to a lesser extent, by Kevin Kiner. The “Force theme” appears in Star Wars IV and is subsequently developed in interesting ways throughout all six episodes (and The Clone Wars TV series). Countless themes make important variations throughout the entire saga, enriching the scenes with subtle meanings that are only fully appreciated when all previous appearances of such themes and variations have been encountered. John Williams, like George Lucas, cannot help but develop his compositions only in the manner in which he actually—outside of the “galaxy far, far away”—composed his works. The magnificent subtlety of the music of Star Wars, one of the strongest elements of the saga by Lucas’ own design, can only be fully interpreted and appreciated in the order in which the themes were actually developed, i.e. the order in which the movies were actually released.

 

For the record, I like the Prequel Trilogy far more than the Original Trilogy, so my opinions should not be taken as adding a movement to the dissonant symphony of Prequel hate. My opinion regarding the proper order in which to watch the Star Wars movies does not spring from a belief that the Original Trilogy should be viewed first because it is better. It is not. I even used to agree with the position that the movies are best watched in their numerical ordering, which I now do not. I was never rigid on this matter, and I hope that other fans will give honest consideration to my argument before rejection or acceptance.

 

But I do think that it is best to watch the six episodes (and probably future spinoff ones—including The Force Awakens) in the order in which they came out from 1977-2005, not in their numerical ordering. Although the internal chronology is distorted by this, the fact remains that this is the order in which such films made their appearances in our real world, and a storyteller cannot help but reveal the unfolding story only in the order in which he actually makes it known publicly. I think this interpretive theory necessarily applies to all movie and book series, but it certainly applies to the six original Star Wars movies (and the subsequent Clone Wars series), the coherent corpus of Lucas' work, The Epic of Anakin as I like to call it.

 

Originally published as a social media comment on 9/21/2015. Edited for clarity on 11/7/2015.

The Propriety of Magisterial Authority in Academic Theological Discourse

Originally written 29 November-12 December 2014 as a final paper for Theology 401. I have corrected typos.

The Magisterium has an inherent right of judgment in theological discourse, without thereby derogating from the freedom of the academy.[1] Academic freedom is not destroyed by the perceived ‘interference’ of magisterial jurisdiction in academic discourse, for the raison d’ȇtre of the academy is precisely the pursuit and acquisition of truth, and theological truth properly inheres in and is thereby under the jurisdiction of the Teaching Authority of the Church, the Magisterium. This essay will explore the relationship between Magisterial authority and academic theology and will defend the Ratzingerian thesis by incorporating the thought of John Paul II and Cardinal Newman concerning theology, the academy, and the Magisterium.

            It is commonly thought today in the academic establishment—and it seems to me also in popular culture, or at least among the educated—that ecclesiastical authority is essentially foreign to the academic enterprise. With the sole exception of theology, I grant and defend this contention. While every other academic discipline is aimed essentially at the pursuit and acquisition of truth, from this it cannot be deduced that the Magisterium has jurisdiction in all matters of academic discourse.

All disciplines aim at truth, but not all truth is strictly speaking ‘theological’. Theological truth is that truth that concerns the Author of all truth, Truth itself. It is often fallaciously assumed from the divine title “Truth itself” that God is Truth in an all-encompassing, unqualified, univocal sense. In other words, it is often deduced from the “Truth itself” title that everything that is truth is a ‘part’ of Truth itself, that the resolution to the problem of the Univocity/Equivocity of Being is that being is unequivocally univocal. From this inaccurate deduction it is argued that all truth falls under the discipline of theology, thereby granting theology the status of Master Science under which all others are subsumed. As discussed above, the Magisterium has legitimate jurisdiction in theological matters. Therefore by this line of argument the Magisterium is granted jurisdiction over all academic discourse, since academic discourse is related to the truth, God is Truth, the truth is thereby essentially theological, and the Magisterium has jurisdiction over theological matters. This position cannot be responsibly maintained, either from the metaphysical stances regarding Univocity taken by the Magisterium during the Neoscholastic period, or by the Magisterial discussion of the proper relationship between faith and reason in St. John Paul II’s Fides et Ratio. In the thinking of John Paul, philosophy must remain faithful to its own methods as servant of the truth, so this precludes an excessive meddling in academic affairs.[2] However, John Paul also affirms that when philosophy touches upon the subject of God in its “ancillary” capacity, it thereby falls more directly under the legitimate jurisdiction of the Magisterium with regard to its truth-claims in a way similar to theology.[3]

Etymologically, “Magisterium” derives from magister, teacher. In the very notion of the Magisterium—the Teaching Office of the Church—lies the justification for its place in theology. It is the Church’s divine right to pronounce upon the subject of God and teach others the divine truths that have been revealed to her.

But the objection of the contemporary academic establishment—that rational argumentation, and not an authority external to the academy, should decide upon what is to be taught[4]—does seem reasonable and bears much weight. Why should “academic theology” exist as such? Why should theology be considered a science at all, accorded speculative rights in the academy?

Theology and the academy were not always together. With the rise of the university in the High Middle Ages, the proper locus of speculative theology was removed from the monasteries and monastery schools and transferred to the disputationes and lecture halls of the medieval academy.[5] Should not theology depart from the house of leaning and return to the house of prayer, the house of divine learning?

Mystical theology and other monastic theological traditions should be fostered, restored, treasured, and spread, but academic theology has its own right of existence, if not for the sake of itself, then for the sake all other disciplines. According to the thinking of Newman, theology belongs in the academy both because it is a form of universal knowledge (his university must teach all universal knowledge) and because without it the other disciplines would be essentially lacking. For Newman, every discipline belongs to a “circle of knowledge,”[6] each one modifying and supplementing the others, so that without any one discipline the circle would be essentially incomplete.[7] This is especially the case with theology, he argues, since theology is the “Science of God”[8] and its object transcends essentially the methodologies of all other sciences, at least in certain respects.[9] Theology complements the philosophical approach of the sciences. As John Paul teaches, theology helps philosophy grasp truths it would never have grasped,[10] and also corrects errors which would never have been corrected by mere rational argumentation.[11] The argument of Newman defends the rightful place of theology in the academy, and with this rightful place there comes magisterial jurisdiction over at least a sphere of academic discourse, i.e. academic theology.

In the last analysis, every discipline is defined by its methodology, and the methodology of academic theology necessarily incorporates the Teaching Authority of the Church as one of its constitutive elements. Magisterial jurisdiction is not foreign to academic theology; it contributes to its very essence as a discipline, since it is part of its methodology, its defining element. Academic theology deserves a place in the academy due to its character as universal knowledge concerning God, the author and source of all truth, the ultimate object of the academic enterprise. All truth-seeking leads either to God directly or in a roundabout way through the truth of metaphysical or material realities. The Magisterium properly has jurisdiction over theology in the academy, and this does not thereby weaken its position either as a methodologically-constituted discipline or as an intellectual endeavor. Rather, the Magisterium aids in the truth-seeking mission of the academy, the object of all academic pursuits and the object of academic theology.

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[1] J. Ratzinger, “The Nature and Mission of Theology” (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 1995) 45-46

[2] John Paul II, “Fides et Ratio” (Boston: Pauline Books & Media, 1998) §49

[3] John Paul II, §77

[4] J. Ratzinger, 47

[5] I forget where I read this historical critique. Please excuse my inability to cite its source properly.

[6] John Henry Newman, “The Idea of a University” (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2013) 50

[7] Newman, 33-35

[8] Newman, 46

[9] Newman, 38

[10] John Paul II, §101

[11] John Paul II, §51

A Sketch of Love’s Treatment in The Brothers Karamozov

Written as a 2-hour paper for Humanities 402 on 14 April 2015. I have corrected typos in the original. The first three paragraphs make simple observations on the role of love, especially eros, in the novel, the fourth paragraph restates Zosima's ethical teaching regarding human love, and the final paragraph makes a genuinely philosophical contribution in the relationship between reason and emotion.

Different kinds of love recur frequently throughout The Brothers Karamazov. A very common love is romantic love, a love that seems to affect the plot itself, or to at least add intrigue and layering to character interaction.

Dimitri and his father Fyodor both fall in love with Grushenka. Both men seem not so much to want to love her and give their lives to her service so much as to defeat the other in competition and possess her as the object of their eros.

Later, after his father is murdered, Dimitri tries to gain the hand of his beloved. He finds out that she is involved with a Polish officer and is heartily disheartened. In the course of the evening, however, the Polish chap proves himself to be far more possessive than Dimitri ever was; it can be doubted whether the Polish man ever loved Grushenka, since he does not seem to care for her subtle feelings and openly insults Russia. At this point Dimitri proves that he does love her, truly, and that he wants what is best for her. It should be noted that he definitely thinks that what is best for her is to marry him, it still seems primarily motivated by true eros and not a perversion of erotic love.

Zosima exhorts his brethren to love everything, the trees, leaves, children, animals—everything. He teaches that everyone can love occasionally, even evil people. This statement seems surprising at first, but Jesus confirms this by saying ‘if you who are evil know how to do good to your children, how much more will you Heavenly Father take care of you?’. God loves all things all the time, since God is Love. Human persons, however, have trouble loving all the time. Zosima, therefore, urges his followers—and us—to strive to love all things at all times, since if all our energy is being spent on love than none can be spent on hatred.

The narrator provides a curious reference to love in the context of people jeering at Zosima and Alyosha’s reaction. Alyosha even questions why God has not vindicated his humble servant and made the holiness of Zosima apparent to all. The narrator recounts that he is glad that love gains the upper hand over reason in this instance, since a reasonable man will always come back to reason, but there are times when love must overrule reason. The narrator seems to create a divide between love and reason, at least certain types of love and reason. For Christians this is impossible in the strict sense, since God is Love and God is Logos. However, in a more general way, could this be possible? What does this divide mean? I think the narrator—and maybe the ‘author’—is trying to show us the limits of the “narrow Euclidian mind” that he wrote about. There are times when a certain kind of reasoning, formed by the strict application of logic to actions and events without any consultation, advice, or influence of emotions, is inappropriate. There are certain times when feelings trump reasonings. This is what Dostoevsky is showing us, that mere reason, reductionistic reason, Enlightenment reason is not the absolute indicator of propriety vis-à-vis reality. The emotions—strictly speaking ‘non-rational’ in themselves—must be consulted in making rational judgments and in taking action. Dostoevsky does not place a strict dichotomy between reason and love. He shows that love, not merely an emotion but certainly with emotional power, can sometimes overrule the “narrow Euclidian mind”. Sometimes it should. Sometimes it must.