Have you experienced a “crisis of faith”? We’d like to hear your story.

This discussion thread is devoted to those of you that have at some point in your life experienced a “crisis of faith.” We recognize that such crises can be complex, often painful experiences to go through, and that sharing those experiences publically can seem to only invite further suffering when one’s audience fails to show the appropriate sensitivity. Sadly, in cases of spiritual or emotional trauma, it is often the wounded that must initiate the processes that will lead to their healing.

This is in part due to the tragic fact that it often takes experiencing suffering to understand suffering. In this thread, we are inviting the participation of just such individuals to share their stories, solicit the insight and advice of true sympathizers, and to offer suggestions toward achieving real and lasting healing.

If you have experienced a crisis of faith and have since recovered, we’d like to know what lessons or resolutions are helping you today to persevere in your faith. If your crisis proved the end of your religious career, however, we’re interested to know what experiences, concerns or considerations fueled this transition, and how your life has changed since. We thank you in advance for your willingness to share these intimate details of your life and sincerely hope that the discussion generated here will benefit you in some way.

An Objection to a Theodicy of Error

Introduction

In his Synopsis of the Fourth Meditation, Descartes offers the following caveat to his principle concerning the proper application of the will:ⁱ

[It] should be noted...that I do not deal [in this section] at all with sin, i.e. the error which is committed in pursuing good and evil, but only with the error that occurs in distinguishing truth from falsehood. And there is no discussion of matters pertaining to faith or the conduct of life, but simply speculative truths which are known solely by means of the natural light.¹

In this paper I will trace the theoretical implications of the theodicy which Descartes presents in the Fourth Meditation in response to this former class of error (i.e., that regarding the contemplation of truth) to the relevant counterparts in the moral-practical domain (i.e., that concerning the conduct of life). Although Descartes often makes remarks suggesting that the two domains are not relatable in this important way,² the present project should serve to demonstrate that they not only are so relatable, but that it is in fact Cartesian principles that bind them together.

The first part of my paper, therefore, will be devoted to the mapping out of a Cartesian ethical system that is suitable for technical critique. My primary aim in this section will be to identify the major components of Descartes' moral-practical apparatus that correspond to those elements already defined for the speculative apparatus, i.e. that which traces the response of the soul to perceptions of truth. What we will be looking for with regard to this practical apparatus are the particular mechanisms by which the soul, first, perceives the good and, second, responds to those perceptions. This will prepare the ground for consideration of whether there is in this latter sphere a class of error analogous to that which was determined irreducibly vicious³ in the former sphere.

It was necessary in order to establish his principle of clear and distinct perceptions that Descartes clear the field of all prospects of vicious errors existing in the speculative sphere. It was only his claim to have accomplished this that justified him in thinking he had secured the route to attaining reliable knowledge. This route is that which became preserved in his rule for the application of the will with regard to the contemplation of truth. But similar work must be achieved in the moral sphere if this former principle is to stand. If it were possible to extend the arguments of the Fourth Meditation theodicy to resolve all forms of error which arise in the moral-practical realm, we should expect to find a rule for the application of the will in the conduct of our moral-practical lives that mirrors the first, a rule which essentially guarantees the reliability of our moral judgments upon threat of contradiction. I will show, however, that no such rule is provided, and then proceed to consider to be the theoretical implications of this disanalogy.

In the second part of my paper, in order to demonstrate the positive failure of Descartes' theodicy in application to the moral-practical sphere, I will show how the theodicy fails to answer the problem of human error due to following the dictates of love. Here I will defend the view propounded by Harry Frankfurt characterizing the compulsions of love as a form of volitional constraint analogous to that which governs the will in its contemplation of truth. Specifically, I will attempt to highlight the similarities between the two forms of volitional constraint (which Frankfurt calls volitional necessities) and offer suggestions toward the acceptance of this former class as the legitimate moral-practical counterpart to knowledge in the speculative sphere. In order to further motivate my view, I will revisit Descartes' theodicy as it might pertain to the problem of moral error and attempt to demonstrate how such arguments ultimately fail.

Groundwork

Insofar as there is a “Cartesian ethical system,” it will for the most part derive from his work in metaphysics and the natural sciences.ⁱⁱ In this present treatment, I am relying on passages extracted primarily from Descartes' Discourse on the Method and The Passions of the Soul. The thesis by which I will be proceeding (but for which I will not argue here) is that whatever is lacking in the way of a formal theodicy regarding moral error can nonetheless be inferred from Descartes' remarks on the role of the passions in the organization of the soul. Furthermore, I have chosen to restrict my analysis to that passion which I believe will provide the best material for application to the problem of moral error generally. To this end, I have decided to focus upon Descartes' account of love.

In choosing love as my paradigm instance, I am following upon the rationale of Harry Frankfurt, who identifies love as the “ultimate ground of practical rationality.”⁴ Frankfurt's model is important to our discussion in that it treats the determinations of our faculties, particularly those that work in conjunction with the will, as the ultimate regulators of our cognitive and practical lives;⁵ and furthermore, in that it interprets the efficacy of these mechanisms in performing these functions as meaningful indicators of God's nature (or, as it may be, the logical integrity of such a concept in the abstract sense).ⁱⁱⁱ Such sentiments harmonize nicely with certain remarks made by Descartes himself concerning the priority of love in practical affairs⁶ and will become important in motivating my objections in the next section.

According to Descartes, the principle utility of the passions consists in their role in organizing the soul.⁷ It is this process which ultimately yields one's moral-practical habit, which is describable as either “virtuous” or “depraved.”⁸ The passions, therefore, can be conceived as nature's mechanism^iv for orienting the soul-body complex toward the acquisition of goods and the avoidance of harms.⁹ Insofar as it succeeds in this function, the soul is said to increase in perfection, i.e. to become more virtuous. Failure in this regard, however, produces negative effects in the soul, and in result becomes depraved.

This role of the passions in nurturing the health of the soul bears strong resemblance to the role of the appetites the inputs of which to the body can similarly incline it toward health or harm. Of these latter perceptions Descartes considers,

When we say...with respect to the body suffering from dropsy, that it has a disordered nature because it has a dry throat and yet does not need drink, the term 'nature' is here used merely as an extraneous label. However, with respect to the composite, that is, the mind united with this body, what is involved is not a mere label, but a true error of nature, namely that it is thirsty at a time when drink is going to cause it harm. It thus remains to inquire how it is that the goodness of God does not prevent nature, in this sense, from deceiving us.¹⁰

Of great importance to the discussion of moral error, then, is the precise mechanism by which the soul acquires the habit that it does. Crudely speaking, this proceeds through regulation by the will, which in turn takes its cues from the dual input of reason and experience.¹¹ According to Descartes, the thoughts of the soul cannot be affected via the direct imposition of the will, but must rather be guided by the will in accord with the prescriptions of reason and experience into nurturing experiences (i.e. experiences which strengthen virtuous thoughts and weaken depraved ones). As Descartes explains, “Our passions...cannot be directly aroused or suppressed by the action of our will, but only indirectly through the representation of things which are usually joined with the passions we wish to have and opposed to the passions we wish to reject.”¹² This arrangement does, however, allow for a certain level of active intervention in the otherwise natural causal process,¹³ and this fact complicates matters in many ways which we will have to overlook for the time being.^v

The condition of one's soul is ultimately a function of their ability to rightly perceive the good and respond to it in constructive ways. This, if we recall from Descartes' Fourth Meditation theodicy, is in the first place a matter of achieving clear and distinct perceptions. But while Descartes goes to great lengths in the Fourth Meditation to defend the integrity of our judgments concerning perceptions of the true, it is significantly less clear how such a defense might be made on behalf of our practical and moral judgments (i.e., those which relate to perceptions of the good). As long as this task remains outstanding, it is difficult to see how Descartes' doctrine of clear and distinct perceptions, or his conception of God on which this doctrine stands, can be taken as secure.

Theodicy Revisited

One primary strategy which Descartes employs in his Fourth Meditation theodicy is to distinguish between errors of the benign and vicious sorts. In brief, benign errors are those errors in judgment which derive from what might be called “justifiably imperfect design” (i.e., allowances to err), in that they are conditioned upon man's finitude.¹⁴ This class extends over such errors as those that arise from the natural limitations of the intellect, as well as from the soul's conjunction with the body.^vi Vicious errors, on the other hand, are those errors in judgment which derive from “unjustifiably imperfect design” (i.e., determinations to err), and are conditioned upon man's infinite element, i.e. the will.¹⁵ The argument on which Descartes relies to establish his principle of clear and distinct perceptions, therefore, should be understood as a form of free will argument.¹⁶

Of the two classes mentioned, it is vicious errors that pose the most serious threat to Descartes' project. This has to do with Descartes' conception of free will. According to Descartes, freedom of the will consists precisely in the unfettered capacity to act constructively upon that which the intellect represents to it, i.e. “it consists simply in the fact that when the intellect puts something forward for affirmation or denial or for pursuit or avoidance, our inclinations are such that we do not feel that we are determined by any external force.” But this does not preclude the soul being naturally predisposed to respond with one action over another. On the contrary, such positive inclinations (whether in response to reason or to one's innate dispositions) is conceived as greatly enhancing our freedom.¹⁷ Conversely, the indifference one feels when there is no reason compelling the soul in one direction rather than another is considered by Descartes to be the lowest grade of freedom. Hence, perfect freedom, as Descartes conceives it, consists in one's being able to confidently proceed in accord with their native volitional compulsions as these, in turn, are informed by reliable perceptions of the true and good.^vii

As Williston notes, the importance of our being aware of this relationship is different for each of the perception types.

In the case of external sensations, the importance is epistemological – we are concerned to know the truth of the corporeal world in which we move. In the case of internal sensation the importance is functional – we need to know when our body is in danger or is expressing basic needs so that we may preserve it more efficiently. In the case of the passions, the importance is chiefly moral – we need to know how to enhance or perfect ourselves in so far as we are rational, though embodied, creatures.¹⁸

What will constitute a positive infringement of free will in any particular instance, therefore, will similarly vary as we transition between the respective spheres of knowledge.

The Cartesian strategy for handling moral error relies on the identification of the passions with the appetites, which is justified on the basis of their common connection to the body.¹⁹ Hence, errors derived from the passions are meant to fall under the extension of the Sixth Meditation defense, which attempts to establish that our nature is of the best possible arrangement. Descartes' argument proceeds from his considerations of the dropsy patient mentioned above. Here he writes, “[Notwithstanding] the immense goodness of God, the nature of man as a combination of mind and body is such that it is bound to mislead him from time to time...Yet it is much better that it should mislead him [on the occasion of some sickness] than that it should always mislead when the body is in good health.”²⁰ He continues further with suggestions toward how we may even learn to cope with and correct such errors: “[In] matters regarding the well-being of the body, all of my senses report the truth much more frequently than not. Also, I can almost always make use of more than one sense to investigate the same thing; and in addition, I can use both my memory, which connects present experiences with preceding ones, and my intellect, which has by now examined all the causes of error.”²¹

There are several reasons why I take this response to be unsatisfactory. In the first place, error derived from the passions is not susceptible to corrective mechanisms in the same way as are many of these other perceptions, providing strong justification for interpreting these as determinations, rather than benign allowances, of our faculties.^viii It is therefore my contention that the following principle which Descartes lays down in defense of our purely speculative judgments should hold in our present context as well.^ix Here he writes in reference to the form of argumentation used above,

In the case of our clearest and most careful judgments, however, this kind of explanation would not be possible, for if such judgments were false they could not be corrected by any clearer judgments or by means of any natural faculty. In such cases I simply assert that it is impossible for us to be deceived. Since God is the supreme being, he must also be supremely good and true, and it would therefore be a contradiction that anything should be created by him which positively tends towards falsehood...Hence this faculty must tend towards the truth, at least when we use it correctly (that is, by assenting only to what we clearly and distinctly perceive...).²²

The more important objections, I think however, relate to the integral role of the passions in fueling one's moral-practical life, and also to the strong correlation these have to our perceptions of the good. According to Frankfurt's model introduced above, the passions (in particular, love) govern our practical lives in analogous fashion to how the laws of logic govern our cognitive lives.²³ The influence of each is described as imposing certain constraints on our agency which we cannot go outside of.^x Descartes himself seems to concede this point when he writes, for instance, of the desire which arises from attraction, “[When] we observe something in one [person] which is more attractive than anything we observe at the moment in the others, this determines our soul to feel towards that one alone all the inclination which nature gives it to pursue the good which it represents as the greatest we could possibly possess.”²⁴ Insofar, then, as moral judgments based on love are susceptible to the same psychological impediments that render this former class of judgments incorrigible, both should be granted equal privilege under Descartes' principle.

Conclusion

Free will for Descartes consists in the positive inclination of the soul toward what is perceived as either true or good. Insofar as our moral-practical judgments in response to the passions are incorrigible – i.e., beyond our innate powers to correct through reflection or by subjugation to some higher faculty – errors derived from them must qualify as positive infringements upon man's free will. In the case of human beings, the only possible offender is nature, and therefore God in virtue of his sovereignty over nature.²⁵ What my objection amounts to, if sustained, is the demonstration of the fallibility of judgments as informed by perceptions of the good. In light of this disanalogy between the speculative and practical spheres, Descartes' theodicy is incomplete, failing to secure the relevant territory of our moral-practical judgments from vicious error. As such, his doctrine of clear and distinct perception likewise remains insecure, and with it, the logical integrity of his conception of God on which it depends.

1René Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, Volume II, translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 11.

2Ibid., 106.

3This term will be defined in section 2.

4Harry G. Frankfurt, Reasons of Love, (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 56.

5Ibid., 64.

6Byron Williston, “Descartes on Love and/as Error,” Journal of the History of Ideas, Vol. 58, No. 3 (Jul., 1997), 433.

7René Descartes, The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, Volume I, translated by John Cottingham, Robert Stoothoff, and Dugald Murdoch, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1985), 354.

8Ibid., 387.

9Ibid., 376.

10CSM II, 59.

11CSM I, 377.

12Ibid., 354.

13Ibid., 348.

14Lex Newman, “The Fourth Meditation,” Philosophy and Phenomenological Research, Vol. 59, No. 3 (Sept., 1999), 562.

15CSM II, 39-40.

16Newman 1999, 563-66.

17CSM II, 40.

18Williston 1997, 433.

19CSM I, 339.

20CSM II, 61.

21Ibid.

22CSM II, 102-103.

23Frankfurt 2004, 66.

24CSM I, 360.

25Recall Descartes' complex conception of nature on CSM II, 56.

iThis principle states, “If...I simply refrain from making a judgment in cases where I do not perceive the truth with sufficient clarity and distinctness, then it is clear that I am behaving correctly and avoiding error. But if in such cases I either affirm or deny, then I am not using my will correctly” (CSM II, 41).

ii“Given [Descartes'] conception of the order of knowledge, conclusion about ethics must be established in a way that reveals their dependence on the prior conclusions of metaphysics and physics.” Donald Rutherford, "Descartes' Ethics", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Winter 2008 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = .

iiiTo be more precise, Frankfurt merely treats these volitional constraints teleologically, i.e. as legitimate authorities in the structuring of our intellectual and volitional lives. Taken in conjunction with the assumption that God is responsible for the nature we possess, however, we can treat these features as in some way indicative of God's nature.

ivDescartes has a complex understanding of this term. In the Meditations he writes, “[There] is no doubt that everything that I am taught by nature contains some truth. For if nature is considered in its general aspect, then I understand by the term nothing other than God himself, or the ordered system of created things established by God. And by my own nature in particular I understand nothing other than the totality of things bestowed on me by God (CSM II, 56).”

vThis feature of human morality sounds like what Matthew Bagger in his 2002 paper, “The Ethics of Belief: Descartes and the Augustinian Tradition” calls self-management. This ability of rational beings (in contrast to lower animals) undoubtedly plays a significant role in the conducting of one's moral-practical affairs, but introduces levels of complexity to our discussion that will have to be disregarded for the time being. For perhaps relevant material on this subject, see CSM I, 348, 139-40; and CSM II, 144, 161.

viIntellectual imperfection consists in man's limited access to empirical data (CSM II, 39) while sensory and appetitive imperfection consists in dispositions of the body (ibid., 56, 58-61).

vii“But the indifference I feel when there is no reason pushing me in one direction rather than another is the lowest grade of freedom; it is evidence not of any perfection of freedom, but rather a defect in knowledge or a kind of negation. For if I always saw clearly what was good true and good, I should never have to deliberate about the right judgment or choice; in that case, although I should be wholly free, it would be impossible for me ever to be in a state of indifference” (CSM II, 40).

viiiAs Williston points out, “[Since] external sensory perceptions almost always alert us to the existence of real objects in the world, they can be rendered less obscure through the application of mathematical and geometrical analysis. But the passions “are so close and so internal to our soul” that, even when severely disordered, they are not susceptible of correction in the same way. In the end the information of the external senses, once linked up clearly and distinctly with the matter it represents, is our guide through the world of extension, whereas the passions never lose their rootedness in the mind as embodied, and never therefore relinquish their status as irreducibly 'confused'” (Williston 1997, 433).

ixNewman explains the rationale for this defense: “God can allow errors that are my fault, though not errors that would be God's fault. When my perception is clear and distinct, giving assent is not a voluntary option – thus not explainable by the freewill defense. In such cases, assent is a necessary consequence of my cognitive nature: “our mind is of such a nature that it cannot help assenting to what it clearly understands”...Since, on occasions of clarity and distinctness, my assent arises from the cognitive nature God gave me, God would be blamable if those judgments resulted in error.” Lex Newman, "Descartes' Epistemology", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2008 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), URL = .

x“The necessities of a person's will guide and limit his agency. They determine what he may be willing to do, what he cannot help doing, and what he cannot bring himself to do. They determine as well what he may be willing to accept as a reason for acting, what he cannot help considering to be a reason for acting, and what he cannot bring himself to count as a reason for acting. In these ways, they set the boundaries of his practical life; and thus they fix his shape as an active being” (Frankfurt 2004, 50).

Great article from Journal of Religion

The following passages were extracted from Matthew C. Bagger's paper, "The Ethics of Belief: Descartes and the Augustinian Tradition" from the Journal of Religion. Worth Reading.

I

The phrase "the ethics of belief" is perhaps best known from the passage in "The Will to Believe" where William James discusses W. K. Clifford's essay of that title.' In a characteristically cosmopolitan yet trenchant phrase, James slightingly describes Clifford as "that delicious enfant terrible." James then reproduces a lengthy quotation (with editorial insertions) from "The Ethics of Belief." Here is a portion of the passage James excerpts: "If [a] belief has been accepted on insufficient evidence [even though the belief be true, as Clifford on the same page explains] the pleasure is a stolen one....It is sinful because it is stolen in defiance of our duty to mankind. That duty is to guard ourselves from such beliefs as from a pestilence which may shortly master our own body and then spread to the rest of the town....It is wrong always, everywhere, and for every one, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence." Clifford, of course, has religious belief in mind in this extraordinary (and, I might add, quintessentially Victorian) passage. Contemporary philosophers of religion generally refer to this idea - that we have a duty to believe (or, alternatively, that we are virtuous when we believe) only on sufficient evidence as "evidentialism." They correctly see John Locke as the first major figure to apply evidentialist canons specifically to religious belief, but Locke, of course, inherits the general evidentialist stance (as with so much else) from Rene Descartes.

Descartes considers free will the "supreme" human perfection and traces cognitive error to the misuse of free will. Making judgments for Descartes is a type of behavior wherein we must properly employ our free will. We are responsible and at fault for cognitive error. The criterion of truth for Descartes is clarity and distinctness of intellectual vision. We must exercise our free will to refrain from making a judgment when this criterion is not satisfied. Descartes explains: "If...I simply refrain from making a judgment in cases where I do not perceive the truth with sufficient clarity and distinctness, then it is clear that I am behaving correctly and avoiding error. But if in such cases I either affirm or deny, then I am not using my free will correctly. If I go for the alternative which is false, then obviously I shall be in error; if I take the other side, then it is by pure chance that I arrive at the truth, and I shall still be at fault." Even if one believes the truth, one is nevertheless blameworthy because one believes on insufficient evidence. Although Descartes's notion of evidence differs markedly from Clifford's, we nonetheless see here a similar articulation of what Clifford would later label "the ethics of belief."

Following Alvin Plantinga, many contemporary philosophers of religion try to link evidentialism historically and conceptually to a type of epistemology they call classical foundationalism - a type of epistemology shared by the empiricist Locke and the rationalist Descartes. Classical foundationalism has been almost universally abandoned, and these contemporary philosophers argue that this fact requires that we reject evidentialist constraints on religious belief as well. Religious belief need not rationally require sufficient evidence in its support. In fact, they shift the burden of proof from the theist to the nontheist. Plantinga claims, furthermore, that what is rational to believe without evidence varies and that the "Christian community is responsible to its set of examples [of rational belief not based on evidence], not to [Bertrand Russell and Madelyn Murray O'Hair's]" Despite Plantinga's claim, the application of evidentialism to religious belief is neither essentially a historical product of classical foundationalism nor is it conceptually dependent on classical foundationalism. Rather, the epistemic values central to modern life place the bur- den of proof on certain kinds of religious belief. Regardless of the origins of evidentialism, however, and leaving the burden of proof to one side, a careful consideration of a richer or more complete conception of the ethics of belief - a conception, moreover, that is congenial to the religious believer – leads to the conclusion that evidence is central to an evaluation of religious belief.

The Augustinian tradition of mystical theology pays special attention to the complexities involved in evaluating religious believings. Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross, as prime exemplars, offer a wealth of insight into the assessment of belief. In comparison with the paramount importance that the Carmelites place on self-knowledge, the examination of conscience, and the discernment of spirits, the usual philosophical discus- sion of the ethics of belief seems impoverished. In order to highlight the contrast, I intend to detail how the epistemologies of both Descartes and the Carmelites resemble Augustine's and how they evince some similar concerns. The contrast between the two conceptions of the ethics of belief should appear stark against this shared background...

III

...Descartes and the Carmelites share several Augustinian themes. They both insist on the primacy of self-knowledge and believe we have an obligation to meditate in order to know ourselves and God. They all adopt Augustine's account of the three levels of vision in De Genesiad litteramlibri duodecim virtually verbatim and consider intellectual vision the light of God shining within the soul. Self-knowledge is, for them, inextricably linked to knowledge of God because we know God through God's light shining within us. Descartes and the Carmelites also share very similar worries about a supernatural agent deceiving us about what we find psychologically compelling. Against this shared background, one divergence between Descartes and the mystics stands in bold relief. The mystics follow Augustine in emphasizing types of self-knowledge about which Descartes evinces little if any concern. These types of self-knowledge point to the broader conception of the ethics of belief I have mentioned.

Although she never explicitly makes the distinction, Teresa advocates two related but distinguishable forms of self-knowledge to be gained through meditation. One type of self-knowledge consists in an understanding of the nature of the soul, its faculties, and its capacities. This form of self-knowledge is crucial for self-management. To effectively conform one's soul to God, one must have a working knowledge of the human soul and of God's relation to the soul. Teresa explains that a confessor is helpful in this regard because an experienced confessor should have this knowledge. Teresa here echoes themes central to works like De Trinitate,where Augustine seeks knowledge of the human soul and its faculties and capacities in order to understand how the faculties of the soul are created in God's image.

The second type of self-knowledge advocated by Teresa is equally Augustinian. She promotes meditation because the soul gains knowledge about itself as an individual soul before God. The knowledge the soul gains in meditating on itself and its relation to God is personal self-knowledge. The soul learns how wicked and weak it is compared to God. God is the standard of perfection and truth against which the individual soul learns its true measure. Because God is truth, meditating on God dispels the illusions and vanities that the self erects to shield itself from a true estimation of itself. The self-knowledge the soul gains here is a degree of self-transparency and an accurate assessment of its virtues and its love of God. The contrast with God inevitably promotes the virtue of humility. The meditation is a moral exercise and is morally ennobling. The self, however, can be very tricky and can deceive itself to protect itself from this humbling self-knowledge. It can misrepresent or intentionally fail to acknowledge its actions, emotions, and motives. Teresa explains that an experienced confessor is crucial in this regard to provide third- person evaluations of the soul's honesty in meditation. She argues, in fact, that virtues like humility are peculiar in that if one truly has them, one cannot esteem oneself highly enough to believe so. One needs a confessor because only the third-person perspective is reliable with regard to the virtues.

This second view of self-knowledge is represented in Augustine's Confessions. Augustine there describes God as the teacher "who sheds his light into my heart and scatters the shadows within it." True self-knowledge for Augustine is possible only through a knowledge of God. He writes, "So I will confess what I know of myself, and I will also confess what I do not know of myself; because what I know of myself I know by means of your light shining upon me, and what I do not know remains unknown to me until my darkness be made as noonday in your countenance." For Augustine, it is our relation to God that shines light and truth into our souls, which, when left to themselves, have virtually limitless capacities for self-deception. Augustine addresses God, "You took me from behind my own back, which was where I had put myself during the time when I did not want to be observed by myself, and you set me in front of my own face so that I could see how foul a sight I was-crooked, filthy, spotted, and ulcerous."

It should be obvious, I think, that Descartes's Augustinianism ranges over only the first of these two senses of self-knowledge found in the Augustinian tradition. The second more personal and moral arena of self-knowledge is conspicuously lacking. He advocates a set of Augustinian meditations not as a continually pursued, pious exercise in moral development but as an inquiry, semel in vita, into the faculties and capacities of the soul. He meditates on the self and God to prove that our faculties are adequate to the task of discerning truth (especially about the external world). He engages in meditation to validate a criterion of truth against a skeptical objection. Having once assured himself of the ability of the soul to distinguish truth, he goes no farther. The self now fulfills its duties, its ethics of belief, simply by applying the criterion correctly.

The other conception of self-knowledge in Augustine, the one that looks to the honesty and integrity of the self's epistemic dealings with itself, points to a richer and more relevant ethics of belief. The ethics of belief need not be limited to the assessment of whether one has satisfied impersonal canons of responsible belief acquisition but should involve questions about the honesty and integrity of one's religious believings and reasonings. Of course, this applies (perhaps especially) to the reasonings of philosophers of religion, too. Many of the most powerful modern polemics regarding religious belief have been waged on precisely these grounds. At the most fundamental level, Nietzsche's objection to Christianity, for instance, is emphatically not that Christianity is a lie but that it is a dishonest lie, the "self-deception of impotence." Similarly, Freud criticizes religion because he claims it is based on wishful thinking (a psychological condition that shares an uncertain and disputed boundary with self-deception). Kierkegaard, conversely, attacks Christendom not because it believes on insufficient evidence but because its belief is self-deceptive. The Augustinian tradition points to a more complete ethics of belief, one all the more relevant now when evidentialism is under attack.

A noncontroversial characterization of self-deception is culpable self-persuasion through unfair means. An ethics of religious belief should minimally require that one's belief and one's reasoning about that belief not be produced or maintained through culpable or unfair means. Assessments of belief are complicated, however, by the fact that the means through which one achieves self-deception are not in all cases culpable or unfair. The major strategies for deceiving oneself can, in different circumstances, also function as means of rational or commendable self-management. Many contemporary philosophers, while disagreeing about whether self-deception requires divisions in the self and whether it is an intentional activity, suggest that the psychological processes operative in self-deception also operate in the maintenance and pursuit of rational objectives. The compartmentalization of beliefs into relatively autonomous spheres, for instance, protects us from the debilitating domino effects of changes in remote beliefs. This epistemic conservatism "increases adaptability and flexibility by keeping options open."Likewise, we peremptorily deploy "exclusionary categories" (e.g., we dismiss ideas as absurd or crazy) to "help us manage our cognitive resources and protect our view of the world from radical change in the face of pressures that are more efficiently and reasonably felt as marginal." These salutary forms of resistance to epistemic change, however, can easily serve self-deceptive purposes. In the same fashion, the practice of diverting one's attention from interfering thoughts can invaluably aid one's concentration, but it also makes willful blindness possible.

More affirmatively, unrealistic opinions regarding friends, family, or our chances of success are often indispensable to preserving our commitments or projects (in "The Will to Believe," William James argues that the ethics of belief should accommodate precisely these sorts of ventures in believing) but are also the material of self-deception. Similarly, adapting one's preferences in the face of frustration (i.e., sour grapes) can be a rational and praiseworthy response but can also be blameworthy and self-deceptive. Imaginatively rehearsing scenarios can augment one's understanding of past events or help prepare for future challenges but can also provide a means of deceptive escape. Finally,certain practical techniques that work to bring about laudable and desired changes in the self's beliefs and desires ("character planning") work equally well to deceive the self.

The Augustinian tradition exhibits subtle appreciation of these Janus-faced features of moral psychology. In structuring the religious life around the pursuit of spiritual marriage, Teresa promotes self-management. This desideratum requires a change in the will, and Teresa provides her nuns with an array of sophisticated strategies for protecting their commitment and achieving their end. These strategies include exploiting the power of the imagination (in meditation), careful control of one's attention, preference adaptation (through strict enclosure), the use of exclusionary categories (e.g., temptation), peer pressure, and character planning (e.g., avoiding one's family, accepting menial tasks, etc.). Equally, however, Teresa recognizes that the same or similar strategies can work counterproductively to shield the self and protect commitments one would better lose. She warns against the self's strategies to defend against humility (e.g., making a show of piety, wallowing in self- accusations, seeking menial tasks).

In addition to ardent self-scrutiny, Teresa repeatedly urges her nuns to rely on the offices of a competent confessor to distinguish between the praiseworthy means of cultivating and preserving one's commitments and blameworthy self-deception. Teresa suggests that an external, third-person perspective is necessary for assessing the possibility of self-deception in one's religious commitments. In essence, she admits what Bas C. van Fraassen has claimed, that attributions of self-deception make sense only from a perspective different from that of the subject of self-deception. To come to see oneself as self-deceived, one must come to a new appreciation (perception and evaluation) of the facts of one's situation. Self-scrutiny and consulting a confessor both enable one to test one's current appreciation of one's situation.

It is from such an external perspective that theists (like Kierkegaard) and nontheists alike have detected in philosophy of religion traces of the sort of "insincere sincerity" that characterizes self-deception. Historically, philosophy of religion has notably employed the strategies that con- tribute to both rational self-management and self-deception. The tendency from Kant through Wittgensteinian fideism to compartmentalize religion and insulate it from science forms an especially obvious example.

The use of exclusionary categories like "reductionism" forms another. The noncognitivist project and the tendency to overlook the implicit explanations embedded in religious experience, both stemming from Schleiermacher, require that one divert attention from fairly obvious features of the religious life. We have good reasons for rejecting each of these strategies without assessing the degree of self-deception involved, but this demonstrated inclination of philosophers of religion to employ these sorts of ambiguous strategies suggests we should focus more thematically on the possibilities of self-deception in our reasoning about religion.

Like experienced confessors, we need to learn to distinguish the circumstances of legitimate commitment maintenance from illegitimate self-deception. Such discernment will require that we test our appreciation of our situation. Testing one's appreciation of a situation-the perception and evaluation of facts-amounts to confronting one's conception of the relevant evidence with a competing conception. To face the possibility of self-deception, one must introduce evidential considerations. One must open to challenge both what counts as evidence and the relative weighting of evidence. The possibility of self-deception renders evidence of principal concern to an appraisal of religious belief.

To this extent, Clifford was precisely correct. Despite the sententious injunctions about the indispensability of evidence to all belief that James quotes, Clifford's central target in "The Ethics of Belief" is, in fact, those who employ culpable means of maintaining belief. "If a man, holding a belief which he was taught in childhood or persuaded of afterwards, keeps down and pushes away any doubts which arise about it in his mind, purposely avoids the reading of books and the company of men that call in question or discuss it, and regards as impious those questions which cannot easily be asked without disturbing it-the life of that man is one long sin against mankind." The sinfulness derives from the culpable use of attention, character planning, and exclusionary categories ("impious") to suppress doubt and avoid inquiry. Clifford's first and most memorable example is a shipowner who "knowingly and willingly" deceives himself by suppressing his doubts about the seaworthiness of one of his ships. Clifford resorts to the demand for sufficient evidence only to prevent these acts of epistemic dishonesty. Even if we reject Clifford's stronger formulations of the need for evidence, the possibility of self-deception demonstrates the necessity of evidence to the evaluation of religious belief.

Though Clifford correctly sees that evidence is crucial in combating self-deception, he does not recognize the ambiguous nature of the means of self-deception. To this extent James was precisely correct. The strategies operative in self-deception are not necessarily or in all cases culpable. An attribution of self-deception, both Teresa and van Fraassen insist, requires a perspective different from that of the subject of self-deception. To rule out the possibility of self-deception, we must test our appreciation of our situation by at least opening ourselves to alternative appreciations. Insofar as religious belief itself is at issue, this third-person perspective requires that we answer to others who do not necessarily share our appreciation of the human situation. Plantinga's claim notwithstanding, the Christian community is responsible to followers of Bertrand Russell and Madelyn Murray O'Hare and vice versa. The complexities of self-deception suggest that the ethics of religious belief is far more complicated than a complacent attack on evidentialism would suggest.

Can genuine faith lead one beyond orthodoxy?

Many Christians are pretty comfortable with the idea of progressive revelation - the notion that more ancient people groups might have engaged with a less perfect revelation of God's true nature than we do today. This move, among other things, serves to free up some room for modern Christians to reject certain ancient practices, perhaps even doctrines, which strike them as outmoded, archaic, or even flat wrong.

Scripture seems to provide some justification for this notion, i.e. in books like Romans and Hebrews which outline the rejection of the law in favor of a new covenant of grace. This could be taken as an instance of progressive revelation.

E.g., “Now if the ministry that brought death, which was engraved in letters on stone, came with glory, so that the Israelites could not look steadily at the face of Moses because of its glory, fading though it was, will not the ministry of the Spirit be even more glorious? If the ministry that condemns men is glorious, how much more glorious is the ministry that brings righteousness! For what was glorious has no glory now in comparison with the surpassing glory. And if what was fading away came with glory, how much greater is the glory of that which lasts! Therefore, since we have such a hope, we are very bold. We are not like Moses, who would put a veil over his face to keep the Israelites from gazing at it while the radiance was fading away. But their minds were made dull, for to this day the same veil remains when the old covenant is read. It has not been removed, because only in Christ is it taken away. Even to this day when Moses is read, a veil covers their hearts. But whenever anyone turns to the Lord, the veil is taken away. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And we, who with unveiled faces all reflect the Lord's glory, are being transformed into his likeness with ever-increasing glory, which comes from the Lord, who is the Spirit.” (2 Cor. 3:7-18)

An explanation of such paradigm shifts within God's larger program is provided by the dispensationalists. These are going to say that, as much as the methodology may change, there is an unbroken harmony between them all, and each are in their own way compatible with some more fundamental principle which is essential to God's nature.

A common example is the variant expressions of love. A parent may at times express his love for his children by showing affection, at other times through discipline; at times through intimacy, at other times through imposed distance. All expressions, however, are consistent with the more fundamental principle which motivates them - that is, love.

And the idea is that a well-developed acquaintance with the principle reveals that which is essential to God's nature, and necessarily underlies his every action. We hence become empowered to reject as fixed or essential any particular expression, or 'dispensation', of God's love. This kind of understanding presumably frees one from various forms of legalism, and allows one to take a stand against things which have a foundation in tradition or standard orthodoxy.

E.g., "Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. I tell you the truth, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. Anyone who breaks one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven...

"You have heard that it was said, 'Do not commit adultery.' But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart." (Matt. 5:17-20, 27-28)

The revolutionary character of Christ's teaching seemingly finds sanction in an understanding such as that described above - when one understands the principles from which orthodoxy derives, one may dispense with the orthodoxy in favor of the principle.

"Before this faith came, we were held prisoners by the law, locked up until faith should be revealed.So the law was put in charge to lead us to Christ that we might be justified by faith. Now that faith has come, we are no longer under the supervision of the law." (Gal. 3:24-25)

But how far does such liberty extend? Christians have deemed heretical those views which presume to affirm revelations of God's nature and plan for mankind which extend beyond that of Christ. Joseph Smith, for instance, of the Mormon sect made such claims, and orthodox Christians categorically reject them. They do this on several bases, one of which is the following passage of scripture:

"I warn everyone who hears the words of the prophecy of this book: If anyone adds anything to them, God will add to him the plagues described in this book. And if anyone takes words away from this book of prophecy, God will take away from him his share in the tree of life and in the holy city, which are described in this book." (Rev. 22:18-19)

Although this passage only speaks of adding to the content of 'the prophecy of this book', i.e., the book of Revelation as recorded by John, it is commonly applied to that further end as well as a sort of logical implication. Other passages of scripture seem to corroborate this interpretation, such as those in which Jesus warns his followers to be wary of false prophets who will come announcing his return, etc. Fair enough.

But here is the question. How deep can the rabbit hole go within the confines of orthodox Christian doctrine? How much can a Christian's understanding of God's nature transcend or diverge from orthodox Christianity before it becomes heresy? C.S. Lewis in one book uses the term 'Tao' to refer to the broadest, most fundamental basis of all truth, out of which systematized Christianity derives. But he speaks also of a freedom to improvise improvements/ adaptations to the system as one becomes more deeply familiarized with the Tao itself, the source of truth.

Liberalist movements within Christianity largely tell the story of man's attempt to stretch and adapt orthodox Christianity to accommodate certain difficulties which the original forms seem to neglect or misrepresent. Many feel like they absolutely must make allowance for such 'improvements' to preserve the viability of the system in the face of science and a million other factors. Between the options of adapting or abandoning, they concede to adapt.

So, some alter their belief structure to accommodate problematic features of their experience. Others, I believe, follow other influences to similarly foreign places. Internal conviction, even that believed to be of divine origin, might motivate these changes. The development of denominations within the church, the launching of humanitarian or religious movements, etc. can probably be traced back to a nagging impulse which the possessor interpreted as a divine calling or command. They are all alike improvising on the general theme.

Can genuine faith, then, lead one beyond orthodoxy into apparent heresy? What are the safeguards for the 'pilgrims', those that brave the journey beyond the tradition into potentially deeper revelations of God's nature and intentions for mankind? Kierkegaard writes on this theme in his book, Fear and Trembling. Here he considers the story of Abraham, the 'father of faith'. Kierkegaard takes his situation to be paradigmatic of the life of faith - a journey into the unknown, a journey in which one relates directly to God, circumventing even those ethical prescriptions which are typically thought to facilitate the life of faith. He asks, 'is there a teleological suspension of the ethical' such as would justify Abraham in following God's calling even to the alter where he would sacrifice his beloved son? Why divorce one from the ethical norm in order to initiate the life of faith? This question consumes Kierkegaard, and for good reason, I think.

There's so much more to this dilemma that I can't develop right now, but I think the question has been adequately contextualized to fuel initial discussion. Where might faith lead us within the legitimate boundaries of Christianity? How far beyond or outside of orthodoxy, and with what stipulations? When has one definitively transgressed his/her doctrinal commitments? What is the essence of heresy such that one might recognize how to avoid it while remaining faithful to God's call on their lives - even, if necessary, beyond or outside of traditional orthodoxy?