This is Adam's fault - Mulla Sadra's Ontological Argument

On Tuesday, whilst helping me cart things from one classroom to another, Adam said, 'So, Miss, what do you think of the Mulla Sadra thing I wrote about in my blog? I think Kant's objection might apply to his argument too." This posed a dilemma for several reasons: firstly, I hadn't had a chance to catch up with Adam's blog - should I admit to this? Secondly, I had no idea who Mulla Sadra was (is?) - should I reveal my ignorance? And thirdly, I had absolutely no idea how Kant's objection to the Ontological Argument might relate to Sadra's work. Some of this must have showed on my face because almost immediately Adam said, "Don't worry, Miss, read the blog then we'll talk." That's me told!

So, being a responsible teacher and a committed professional, I immediately went off to find out about Mulla Sadra and his connection to the Ontological Argument for the existence of God. For the next two hours I could be found in S03 clutching my head and moaning, 'But I don't get it...'. What is written below is the result of a further twelve hours of thoughtful reflection, some of which can also be found on Adam's blog. I have focused on Sadra's key ideas, rather than a historical biography of his life. 

Mulla Sadra is the most significant Muslim scholar after Avicenna. His work is heavily influenced by Aristotelian philosophy and the metaphysics of Neoplatonism. (Don't forget the relationship between Plato and Aristotle and where it fits into the table of key terms.) Aristotelian philosophy sees matter as being made of substance and accidents. Substance is the thing in itself; the very pen-ness of a pen, if you like, whereas the accidents are the qualities or properties that distinguish one thing from another (red pen, biro, fountain pen, and so on). For Aristotle, what is truly real - what exists - is the substance. The Neoplatonists, on the other hand, understand existence to be movements of acts of being; existence is a process, rather than a thing. 

Like Anselm, Aquinas and Descartes, Sadra distinguishes between the necessary and the contingent:

The necessary is pure existence without essence, quality or property that undergoes change or motion. In other words, the necessary is immutable (remember that word?). The necessary is a simple thing, rather than a complex thing, but it can produce the complexities of contingent things. For Sadra, God is the necessary.

Contingents are a combination of existence (i.e. they are) and essence (bundles of properties that define what they are) - that is, contingents are a combination of substance and accidents.

Since God, the necessary, bestows existence on contingents, existence is ontologically prior to essence (existence comes before essence). This means things are, and then they take on particular properties or qualities. 

Despite this, Sadra understands existence to be a predicate (a quality or property that tells us something about a thing), or else when we say 'green exists' we would be saying 'green is green', which doesn't tell us anything about what green actually is. In other words, 'exists' has to be a predicate - it has to describe something about the thing to which it refers. This leads us neatly onto Sadra's version of the Ontological Argument for the existence of God, which he calls The Proof of the Veracious.

Mulla Sadra's Ontological Argument unfolds thus:

1. There is existence.

2. Existence is a perfection above which no perfection can be conceived [i.e., existence is the supreme perfection - remind you of anyone yet?].

3. God is perfection and perfection in existence. [In other words, God, by definition, is perfect and this perfection includes necessary existence.]

4. Existence is a singular and simple reality; there is no metaphysical plurality [there are not different types of existence, or different forms, or qualities of existence - existence is one thing and so all things that exist originate from the same thing - can you guess where he's going with that?].

5. That singular reality [existence] is graded in intensity in a scale of perfection [all things that exist are the same to a greater or lesser degree of perfection].

6. That scale (of perfection) must have a limit point, a point of greatest intensity and of greatest existence [there must be something that exists in a supremely perfect way, than which nothing is greater].

7. Hence, God exists.

Take a breath and read it again! Mulla Sadra is basically saying that existence is a perfection (a la Descartes) and that God, as the supremely perfect being, not only exists necessarily, but is the source of all existence. The latter is what makes this an interesting contrast to the arguments of Anselm and Descartes with which you are already familiar. 

Problems? Of course! All the same criticisms we could raise against many versions of the Ontological Argument: it is tautological (its conclusion is the same as its first premise), it relies on definitions, it treats existence as a predicate - and unashamedly so, - and so on. Nonetheless, its important to see how theologians from a variety of faiths use a priori reasoning to better understand God. 

Now go and make a cup of tea and eat cake - if you've got here, you deserve it!

And another one...

Just found this!

http://www.tes.co.uk/article.aspx?storycode=6358756

Religion and Freedom?

I had intended to write about Ada Lovelace, the daughter of Lord Byron and Anne Isabella Byron, but I think that it will have to wait for another post. Articles that have been appearing on the BBC News website have caught my attention, and I feel that they need exploring.

A series of events have occurred recently that all revolve around one issue: the niqab. 

(See this link for a useful explanation of the different types of veil used by Muslim women.) 

On 16th September, Judge Peter Murphy ruled that a woman on trial at Blackfriars Crown Court in London could wear the niqab, unless she was giving evidence. Moreover, the judge offered that the woman could be screened whilst giving evidence so that only he, the jury and the lawyers would be able to see her face. A refusal to comply with this ruling would result in the woman being arrested for contempt of court. 

Why did the woman not wish to remove the niqab?

Why did the judge feel it necessary that she remove it whilst giving evidence?

(See article here for more information.)

On the same day, the BBC reported the view of Lib Dem Home Office MP, Jeremy Browne, who stated that he felt a debate needed to be had about the place of the veil in certain public places. He said that he was concerned with restricting freedom, but he was also worried about the veil being imposed on young girls. It was, he claimed, an attempt to protect freedom of choice for these girls. He believed we needed to be cautious of "imposing religious conformity on a society which has always valued freedom of expression". 

(Read more here.)

Yet again on the same day, Brian Lightman, the general secretary of the Association of School and College Leaders (a headteachers' union), wrote in response to Jeremy Browne that full face veils (i.e. the niqab and the burka) were not appropriate in the school context because it is essential that teachers can see students' facial expressions. He admitted that individual schools could decide their own uniform policies, and the article noted that no headteacher has yet recorded a student being asked to remove a head covering worn for religious reasons. 

(Read the full article here.)

Three days later, the Department of Health announced that a review was to take place into whether NHS staff in England should be allowed to wear full-face head coverings. 

Now, this week we have been studying Hannah Arendt's theory of the banality of evil. She claims that evil is not necessarily the action of individuals, but the collective 'lack of moral imagination' that can result in a failure to prevent oppression or injustice. I have long been concerned with the rise of legislation across Europe that prevents the wearing of certain types of head covering or specific religious symbols. Although often fairly generic in wording, they are also often practically focused on the banning of Muslim clothing. In some cases, the introduction of such legislation makes sense in the context of the individual country's approach to the relationship between state and religion (thinking in particular of France). However, it seems to have been creeping from country to country, with a variety of justifications (security, educational progress, justice, infection control, and so on...). 

The crux of the matter is whether wearing the niqab is a freedom guaranteed by one's freedom to express one's belief.

If it is, and our society is starting to find reasons to reduce that freedom, what do we do? More importantly, what do I do? For, as Hannah Arendt notes, the collective lack of moral imagination that can lead to evil is a collection of 'I's who think someone else will say something.

A final thought on this topic:

Ought a tolerant society be able to tolerate intolerance towards its own ideals?

Childhood/Parenthood

I've just finished reading Neil Gaiman's Ocean at the End of the Lane. Now, usually I'm a massive fan of his work - I first got into him by reading a collection of the short stories (I'm slightly ashamed to admit I bought it because I liked the cover!), then moved on the novels: Neverwhere, which I loved because I love the London Underground, American Gods because of its exploration of mythology, Stardust because of its humour and magic (and because I will never get the image of a cross-dressing Robert Di Nero out of my mind from the film version...). The Graveyard Book was a beautiful story of childhood that explored hope, love and an openness to wonder that I admired very much. But much as a hate to admit it, I really didn't enjoy Ocean... Like The Graveyard Book, it is partly a story about childhood. This childhood, however, is lonely, isolated and, to be frank, fairly depressing. It seemed to me to also be a story about parenthood, if only by the absence of security offered by the central character's parents. They do not seem to matter very much to him, and when they do appear, they are often threatening, unknowingly becoming the enemy.

Now, I know from my PhD research on Theology and the Act of Reading how important the reader is to the act of reading. As readers, we bring to the text our own experiece of the world - our preoccupations, prejudices, aspirations and education. Given that this is so, I wonder to what extent my reaction to this novel is the result of being the mother of a very young baby. The idea that my child would find me threatening, or - what is worse, - fail to find me important at all, fills me with horror. And yet, when I think back to my own childhood, my life certainly didn't revolve around my parents (at least, not in my memory of it!). Perhaps parenthood, then, is the greatest sacrifice a person can make. To bring a child into the world out of love, to care for it, to have one's own life revolve entrely around it, and all to nurture a human being who belongs not to you, but to themselves. It is, perhaps, the biggest risk you can take. 

To put this into the context of Christian theology, we can see the Incarnation of God in Jesus as an example - perhaps the preeminent example, for Christians - of this risk-taking. Christians believe that, in Jesus, God sacrificed, not a human being, but himself out of love for an offspring that may not even acknowlege his existence. God sacrificing God, out of love, with the possibility of no reward - and no reward expected. 

I hope, in the future, to reread this novel with new eyes and the knowledge of what has passed between now and then. What is certain is that, as a reader, I will bring the whole of myself and my life's experienes to the words I read. As you read more as part of this course, be aware of the extent to which you bring yourslf to the text, and the effect that may have on the messaage you take from it. In so doing, you will become better able to truly evauate what you read.

Confession...

So, I have a confession to make: I'm an avid viewer of the Great British Bake Off (BBC2, Tuesday 9pm). I like nothing better than to curl up with a cup of tea, a pile of marking and watch passionate bakers produce beautiful cakes, pies, biscuits, bread... But this is the thing - I can't bake. More than this, I can't be bothered to bake, I don't like baking. (In fact, if I'm being really honest, I'm not that big a fan of cooking either!) 

This made me think about the issue of appreciation - is the act of appreciating something a moral act? Is it ok to appreciate the baking on this programme if you can't or don't want to bake yourself? What do we appreciate - the object produced or the love and passion that has gone into making it, and which is the 'right' form of appreciation? Can it be right to appreciate one thing and wrong to appreciate another? Can one appreciate something truly if one has never experienced it properly? Some scholars talk of the consensus morality of appreciation; in other words, the things that are identified as objects worthy of appreciation are decided by consensus, by the agreement of society as a whole. It could be argued that the entire fashion industry is predicated on this assumption. Many ethical theories take this view - that is, that the right or wrong thing to do is agreed by societal consensus. 

Is this a good approach to moral decision-making? Find out more about Utilitarianism - how might this fit with the consensus approach?

Graditude

I've been thinking about gratitude. The word itself comes from the Latin gratus, which is also one of the etymological origins of the theological term 'grace'. Gratitude seems to be primarily a description of relationality, implying a hierarchy of indebtedness - the one who is grateful looks up to the one to whom they are indebted, as it were. And yet, if we look at the etymology again, we can interpret this relationship differently: the one who is grateful is the one who is literally full-of-grace. This implies that the priority lies with the one who is grateful, insofar as they are the one who offers the gift of gratitude to the one to whom they are indebted. Such an approach to gratitude is consistent with Christian theology, which understands grace to be the free gift of God to humanity and creation. But for this free gift, Christians believe, the universe would not exist and humanity would not be vouchsafed life after death. Christianity claims that Jesus defeats death as a freely-given gift to humanity, in spite of the inevitably fallen nature of human beings.

Yesterday evening I watched the second episode of Simon Schama's 'The Story of the Jews' (BBC2 9pm). It was a fascinating analysis of the interrelationship between Judaism, Islam and Christianity, or, rather, the interrelationships between Jews, Muslims and Christians in the medieval period. It seems that Jews of this period had a lot to be grateful for - at least, according to Muslims and Christians of the period. They were tolerated and persecuted in turns; vital to the economic progress of European, North African and Arabic countries, contributors to the development of rich cultural treasures, and some of the most significant philosophical and theological intellectuals of the day, and yet at the same time they were a threat, an unknown, an other. Schama pointed out that it is rare to find examples of beautiful architecture in medieval synagogues because the congregation assumed that at some point soon they would have to pack up and flee, so there was little point investing in the building. Whilst visiting a medieval synagogue in Venice, he discussed the act of creativity as a mitzvah, an obligation or commandment. In creating beauty, he claimed, one is expressing one's gratitude to God - one is freely giving the gift of thankfulness, not only to God, but also to those around you. This seems to me to be an excellent form of gratitude - to create, rather than destroy, in order to express one's appreciation for something or someone. Perhaps this is something to try out this week - pick something you are thankful for and try to express your gratitude creatively. 

Freedom of Speech?

Having seen a variety of examples on Twitter recently (via @Waterstones), I decided to buy a copy of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights published by Amnesty International and illustrated by a variety of well-known artists. 

It made me think about some of the human rights that we take for granted in this country - the right to say or believe what we think without fear of reprisals, for example. But is this always the case? What would happen if a biology teacher decided to share their belief in creationism with their students? What if an unhappy worker decided to share their dissatisfaction with their employer - can they do so without fear of reprisal? Certainly there are legal restrictions on what one can say in the UK: any statement that is overtly racist becomes an opportunity for prosecution. 

I was recently reminded of this issue of freedom of speech when reading an article on the Huffington Post UK (http://huff.to/1fFatG3 ). A sixth former in a North London school has written an anonymous blog - highly satirical, he hastens to add - that criticises his school and its leadership in particular. Having glanced over a few posts, these criticisms feel highly personal. The Headteacher's response was to contact the student's proposed university and warn them of the anarchic tendencies of the student. Now, there has been much said in the news recently about the dangers of reducing freedom of speech and the possible impact this may have on comedy, and satirical comedy in particular. Rowan Atkinson, one of the UK's most prominent comic actors and writers supports an appeal against Section 5 of the Public Order Act, which outlaws "threatening, abusive or insulting words or behaviour" (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/law-and-order/9616750/Rowan-Atkinson-we-must-be-allowed-to-insult-each-other.html, see). You can watch a YouTube clip of his statement at a Parliamentary reception for the Reform Section 5 campaign here:

http://youtu.be/gciegyiLYtY

Freedom of speech, this suggests, must be protected, even if it includes insult or intolerance; the only way to combat such intolerance is more speech, rather than less. And yet...

And yet, how do we deal with the very real pain felt by those who are adversely affected by others speaking freely in such a way that harm is caused? A quick glance at the Twitter feed @EverydaySexism demonstrates that speaking before thinking causes a ripple-effect of suffering. There does not seem to be a way of both protecting freedom of speech and, at the same time, protection people from the harm that such free speech could lead to. What do you think?

Thinking about friendship

I've been working my way through Alexander McCall Smith's 44 Scotland Street series, as I do every September. The books make me feel a bit more optimistic about the world and a bit more aware of the beauty of the quotidian.

Each book ends with a poem. The poem that closes Bertie Plays the Blues talks about the power of friendship, not simply in the sense of one's social circle, but more in the sense of each human's relation to the other:

"But it would be wrong...to dismiss the possibility
Of making bearable the suffering of so many
By acts of love in our own lives,
By acts of friendship, by the simple cherishing 
Of those who daily cross our path, and those who do not.
By these acts, I think, are we shown what might be;
By these acts can we transform that small corner
Of terra firma that is given to us..."

Alexander McCall Smith, Bertie Plays the Blues (Edinburgh: Polygon, 2011), 309

It made me think of the recent events in Syria, and the global attempt to respond effectively. Ought one to seek a diplomatic - and entirely non-military - solution, or are there situations in which a military intervention is the best (or right) thing to do? Utilitarianism suggests that we should pursue whatever will lead to the greatest happiness, or good, for the greatest number, but how can one ever fully calculate the repurcussions of a single decision? What may appear good in the immediate situation may have negative consequences five, ten or a hundred years down the line. So, who do we consider when making our moral choice? The Syrians suffering now? Their children? Their grandchildren?

And what might it mean to be friends with Syria? (Can you be friends with a country?) A friend is a fellow, one who lives life alongside. Can a friend stand back and watch the kind of suffering we have been seeing over the last few months? Or is it a friend's duty - like a parent's - to let the country sort itself out and only offer a comforting hug in the shape of aid for those most in need?

"By these acts... are we shown what might be," says Alexander McCall Smith. What is certain is that whatever we, that is, our governments, decide, it will shape not only the world's view of us, but also our view of each other.