Winter’s End

Sorry for the delay — I have been trying to organize/carry out an interview of a friend, but it has fallen through. I’ll make sure to post a bit more in the coming days to make up for it.

In the meantime: here are a few lines that are particularly apt, given winter’s seemingly interminable grasp on the midwest.

March 6

Sitting on my back porch
I beckon the clouds
come, rumble across the adjacent lot
gilded in the golden hues of death,
come, undo what Winter wrought—
four wretched months spent murdering color and light.

You who make all things new:
just a few green leaves would do.

A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.
– John 13:34

I was a youth group kid in the mid-90s, which means yeah, I’ve totally rocked a WWJD bracelet or two in my day—in “hot” neon colors, one of the more interesting trickle-down effects my mother’s well-meaning campaign to drag late 80s color schemes as far into the next decade as possible had on my adolescent sense of style. For those too young to remember them, WWJD bracelets—which by the way were cool *way* before yours, Lance—were cloth wristbands emblazoned with the acronym “WWJD?” intended to function as a visual reminder to think “What Would Jesus Do?” before acting (they were also the coolest way of proclaiming to the world that one was a Christian—like a sort of Christian yarmulke or bindi, but shallow and uber-kitsch in the way that only Christian merchandising can pull off…but I digress). Like any good Gen Y/Millennial, I have since cultivated a disdain for pretty much any convergence of Christianity and fashion (as well as moved on to wristwear of a more restrained nature/muted palette), so needless to say they haven’t really crossed my mind much in the last 10-15 years.

That changed Thursday when Arizona’s legislative branch passed Senate Bill 1062 (for those completely unfamiliar with this situation, the bill—passed by representatives and awaiting the signature or, Lord willing, the veto of Arizona’s governor—would make it legal for business owners to refuse service to LGBTQ patrons on religious grounds). Unfortunately, this bill was/is supported by several evangelical Christian lobbies/policy groups (e.g., the Alliance Defending Freedom and the Center for Arizona Policy) and has been praised as a triumph of religious freedom by some in the Church.

Unfortunate, I say, because this bill goes against the very spirit of Christ. I’ll say it plainly, up front:

I think this bill is the very antithesis of Christ’s attitude toward the world, and I think it is the inarguable responsibility of every Christian to denounce it as such, to distance themselves from it, and to judge it to be in direct conflict with the nature of Christ’s love and the virtues proclaimed by the Church—and I think these things are true regardless of whether or not one believes that homosexuality is a sin or is not.

As I read up on the bill, its history, supporters, and involvement with the Church, one thought occupied my mind:

“This is the opposite of what Jesus would do.”

* * *

Hear the words of the Lord, the Word:

When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.

When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”

Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me, teacher,” he said.

“Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”

Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”

“You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.

Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”
– Luke 7:36-47

 * * *

It is shameful, in the light of this passage, that Christians are supporting this bill. What is ironic—and frankly, deeply sad—about this support is that Christians who hold homosexuality to be sinful should, in light of Jesus’ life, be seeking to spend more time around and amongst LGBTQ individuals. I say this without malice, but I think it is plainly and painfully clear that Christian business owners seeking to deny patronage to customers because they are not heterosexuals are the Pharisees in the story above—and Jesus is actively rebuking the Pharisees for their lack of understanding of the love of God. One does not love or enact righteousness by avoiding those one thinks are sinners. It is easy to underestimate the depth of the inversion Jesus demonstrates in this passage: this woman (a sexual “degenerate” by Jewish norms, perhaps a prostitute), far from just being said to be unworthy of rejection, is held up by Christ as a paradigmatic example of the type of love for God we who follow Him are to demonstrate in our own lives!

If indeed one holds all individuals who identify as LGBTQ to be sinful, there must be a reciprocal recognition of the conviction this invites hearers into: Christ rebuked those who sought to distance themselves from sinners for “religious” reasons, spent his life amongst those the religiously self-righteous alienated. He was known for this; his reputation was as a man willing to spend his life with those his society—especially the religious authorities—viewed as the lowest of the low: Now the tax collectors and sinners were all gathering around to hear Jesus. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them” (Luke 15: 1-2).

As Jesus loved, so we are called to do likewise (John 13:15: I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you). The Christian bar and restaurant owners of Arizona should be “welcoming sinners and eating with them.” Arizona’s Christian coffeeshop owners and small businesses should be praying that those their government has marginalized come into their establishments, that they might spend time around—and learn to love as Christ did—those He spent his own life amongst. Social outcasts and moral failures are Jesus’ people—and we who follow Christ know this because we ourselves know we are no less sinful, no less a failure, no less weak or insignificant as any other. When it comes to sin, there is no “they”; there is only “us.” Mark 2:17: I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners. How, in the light of Christ, could any of his followers—regardless of their views on what is or is not biblical sexual morality—ever want a law like Arizona is trying to pass? What could ever motivate us to want to disassociate ourselves from LGBTQ customers, besides the pride of the Pharisees (“thank God I am not like them”), self-righteousness, or hatred for what is different?

We have been forgiven much. Let us love much, then, as Christ commands.

Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.

– 1 John 3:18

 * * *

When a Christian coffeeshop owner invited Jesus to his establishment, he went to there and sat down with the owner at one of the tables. While they were talking and drinking, a gay man entered. Jesus, on seeing the man, stood up and embraced him, offering him a chair at their table. When the Christian shop owner who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man was truly God, he would know this man is a faggot.”

 Jesus answered him, “I have something to tell you.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about thinking lately.

Admittedly, as far as attention-getters go that’s probably the worst. Like, right up there with “Let’s talk about this year’s exciting new changes to tax forms,” or “I bet you didn’t know how many types of concrete there are!”

G. K. Chesterton famously said that “there are no uninteresting subjects, only uninterested people,” though, so…yeah. There’s that.

If you can’t be exciting, toss in a guilt-trip.

* * *

I want to say straightaway that this is not a “reasons the Church sucks” post. Bear with me for a minute, though, because unfortunately it needs to be pointed out that the Church—in my experience, anyway—has a problem with thinking. We don’t really have a good understanding of how “thinking” and “being a Christian” fit together. The general feeling, if not explicitly stated, comprises two problematic ideas:

1) Thinking and action are opposed to each other: there is thinking about theology and the Bible and there is active discipleship. At best, these two are seen as lacking any inherent relation to each other in the life of faith. At worst, the former is seen as a dangerous distraction from the “practical” part of actually being a Christian. Yes, we’d all of course assent to the idea that you have to think a little bit about scripture to be a Christian, but this idea—that doing theology or getting too involved in high-minded “intellectual stuff” is a slippery slope that often leads one away from actual faith, from Christ—is powerfully present in the culture of the Church today, even if usually only implicitly. What can be said with certainty is that the Church at large does not understand thinking to be an essential Christian discipline, an integral part of one’s daily pursuit of Christ.

2) There is a corresponding bifurcation in the way the Church conceptualizes the role of thinking and doing in the identity and role of actual persons. Basically, we see those peculiar souls possessed of a natural predilection for intellectual pursuits as a separate phenomenon. This, like the idea above, has a better and a worse manifestation: at best, intellectuals and theologians are seen as thinking so the rest of us don’t really have to (again, this implicitly present but not—at least, not often—explicitly stated); at worst, they are seen either unrelated to the actual life of the Church—or as actually inimical to it. The general feeling is that there thinkers and doers, and the two are seen as either unrelated to each other, or actively opposed.

Like I said above, my intention here is not to criticize—rather, I want draw out the specific ways this general confusion manifests itself in the Church, in order to hopefully clear some of that confusion up a bit. The first step is admitting you have a problem, right?

* * *

As is so often the case, it’s Kierkegaard’s fault that these things have been on my mind.

For the past month or so I’ve been doing research for a large paper on Kierkegaard’s ethical philosophy, specifically the way he uses prototypes (people who we are to imitate in our lives, to become like) to spur us on from what he calls the sphere of ethical existence (in which, to put it simply—perhaps simplistically—an individual is trying to become a “good person”) to the sphere of religious, specifically Christian, existence (in which a person is trying to become like Christ). In the process I’ve had to think through the way he conceptualizes the relation between thinking and doing, and I think he provides a model that offers a powerful corrective to the problems outline above.

Basically, Kierkegaard sees thinking and doing as inherently related, in a very specific way. For him, obviously, Christ is the prototype. We are to be like him, and this is something we do. Consider the following quote from his journals:

As soon as there is a prototype, there is the obligation to imitation. What does imitation mean? It means striving to conform my life to the prototype.

Kierkegaard is making sure his readers realize that if you know that Christ is the prototype for human beings (To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps; 1 Peter 2:21), you better get on it right away (And immediately they left the boat and their father and followed him, Matthew 4:22). There is no room for delay. This fact, I think, is what leads some people to think that thinking is a distraction from action. All this contemplation nonsense is just “delay,” after all—right? Or at the very least it isn’t nearly as important as actual doing?

But here Kierkegaard sees things differently, I think—he sees understanding as both that which founds and motivates actual imitation of Christ, and that which is gained in actual imitation.  Again, listen to what Kierkegaard has to say in his journals:

The only fundamental basis for understanding is that one himself becomes what he understands and one understands only in proportion to becoming himself that which he understands.

This can be put simply: when we know, we do, and when we do, we know. Understanding and action, for Kierkegaard, are indivisible. Knowing is simply not a merely intellectual pursuit divorced from our active discipleship, or even a necessary step along the way: knowledge is something that, along with active imitation and discipleship of Christ, forms and informs the believer. Doing and knowing happen together. Understanding and knowledge are rooted in becoming, in who we are and who we are striving to be like.

* * *

This, I think, is Kierkegaard’s contribution to the Church today (with regard to these issues, that is): he helps us to see the indivisible unity of thinking and action—the way that, in the life of faith, they are not separate processes but both producer and product of Christian selves. We know Christ because we are striving to be like him; we strive to be like him because we know what he is like. This means that things like theological literacy, thoughtful engagement with scriptures, intellectual wrestling with issues like Church structure, hermeneutical principles, difficult theological issues and contextual contemprorary relevance are all part of being a Christian. They are not extras, not add-ons, not options, and definitely not distractions. They are an inextricable part of the warp and woof of the life of a disciple of Christ and the corporate life of the Church, and they are just as much a part of the essential disciplines of faith as are prayer, the reading of scripture, participation in a local church body, etc.

As John states in his first epistle: We know that we have come to know him if we keep his commands.

Knowing Christ and becoming like Christ happen together. Stressing action over understanding is just as much an error as getting so lost in thought that one neglects active imitative striving. And it is important to note that this is not a defense of thinking, over and against action, or as a defense of those who like to read theology over and against those who are “doers.” This is an articulation and defense of proper Christian discipleship, which views these things holistically, biblically. We must all do theology well, think well; we must all feed the poor, love others, seek the fruit of the Spirit.

I don’t imagine that any of what I’m pointing out here is profound or new—on the contrary, it is almost patently obvious, on one level: all I’m really saying is that thinking isn’t opposed to action and that it is important for Christians. But it is of great importance to revisit simple Christian truths often, especially when so much in our church quietly, implicitly militates against an active understanding of such things—it is so easy to wake to these truths briefly, only to fall asleep again right after. As one of my favorite poets, William Stafford, wrote: “It is important that awake people be awake.”

That’s all I got. Not ground-breaking—but hopefully upbuilding.

All jesting aside, how beautiful a passage is this??

          Ours is, after all, a religion of salvation. Our faith is in a God who has come to rescue his creation from the absurdity of sin, the emptiness of waste and death, the forces—whether calculating malevolence or imbecile change—that shatter living souls; and so we are permitted to hate these things with a perfect hatred. And we are not only permitted but required to believe that cosmic time as we know it, through all the immensity of its geological ages and historical epochs, is only a shadow of true time, and this world only a shadow of the fuller, richer, more substantial, more glorious creation that God intends; and to believe also that all of nature is a shattered mirror of divine beauty, still full of light, but riven by darkness.

           When, however, we learn in Christ the nature of our first estate, and the divine destiny to which we are called, we begin to see—more clearly the more we are able to look upon the world with the eye of charity—that there is in all the things of earth a hidden glory waiting to be revealed, more radiant than a million suns, more beautiful than the most generous imagination or most ardent desire can now conceive. Or, rather, it is a glory not entirely hidden: veiled, rather, but shining in and through and upon all things. The imperishable goodness of all being does in fact show itself in all that is. It shows itself in the vast waters of the Indian Ocean, and it is not hard to see when those waters are silver and azure under the midday sky, or gold and indigo in the light of the setting sun, or jet and pearl in the light of the moon, and when their smoothly surging tides break upon the shore and harmlessly recede. But it is still there even when—the doors of the sea having broken their seals—those waters become suddenly dull and opaque with gray or sallow silt and rise up to destroy and kill without will or thought or purpose or mercy. At such times, to see the goodness indwelling all creation requires a labor of vision that only faith in Easter can sustain; but it is there, effulgent, unfading, innocent, but languishing in bondage to corruption, groaning in anticipation of a glory yet to be revealed, both a promise of the Kingdom yet to come and a portent of its beauty.

          Until that final glory, however, the world remains divided between two kingdoms, where light and darkness, life and death grow up together and await the harvest. In such a world, our portion is charity, and our sustenance is faith, and so it will be until the end of days. As for comfort, when we seek it, I can imagine none greater than the happy knowledge that when I see the death of a child, I do not see the face of God but the face of his enemy. Such faith might never seem credible to someone like Ivan Karamazov, or still the disquiet of his conscience, or give him peace in place of rebellion, but neither is it a faith that his arguments can defeat: for it is a faith that set us free from optimism long ago and taught us hope instead. Now we are able to rejoice that we are saved not through the immanent mechanisms of history and nature, but by grace; that God will not unite all of history’s many strands in one great synthesis, but will judge much of history false and damnable; that he will not simply reveal the sublime logic of fallen nature, but will strike off the fetters in which creation languishes; and that, rather than showing us how the tears of a small girl suffering in the dark were necessary for the building of the Kingdom, he will instead raise her up and wipe away all tears from her eyes—and there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying, nor any more pain, for the former things will have passed away, and he that sits upon the throne will say, “Behold, I make all things new.”

– David Bentley Hart, The Doors of the Sea 101-104

I’m quite busy today, but I want to just offer up some of the material that I’ve found in my reading on Desmond while thinking through the issue.  I’ll just put several quotes out there for anyone who wants to think through them, and give some of my own thoughts in the next couple posts after.

This is just a small collection of some of the passages where Desmond either comments directly on scientism, or offers up hints about what a good response to it may be (for example, where he talks about “posthumous mind”).

Without further ado:

 . . . [N]ihilism is the truth of scientistic enlightenment: the feeling at the high noon of enlightenment that it comes to nothing, that it all is an empty extravagance of wind.  For if we love nothing, reverence nothing in the ultimate sense, there is only a mocking silence to our question on this shadowless noon: What is the point of it all, what is the good of it all?  We extinguish reverence, come to ourselves as autonomous knowers, only to fear that it finally all comes to nothing.
William Desmond, Is There a Sabbath for Thought?, pg. 267

 . . . [W]e must cease to be seduced by any form of scientism.  Scientism, through instrumental reason, believed it offered the path to an absolute univocal enlightenment that would dispel the equivocities of unscientific common sense, religion, metaphysics, and tradition.  But its univocal will to conquer equivocity in the end produces a new equivocity . . . Scientism asserted itself as a new religious surrogate of the old religion and metaphysics that it wills to repress, but it itself dissolves back into the equivocity of the lived happening of the between.
– William Desmond, Being and the Between, pg 82

Metaphysically speaking, the scientistic advance is a crooked reversion to finite being.
          – William Desmond, Being and the Between, pg. 235

It seems to me that there is no deliverance from the nihilistic results of modern scientism: the world becomes dead, like the dead order of mathematical intelligibility it supposedly instantiates.  It may remain intelligible, but it is an intelligibility without meaning or purpose.  The given intelligibility is ultimately unintelligible.  This deadening of the world and this purposelessness of intelligibility ultimately makes the world unintelligible for us.
William Desmond, Being and the Between, pg. 340

Modern scientistic skepticism can, of course, harbor its own dogmatism.  We find a division between the purity of univocal truth and the dark outer region of equivocity.  The former is inhabited by empirical science and mathematics, the latter by art, religion, ethics, and what used to be called philosophy.  Here we find the totalitarian impulse of scientistic univocity whose skepticism about art, religion, philosophy is really its dogmatic rejection of what resists univocity.  Its skepticism of the other is the dogmatic self-congratulation of scientism itself.  Scientistic intolerance of the obscurity of metaphysics is itself a form of obscurantism.  It believes it knows what truth should be, and hence is intolerant of forms of possible truth that are other. 
          – William Desmond, Being and the Between, pg. 479

Posthumous mind implies an outliving of the enchantments of the first spell: beyond the bewitchment of our own autonomy, come to be vigilant beyond ourselves, come to be welcoming of traces of a transcendence other to ourselves and given things . . .
          – William Desmond, God and the Between, pg. 32

What makes determinate intelligibility itself intelligible, and even the totality that constitutes the entire system of determinate intelligibilities, is not itself another determinate intelligibility.  This other original ground cannot be approached fully in terms of the univocal way.  We need a God of finesse, and not just geometry.
– William Desmond, God and the Between, pg. 63

The univocal security of determinate intelligibility is thus wedded to our crediting ourselves with autonomy, for this securing is not for purposes of opening to creation as other but to making ourselves secure.  We can never succeed totally.  It is not in the nature of things.  For it would mean this impossibility: the complete overtaking of the patience of being by our endeavor to be.  Signs intimating the divine will continue to go unheeded, without renewed fidelity to the passio essendi, and without new openings to other-being, whether through free transcending towards the other, or the unwilled permeabilities that finitude often enforces.  Our self-assertive autonomy fronts our nothingness, even as it affronts the otherness opposed to it.  There is an autonomy hardly different to the misery of happiness with oneself.  That misery must taste its own happiness more abysmally.
          – William Desmond, God and the Between, pg. 63

Scientism is one formation . . . of self-autonomizing humankind.  The project of science is believed to answer all the essential questions, or to promise to do so.  Issues traditionally reserved for religion will cede their mystery to this will to scientific determination and technological instrumentalizing.
– William Desmond, God and the Between, pg. 70

The human one who would be the sovereign determining power floats all along on a sea of equivocity, and at any moment can drown.  Its urgency of Ultimacy comes to nothing when it is itself the ultimate.  One may spend a lifetime living as if one were the ultimate, but one cannot postpone the honesty that sinks one’s claim.  One is not the ultimate, and the urgency of ultimacy, thus directed on self, is astray.  One has been astray.  One has been an evasion of this moment, which is every moment and no moment in particular. Transcendence as other, the One in excess of all our determination, remains in waiting.  Strangely, too, at the limits of our scientistic and aesthetic dominion of the between, and as we sink, a new porosity can open up.  The rapture of being can be reborn, and we must seek new buoyancy on a sea of equivocity that washes all shores.
          – William Desmond, God and the Between, pg. 72

What is sometimes called the “scientific world-view” or “scientism” is not an example of science.  It is a philosophy that accepts the values that generate science, and the philosophical consequences it thinks follow for us.  Without some philosophy, science is inarticulate about its own significance in the economy of life.  For science too is within the middle, and as one formation of mind there, it, too, is defined by its others, and its metaxological relation to them.
          – William Desmond, Philosophy and Its Others, pg. 34

I stress: to criticize scientism is not to reject science.  Scientism a philosophical interpretation of science, an unacceptable interpretation of a genuine but not absolute human enterprise.
– William Desmond, Philosophy and Its Others, pg. 318, fn. 16

Dwelling with agapeic mindfulness in this saturated equivocity is the highest task of metaxological thinking which seeks to be true to the exceeding surplus of the absolute One; true to the original exceeding that is the creation of finitude as other to itself; true to the prodigious plurality in the finite between, in creation as given; true to the prodigious pluralism of showings of the exceeding One that is not mediating with itself in the finite between, and whose many showings are not reducible to one form of self-manifestation…”
          – William Desmond, Hegel’s God, pg. 70

 . . . [N]ihilism is the truth of scientistic enlightenment: the feeling at the high noon of enlightenment that it comes to nothing, that it all is an empty extravagance of wind.  For if we love nothing, reverence nothing in the ultimate sense, there is only a mocking silence to our question on this shadowless noon: What is the point of it all, what is the good of it all?  We extinguish reverence, come to ourselves as autonomous knowers, only to fear that it finally all comes to nothing.
William Desmond, Is There a Sabbath for Thought?

God’s Grandeur   
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
– Gerard Manley Hopkins

I hope I live long enough to see the death of scientism (make no mistake—it will not last forever). Seriously.  I’ve had it up to here with this ridiculousness.

I am completely and unapologetically intolerant of the modern scientistic mindset—and this is not mere hyperbolic vitriol or impulsive, reactionary prattle.  The more I think through the (numerous) ways that scientism cuts humanity off from most things human, the more I become incensed—and the more legitimated I feel in being so.  I’ve decided to do a multi-part engagement with this mindset, so I’ll apologize in advance for this post’s rather acerbic rhetoric.  Future posts will be more substantive, I promise.

A quick caveat at the outset: I am in complete agreement with William Desmond when he writes that “. . . to criticize scientism is not to reject science.  Scientism is a philosophical interpretation of science, an unacceptable interpretation of a genuine but not absolute human enterprise” (Philosophy and Its Others, pg. 318, fn. 16).  I just want to head off at the pass any thoughtless assertions of my being an anti-science neo-Luddite.  I’m all for science; I’m totally against scientism.  These two positions are not mutually exclusive of each other, though many assert they are—Dawkins can go soak his head.

Part of what drives my utter contempt for scientism is the arrogance with which it is propagated.  Those who hold a scientistic worldview often do so with such blithe self-assurance that, for example, Stephen Hawking’s recent dismissal, in his new book The Grand Design, of  all non-empirical, non-scientific modes of knowing (most emphatically and quotably encapsulated in the line “philosophy is dead”) is not just not denounced as the sheer idiocy that it is, but is actually cheered.  It is a short, almost inevitable step from assumed superiority to arrogance.

What really fuels my anger, however, is how widely accepted scientism is, given how unbelievably stupid it actually is.  Many very intelligent people (people such as the aforementioned Stephen Hawking)—people much, much more intelligent than I—hold to a scientistic worldview.  This I have no intention of denying.  I simply cannot understand why, though.

What must be understood (as the Desmond quote above makes clear) is that scientism is a philosophical, not scientific, position.  It is not a irrefutable truth or empirical fact revealed by the methods and progress of science itself; it is a presupposed epistemological and metaphysical posture.  One now begins to see how silly it is for Hawking to make the philosophical claim that philosophy is dead—his education must not have included a course in logic.  With this very important distinction realized, one can begin to examine scientism in the manner it should be, philosophically, and doing so reveals its vapidity.  The problem is that so much of argumentation in favor of scientism treats this worldview as scientifically self-revelatory, rather than recognizing it as the philosophical claim that it is.

I should end the ranting here.  As I promised before, the next posts will be more substantive.  I needed to get the venting done en masse; the hazy clouds of anger gone, it should prove easier to thoughtfully articulate and work through scientism’s multifaceted faultiness.

Hey guys and girls,

I was interviewed by Jarrod Longbons on my work on William Desmond for his blog; you can find the interview here:


Take the time to check out the rest of his blog – it’s really good!