the church and postmodern culture: conversation

When a Nickel is Not Worth a Dime: Trakakis Rejoinder to Simmons

Conversation about Aaron Simmon's God and the Other continues with this rejoinder from Nick Trakakis to Simmons' earlier reply.

 

Simmons’ ‘reconstructive separatism’, as a way of reconceiving the relationship between philosophy and theology, is certainly a step forward from separatist conceptions (such as Heidegger’s methodological atheism) and reconstructivist views (such as Derridean ‘religious without religion’). To borrow Simmons’ analogy, one may liken this to finding a nickel on the ground – it’s a discovery of some value, and so is not completely without significance. But, at the same time, it’s not the ‘pearl of great price’ – it won’t take us far towards realising the goal we have been labouring after for so long. Simmons, however, disagrees: even a little progress is still progress, and “even nickels can begin to add up when combined with the nickels of others.” The problem is that, like Kant’s thalers, these nickels just don’t add up – the currency of (classical) phenomenology will never allow you to buy your dream philosophical home setting out the ultimate lineaments of reality (whether along Christian lines, or not). But that’s enough (strained) metaphor and analogy for now, and I’ll briefly return to this matter at the end.  

In the meantime, I wish to consider the two objections that Simmons discusses. The first objection which he finds in my review of his book – the “Novelty Objection” that Simmons’ postmodern apologetics program simply recapitulates much of what contemporary Christian philosophers of religion (such as Plantinga and Mavrodes) have been saying all along, and so does not offer anything new or distinctive – was not really intended as an objection. If anything, it was a positive appraisal of the path Simmons is taking, as it demonstrates an area of convergence between the often warring factions of analytic and Continental philosophy, and it shows how the same (or a similar) ideal (that of a humble and hospitable apologetics) can be fleshed out with the tools and resources of widely different philosophical traditions. And even if there were no such convergence with analytic philosophy of religion, it would be quite an achievement – as Simmons says – if a program of postmodern apologetics succeeded in showing that “affirming determinate religious beliefs and participating in traditional religious practices are possible for the philosopher working in the deconstructive and phenomenological tradition(s) without inconsistency with her deconstructive postmodern commitments.” No disapprobation from me on this score.

The real difficulties arise with what Simmons’ calls the “Neutrality Objection”, the objection that the neutrality of phenomenology prevents the phenomenologist from providing a positive case in support of the truth of Christianity and, equally importantly, from building what may be called a ‘Christian philosophy’, a philosophical account of reality that begins from an explicitly Christian vantage point. Simmons’ response to this objection exhibits some (understandable, I think) mistakes or misapprehensions of the kind of view that I, following Plantinga in some ways, was trying to develop. The first such error or misrepresentation arises from Simmons’ view that a Christian philosophy (a philosophy, that is, that takes its starting points and its driving force from the Christian tradition) “might invite a hermeneutic blindness such that one forgets to allow the epistemic humility previously called for to be functionally operative in one’s philosophical work.” Simmons goes on to add: “There is a big difference between saying ‘well of course I could be wrong’, on the one hand, and actually allowing one’s beliefs to be at stake in philosophical dialogue.” 

Now, I don’t see why the vices of hermeneutic blindness and lack of epistemic humility are more likely to manifest themselves in Christian philosophy (of the sort I am advocating) than other types of philosophy, phenomenology included. What needs to be borne in mind is that one’s ‘starting points’ (or, specifically, one’s commitment to the truth of Christianity – not to be confused with what Plantinga calls ‘basic beliefs’) need not be considered as irrefutable or infallible. In fact, they may well be just as open to scrutiny and debate as any other beliefs one holds. The important point is that the Christian philosopher, unlike the (classical) phenomenologist, is free to conduct his research in the light of his Christian commitments. These commitments, however, can and should be open to debate (or “at stake”, as Simmons puts it). But why should they be open to debate all the time? Why can’t we, as philosophers, investigate (say) the nature of personhood or knowledge in the light of what we believe or know as Christians, without having to demonstrate (to non-Christians) the truth of the general Christian framework within which we operate? (Note: I’m not saying that we shouldn’t bother demonstrating the truth of Christianity to non-Christians. I’m only saying that, if we do not do so, or are simply unable to do so, our commitment to Christianity is not thereby shown to be rationally unjustified.) Naturalists and materialists in philosophy (and other disciplines) do this all the time, so why shouldn’t we? This, in part, was Plantinga’s “advice to Christian philosophers” back in the 1980s.   

Perhaps the suspicion, as Simmons voices it, is that if we pursue philosophy in this way, then “all conversations with non-Christians would only be of limited use.” As he goes on to nicely illustrate, “It would be like a professional basketball player playing ball with a bunch of high-school students in the effort to strengthen his game without really risking being beaten.” (emphasis mine) But this is a further mistake and misrepresentation – indeed it is a non sequitur. There are, no doubt, Christians who pursue philosophy in such a way as to never (or rarely) subject their fundamental convictions to honest and rigorous critique. But there are plenty of non-Christians who do the same. More importantly, however, a philosopher who conducts his research from an avowedly Christian standpoint may well have the requisite openness and humility to not only dialogue with those of other faiths or none, but to also keep open the real possibility of being shown to be mistaken even in his own most fundamental religious beliefs. This, of course, is difficult to do (for anyone, not merely Christians), demanding great courage and humility. But I don’t see why the Christian philosopher is any less credentialed than other philosophers to achieve this.    

In short, dogmatism and insularity are obviously to be avoided as far as possible, but they need not inflict Christian philosophy, at least any more than other types of philosophy. Indeed, if “enlarging the philosophical conversation” is a goal to be prized, then why seek to enforce the seemingly artificial restriction that no theological beliefs or theological sources of belief can be relied upon in philosophical research? In this case, I’m afraid, I have to reject Simmons’ concluding irenic proposal. It’s just not possible for both Marion and Plantinga to be right: they represent mutually incompatible meta-philosophies, and one must therefore make a choice. To return to the analogy at the beginning, Christian dimes cannot be exchanged for phenomenological nickels, no matter how numerous. 

Perhaps Marion and Plantinga are Both Right: A Response to Trakakis

This is J. Aaron Simmons's reply to N.N. Trakakis's review of God and the Other:  Ethics and Politics After the Theological Turn (Indiana UP, 2011).  To conclude the Review Symposium on God and the Other, Professor Trakakis will soon be offering a rejoinder to Simmons's reply.      

J. Aaron Simmons is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at Furman  University. 

 

The best thing about receiving criticism is that it provides an occasion to reexamine one’s own claims and see if they are still worth defending.  Professor Trakakis’s review of my recent book, God and the Other, rightly presses me on the way I work out the relationship between philosophy (particularly phenomenology) and theology.  While granting that my account of “reconstructive separatism” is a step forward from the general outlook articulated by many of the New Phenomenologists, Trakakis does not find it to be enough of a step forward.  Professor Trakakis suggests that even given the slight advance that “reconstructive separatism” represents, it is still too far away from the goal to be viewed as all that promising.  It is kind of like being $500 short for a particular purchase and finding a nickel on the ground.  Of course it is great to be five cents closer to the goal, but this really isn’t much to write home about.  While I appreciate the legitimate worry that I may have made too much ado about finding a philosophical nickel, as it were, I think that the Professor Trakakis’s concerns can be addressed without major revision to my basic argument. 

As I understand it, Professor Trakakis has two objections to reconstructive separatism and my notion of postmodern apologetics.  The first objection is a rather minor point and flows from some of his opening comments regarding the metaphilosophical engagement between different traditions (let’s call this the Novelty Objection).  The second objection is much more troublesome and concerns the entailments of phenomenological methodology (let’s term this the Neutrality Objection).  I will consider and reply to each objection in turn before offering just a few concluding comments about the scope of my notion of postmodern apologetics as it concerns the relationship between phenomenology and theology.   

The Novelty Objection

Simply put, the Novelty Objection can be stated as follows: If Continental philosophers were more willing to draw upon the resources of Analytic philosophy they might not so often seem to be reinventing the wheel.  In particular, as Professor Trakakis notes, the defense I offer of the humility and hospitality of postmodern apologetics (albeit worked out more carefully in my unpublished essay, “Apologetics After Objectivity,” than in God and the Other) is not really very new at all, but is rather “something that George Mavrodes and Alvin Plantinga, amongst many other analytic philosophers of religion, have been saying for quite some time.”  Moreover, the general strategy of “negative apologetics” to which Professor Trakakis understands my view to amount, is not really doing anything different in general (even if the specifics vary) than what one finds in Plantinga’s “Free Will Defense” and Plantinga’s various criticisms of positivism and naturalism, for example—namely, defending Christianity from outside attack.  So, Professor Trakakis indicates, although my account is “highly commendable,” it does not really add anything new to the debates, but just reflects where the debates have been for quite some time.  Now, Professor Trakakis does admit that, given the state of Continental philosophy of religion, my work on this front might help to problematize and challenge the comfort with which some in the field just begin by assuming that something like “religion without religion” is the only viable option for postmodern religion.  However, in anticipation of the Neutrality Objection, he notes that “the problem is that we would like apologetics to have the capacity to go further than merely defending Christianity from attack to offering reasons in support of the truth of Christianity.”

In response, I readily grant that my ideas about postmodern apologetics are quite resonant with the encouragement to humility and hospitality offered by Plantinga, Mavrodes, and others.  I certainly do not want to claim any novelty when it comes to such things.  Nonetheless, I would point out that the caveat for which Professor Trakakis allows regarding the resistance to possible assumptions that sometimes operate uncritically within Continental philosophy of religion is really the crux of my work on this front. Simply put, when I argue for a postmodern apologetics as opened by the reconstructive separatist strategy, my aim is to make clear that affirming determinate religious beliefs and participating in traditional religious practices are possible for the philosopher working in the deconstructive and phenomenological tradition(s) without inconsistency with her deconstructive postmodern commitments.  By itself, I take this to be significant, but if that were all that could be said then I grant Professor Trakakis’s worry that it might not be enough.  Importantly, though, my argument is merely for a minimal claim, i.e., this is at least the case, but it is not offered as a maximal claim—I think that it is quite likely that more can be said, but that requires a different argument than the one I offer in God and the Other.  This brings us to the second, and much weightier, objection.

The Neutrality Objection

This objection concerns the supposed neutrality of phenomenology itself and suggests that unless the phenomenologist makes rather radical breaks with traditional phenomenology (especially concerning the neutrality of the epochē regarding ontological claims), she is unable to move from arguing against critics of a particular religious tradition to arguing for the truth of that religious tradition.  Even though I do contend that postmodern philosophy of religion should not (and, indeed, cannot) minimize the importance of (propositional) belief (hence the emphasis on the possibility of a postmodern apologetics), the worry is that I am unable to then go further and argue for the truth of a specific set of such beliefs.  The underlying reason for this limit is, on Professor Trakakis’s account, the neutrality conditions imposed by phenomenological methodology.  In other words, as Jean-Luc Marion has often noted, phenomenology should (and perhaps must) stop short of affirming the actuality of religious phenomena and, instead, be content to make a case for the possibility of such phenomena.  Accordingly, my own account of reconstructive separatism might be viewed as a way of formalizing the point that phenomenology and theology are doing two different things internal to the various authorities operative in the different domains of inquiry (Scripture on the one hand and symbolic logic on the other hand, say).  But if this is right, then isn’t Professor Trakakis correct to say that, in the end, I am also stuck with a purely negative enterprise?  Shouldn’t philosophers of religion be able to do more than merely say that Christianity (or whatever religion one attempts to defend) is a viable existential possibility and instead argue that it is “the way, the truth, and the life” revealed to humanity by God?  Only if phenomenology were to shed its commitments to such methodological neutrality, suggests Professor Trakakis, could phenomenologists “be free to allow their particular faith-commitments full reign to shape and influence their philosophy.” 

In response, I want to make two points.  First, I think it is worthwhile to note that it is entirely possible to grant Plantinga’s claim regarding the rationality of religious commitments to operate as basic beliefs internal to one’s philosophical system, which is the alternative that Professor Trakakis endorses, while also resisting the notion that such commitments must always operate in this way.  That Christian philosophy is rational does not mean that it is the only game in town.  Now, I take this to be an uncontroversial claim, but I think that sometimes (Christian) philosophers of religion can seem to indicate (whether intentionally or not) that unless one specifically assumes the truth of Christianity as a starting-point for philosophical reflection that one has failed to do philosophy correctly.  The idea would be that since Christianity is true, starting with any other set of beliefs as premises for one’s arguments would be to introduce falsehood from the outset.  Though operating this way is not irrational, as Plantinga has successfully demonstrated, I contend that it can sometimes be problematic insofar as it might invite a hermeneutic blindness such that one forgets to allow the epistemic humility previously called for to be functionally operative in one’s philosophical work.  There is a big difference between saying “well of course I could be wrong,” on the one hand, and actually allowing one’s basic beliefs to be at stake in philosophical dialogue, on the other hand (which, incidentally, is why Nicholas Wolterstorff rightly points out the importance of allowing one’s “data-beliefs” to also challenge the “control beliefs” with which one started). 

Second, I think that there are dialogical dangers that can begin to emerge as temptations within so-called “Christian philosophy.”  Simply put, if one starts by assuming the truth of Christianity at the outset, then ostensibly it might seem that all conversations with non-Christians would only be of limited use.  It would be like a professional basketball player playing ball with a bunch of high-school students in the effort to strengthen his game without really risking being beaten—i.e., he doesn’t recognize the high-school students as “real” competition, as it were.  Although inquiry always begins from somewhere (i.e., there is no neutral starting point), there are more or less hospitable ways of inhabiting the place from which one starts.  As Brian McLaren might say, there are different ways of living in the story in which one finds oneself.  Even if only displayed in extreme cases, what can begin to emerge is a narrow (insider) dialogue that is too rigidly prescriptive of where the inquiry is able to go (given the set of premises with which it began).  

In such a context, I think it is quite understandable that many, though certainly not all, Continental philosophers of religion have chosen to move away from affirmations of determinate religious beliefs and the debates occurring in more mainstream philosophy of religion, and have moved toward “religion without religion” as a way of (1) resisting a perceived dogmatism in the effort of (2) enlarging the philosophical conversation itself.  Unfortunately, the Continental/Analytic split in philosophy of religion, I believe, can become further entrenched when both sides see the other as dogmatic and narrow, which are, more often than not, misperceptions of the other perspective.  Accordingly, the reason I advocate reconstructive separatism is that I think it achieves both (1) and (2) while avoiding an alternative deconstructive dogmatism regarding a-theistic assumptions.  Even if my project is viewed as merely a performance of negative apologetics, I take it to be a needed contribution to a discourse that only sporadically and haltingly shows signs of the sort of cross-tradition engagement to which Professor Trakakis and I are both committed.    

Not all philosophy needs to begin by affirming the Apostle’s Creed (although it might be important for some philosophy to do so).  But, similarly, not all philosophy needs to operate according to phenomenological methodology and deconstructive frameworks (although, again, it might be important for some philosophy to do so).  What I take postmodern apologetics to offer is a way of seeing how those starting from these different places might not, in the end, be so far apart after all.  It might be (indeed, I think it is) that inquiries into speech, prayer, faith, revelation, obligation, and liturgy offered by New Phenomenology might begin to point toward Christianity, say, as distinctly able to account for such realities in ways that resonate with, and even animate, phenomenological descriptions.  Similarly, it could be that Husserl’s conception of the difference between “empty” and “fulfilled” intentions can provide insight into some aspects of the difference between a life without a personal relation to Jesus and a life with such a relation.  Hence, even if phenomenology is only able to provide a prolegomena to positive apologetics, I think it is wrong to understand this as only a “negative” enterprise, but instead an important step toward more positive work.  Further, as Marion demonstrates quite frequently, it is important to realize that the phenomenologist need not always operate as a phenomenologist.  If one wants to engage in debates concerning positive claims about the truth of a particular religious tradition, then Plantinga, Mavrodes, and many others are likely to be good resources to which one can turn.  But, alternatively, those explicitly engaged in “Christian philosophy” (in an analytic mode) might find resources for guarding against the possible temptations to dialogical insularity and theological arrogance by occasionally drawing upon phenomenology (and vice-versa).  Christian philosophy and New Phenomenology are not at odds with each other, but that does not mean that one will necessarily lead to the other as its natural culmination.  Discursive interplay in this regard serves to enrich both discourses without narrowly forcing a particular philosopher into deciding between the two as mutually exclusive approaches to philosophy itself.  Marion is probably right to say that phenomenology is about possibility; Plantinga is probably right to say that philosophers need not abandon their religious commitments when doing philosophy.  Regardless of tradition, philosophers of religion should be able to draw upon both Marion and Plantinga (or Jacques Derrida and William Alston, Emmanuel Levinas and Linda Zagzebski, etc.).  Crucially, I think that Professor Trakakis and I would be in agreement on this point.  I entirely concur with his claim that by drawing upon both the Continental and the analytic traditions, philosophers are more likely to “produce possibilities for thinking that were not available or apparent previously.”

In conclusion, in God and the Other, I offered reconstructive separatism as merely one model of how philosophy and theology can be distinguished (even if only ever tentatively), but I think that the postmodern apologetics for which this model leaves room serves to challenge the notion that such distinctions themselves amount to conversation stoppers for inquiry.  Productive philosophy of religion is most plausibly fostered, I believe, when distinctions between philosophy and theology are possible (only then could we really understand where it is that one stands and where it is that one wants to go), but are always themselves at stake in the conversation itself (only then do we resist the insular circularity that can tempt us all).  I find reconstructive separatism to facilitate such an understanding.  Maybe this is only a philosophical nickel, but even nickels can begin to add up when combined with the nickels of others.      

The Church in the Present Tense: A Response from Kevin Corcoran

Kevin Corcoran is professor of philosophy at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, MI and editor/co-author of The Church in the Present Tense.

 

Well, it’s my turn.  As the one who conceived this book, edited it and contributed to it, I want to take a moment to address some of David’s concerns and some concerns that have been vociferously voiced on other websites and blogs.  I’ll also touch on some points made by Tony, in his brief review. 

(Let me say just briefly myself, in defense of my friend Tony, and in answer to my friend Jason’s critique of Tony, that he (Tony) was right in the thick of a wedding and probably did not have the time required for a more lengthy and in-depth review of the content of the book.)

            David raises a couple of related worries and I want to address each of them in turn.  First, the biggest worry seems to be that the Emerging Church has produced precious little on-the-ground Jesus-activism.  It has raised lots of good questions, fomented lots of good conversation and stirred the proverbial pot, but little else. David wants to see “communities of Christ birthed…where true justice can be planted and infest neighborhoods.”  He wants to see “places of resistance called into being where individuals together can witness against the consumerist and pornographic excesses of American culture gone badly.”  And the implication is that the Emerging Church has not succeeded in doing this.  It’s done other things, but not this. 

            His second worry is like unto the first. The emerging church is nothing more than a “never-ending tolerant conversation.”  That’s it.  It has been nothing more than that for the last ten years and David wonders if it can ever be. 

            Well, I do not fashion myself a spokesperson for the emerging church.   Even so I will say this.  Activism—Jesus activism—is one of the salient features of emerging Christians.  In my chapter, “Thy Will be Done (On Earth)

I suggest that “planting justice” and “witnessing against the consumerist excesses of American culture”—to borrow David’s language—is precisely the sorts of things emerging Christians are up to.  Now, do they do this as part of a single, structural entity or community that is The Emerging Church?  No.  But that’s because there is no single, structural entity or community that is The Emerging Church.  In fact, I think it’s best not to speak of the emerging church for precisely this reason, it gives the impression that there is such a thing.  There’s not.  There are individuals—lots of them—dispersed and integrated parts of lots of different communities who share a vision, a concern, a longing, a cultural sensibility, and together they form what some refer to as the emerging church. 

            It is like a student visiting Yale university and being taken on a tour where she is shown the library, the labs, the sports complex and classrooms and then asking the tour guide, disappointingly, “But where is the university?”  The student is confused in thinking that “the university” picks out an entity, a thing.  It doesn’t.  In seeing the library, the classrooms and labs and the sports complex she has seen the university.  Likewise, the emerging church doesn’t pick out an entity either.  It picks out a bunch of individuals with a shared vision, a shared set of interests, concerns and cultural sensibilities and who are about the business of following Jesus in the here and now.  If you’ve seen them, you’ve seen the emerging church.

            Let me address myself briefly to the charge that the emerging church is a “never-ending tolerant conversation.”  Recall how the Platonic Dialogue, The Euthyphro, ends. In this dialogue Socrates asks Euthyphro what piety is.  Euthyphro provides an answer only to have Socrates show him that his answer is woefully inadequate.  So Euthyphro provides another answer.  Socrates proceeds to show him why THAT answer is also inadequate.  Poor Euthyphro offers up a third answer.  And to this answer Socrates responds with an even more important question than the original. That’s how the dialogue ends, with a question.  Plato seems to be suggesting that philosophy is like that, a never ending conversation.

            As a philosopher myself, I don’t find it at all disturbing or problematic if the emerging church is nothing more than a never-ending and tolerant conversation.  For it is a conversation about matters of fundamental human concern with people who though drawn into conversation because of shared interests, concerns and sensibilities are even still people from radically different theological and ecclesial histories and backgrounds.  If we can learn to talk to each other respectfully, then isn’t this just one more way we can show the world the stuff of God’s kingdom?

            Let me turn now to a couple of things Tony says and asks.  First, Tony asks at the end of his review, “Do [the authors of Church in the Present Tense] reject the pastiche aspect of ECM, or are they happy that their tradition gets a hearing.”  I think it should be clear from what I just said above that I do not reject this feature at all, but rather enthusiastically embrace it.  When Tony suggests that lots of people are disappointed with the emerging church, I am inclined to think that while true, it is only true because people are mistaken about what the emerging church is.  If it is recognized that the emerging church is not an entity, not a single, structural community, but rather a hodge-podge of individuals united by a common vision and a set of shared interests, concerns and cultural sensibilities from an array of different traditions and communties, then when the emerging church fails to speak with one voice on some important matter, one won’t be disappointed.  Because once it is recognized what the emerging church is one will not have such expectations. 

            Finally, I want to comment for what I hope is the last time on the fact that four white (and so far as I am aware, heterosexual) males are the contributing authors to this book.  This has been probably the single most voiced criticism of the book.  Here is what I have said elsewhere and elsewhen:

As the one who conceived the book, edited the book and chose the authors of the book, the responsibility for the utter lack of female voices falls squarely on my shoulders.  To offer an explanation risks the appearance of making excuses. So let me just say that I'm sorry there are no female voices among the authors (or among the interviewees that are included in the accompanying dvd). It's a shame. Period. I own it and will do what I can in the future to make it right. I can only ask that people forgive me.  The lack of female voices is lamentable. And, as I've said, I'm sorry. I will do my best to do better moving forward.

            I really don’t know what else to say.  Some however seem unable or ill-equipped to accept my apology.  I will say this, however; I make no apology for being white, male and straight.   My voice is no less worthy of contribution to the ongoing conversation for all of that than is anyone else’s.  

            Let me close by saying this.  Church in the Present Tense is offered as a modest, provocative contribution to the on-going conversation that is the emerging church.  From what I can gather, it is succeeding.  Thank you, David, for your contribution to the discussion and to you, Tony, for your continued contribution.  And thanks to Jason, Pete and Scot for their continued labor.  Peace to all. 

"God and the Other" Symposium: Trakakis

This final engagement with Aaron Simmons' God and the Other: Ethics and Politics After the Theological Turn is by N.N. Trakakis, Research Fellow in Philosophy at Australian Catholic University and the author of The End of Philosophy of Religion. 

 

Allow me to begin with a point about metaphilosophy. A previous reviewer (Christina Smerick) expressed the concern that, in Simmons’ book, “Continental philosophy is being asked to speak the language of analytic philosophy in order to be considered ‘legitimate’.” I’ll let Simmons fight his own battles, though I do wish to say that the kind of interplay and interaction (if not transgression) that is involved in the attempt to cross constantly back-and-forth between the Continental and analytic traditions of philosophy need not fall prey to the charge that in such an exchange one of these traditions will inevitably be prioritised, if not also absolutised. This, alas, has often been the result, but it is usually due to a poor or violent reading of the other tradition (the tradition that one dislikes and seeks to debunk). In a more open and friendly spirit, it is more likely that the language of both traditions is altered, even somewhat disfigured and radically transformed, so as to produce possibilities for thinking that were not available or apparent previously.  

Simmons’ engagement with analytic philosophy is therefore to be welcomed – not only because of the engagement itself (though, in the current institutional climate, this on its own is commendable), but also and more importantly because this is achieved in a conciliatory and non-polemical manner. Although his philosophical background and training are mostly Continental (or postmodern), Simmons is always ready to draw insights and arguments, as well as modes of reasoning and writing (he is, for example, refreshingly clear and precise) from analytic sources – though I would have liked this kind of ‘resourcefulness’ to have been performed more frequently in the book.

A further positive feature of Simmons’ book, perhaps also due in some way to its engagement with analytic philosophy, is the refusal to dismiss or marginalise the propositional and doctrinal dimensions of religious faith in favour of the personal and existential aspects of religion, something that many Continental philosophers of religion (especially those who espouse ‘religion without religion’) are wont to do. This is evident in Simmons’ excellent discussion of Wittgenstein and Kierkegaard (in ch. 9), where Simmons refuses to follow Wittgenstein entirely in the view that, “The historical accounts in the Gospels might, historically speaking, be demonstrably false and yet belief would lose nothing by this” (from Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, quoted on p.200). There is much of religious value in Wittgenstein – I particularly liked the emphasis Simmons placed on Wittgenstein’s notion of the religious life as a struggle – but this need not blind us to Wittgenstein’s occasional blunders, excused in part by his ignorance of the history of Christian theology.

That said, in what follows I wish to look at Simmons’ understanding of the relationship between philosophy and theology, and the implications this has for apologetics. My focus, therefore, will be on ch. 7 of Simmons’ book, where he identifies three ways of differentiating theology from philosophy (or philosophy in the mode of phenomenology). Firstly, there is the ‘separatist’ strategy, advocated by Janicaud, where phenomenology (and perhaps philosophy in general) is deemed to be theologically neutral and thus separate from theology. Secondly, there is the ‘reconstructivist’ strategy, where theology is first reconstructed by emptying it of any doctrinal commitment to a determinate faith, and is then (only then) permitted to enter the philosophical fray. (This is the general procedure followed by Derrida and the New Phenomenologists.) Thirdly, and this is Simmons’ via media, we have ‘reconstructive separatism’. On this view, theology and philosophy remain separate, insofar as each has distinct presuppositions and sources of authority: “Theology, I propose, begins with the authority of divine revelation, canonical texts, and/or ecclesial frameworks; phenomenology begins with the openness to investigate appearance in whatever form, or lack of form, appearance takes.” (pp.162-63) But despite this separateness, a doctrinal interplay between the disciplines is encouraged, so that (for example) the doctrinal content of Christian theology may inform one’s (postmodern, or phenomenological) philosophy, thus giving rise to “the possibility of a postmodern Christianity, a postmodern Judaism, or a postmodern Islam, rather than merely some ‘religion without religion’.” (p.164)

As Simmons is aware (since we have been privately discussing this matter), I don’t think this gets the relationship between philosophy and theology entirely right, though I admit that it is an improvement on the position of the New Phenomenologists. I won’t go into the details here, but I will say that my view is more in line with Plantinga’s conception of ‘Christian philosophy’ and the Radical Orthodox rejection of any secular or autonomous philosophy. My concern here, however, is with the consequences of Simmons’ reconstructive separatism for apologetics.

            Simmons holds that his preferred way of relating phenomenology to theology “leaves room for the possibility of a postmodern apologetics,” where this means that “one can give rational defenses of determinate religious belief and practice.” (p.164) This, unfortunately, comes at the very end of ch. 7, and so he hasn’t given himself much space to develop this promising idea. But from what he does say it is clear that such rational defenses would not aspire to the ideals of ‘classical apologetics’, the kind of apologetic programs formed within the Enlightenment framework and which seek objectivity, certainty, universality, and neutrality. Simmons briefly alludes to some possible examples of postmodern apologetics, including arguments showing that the God of the Bible is not the onto-theological God of metaphysics, and Kierkegaard’s ‘attack’ on Christendom. In an as-yet unpublished paper (“Apologetics After Objectivity”, which Simmons kindly made available to me) he develops the notion of a postmodern apologetics much further, showing how one could accept postmodern philosophy (and thereby reject the possibility of objectivity, certainty, etc.) while also engaging in a form of apologetics that aims to provide a defense of the specific truth-claims of Christianity. (This will be, following John G. Stackhouse Jr. and David K. Clark, a ‘humble’ and ‘dialogical’ apologetics.)

            All this is, I believe, highly commendable, and indeed something that George Mavrodes and Alvin Plantinga, amongst many other analytic philosophers of religion, have been saying for quite some time. The problem, however, is that it doesn’t do much to resolve the tension between New Phenomenology and theology. To see this, consider the question: How could the New Phenomenology, when brought into closer relation with theology (as recommended by Simmons’ reconstructivist proposal), help to provide a defence, particularly a robust defence, of the central truths of Christianity? It seems, at least on the face of it, that the Christian worldview cannot be presented (or defended) by the phenomenologist as anything more than a formal possibility, never as the ultimate truth, for to do so would break the cardinal phenomenological tenet of epochē, the suspension of any claim as to what (really) exists. I do not, of course, wish to downplay the importance of defending or establishing the internal coherence and hence the (logical or metaphysical) possibility of the truth of Christianity – particularly within contexts or communities where belief in God has been resolutely dismissed, as happened in the post-war positivist era. (Plantinga’s rebuttal of verificationism and his famed ‘free will defence’ thus performed an invaluable service in warding off once-popular philosophical ploys against theism.) The problem is that we (and I suspect this includes Simmons) would like apologetics to have the capacity to go further than merely defending Christianity from attack (so-called ‘negative apologetics’) to offering reasons (albeit reasons that are context-sensitive, person-relative, fallible, etc.) in support of the truth of Christianity. It is difficult to see how New Phenomenology can be stretched to allow for such ‘positive apologetics’ while remaining within the phenomenological fold.  

There may, however, be a way out. If the history of phenomenology, from Husserl to the new crop of phenomenologists, is any indication, the very contours and limits of phenomenology are (and always have been) up for grabs. Perhaps apart from a generic or vague ‘return to things themselves’ with a strong appreciation for subjective or first-person experience, all else – including therein the eidetic reduction and the method of epochē – is negotiable and can be discarded. (Consider, in this context, Edith Stein’s rejection of the transcendental reduction in favour of a realist phenomenology.) If this route is followed, then perhaps phenomenologists can finally fulfill Marion’s dictum: “It is forbidden to forbid!” Phenomenologists, like other philosophers, will then be free to allow their particular faith-commitments full reign to shape and influence their philosophy, rather than deceptively camouflaging their words with a studied neutrality. After Marion, this may be taken as the ‘fourth reduction’ – only this time we are unapologetically ‘reduced to’ (in the sense of being led back to) the only horizon capable of making sense of and thus truly disclosing anything: God.