Not of This World

I became acquainted with Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus as a student, hearing mention of it by the instructor in an elective course in philosophy that I was enrolled in.  Over the years, the book has exercised a recurring influence on me as I return to it occasionally.  And the influence is not that of a reference manual or a guide.  I’m inspired rather by Wittgenstein’s own assessment of the work wherein he described it as consisting of two parts: what was there and what was not, with the latter being the important part. 

My first reading of the book years ago was done without any perspective of its historical context in the ongoing voice of Western philosophy, and I had no background in the problem it proposed to solve.  Notwithstanding my limited qualifications, it fascinated me.  Being immersed at the time in the study of mathematics and engineering, I was impressed with its economy of expression and captivated by its confident tone.  I alternately perceived the book as either extreme philosophy or extreme poetry.

As I have come to understand it, the aim of the book is to map the limits of what can be expressed in language.  And in the most general sense this limit also defines the limit of our rational thought.  Like Kant in his Critique of Pure Reason, who tried to establish the limits of reason in order to make room for faith, Wittgenstein tries to establish the line of demarcation past which science is no longer a valid tool.  As he describes and analyzes the formal nature of propositions (language), Wittgenstein takes care to distinguish between what it makes sense to say and what, when said, is simply nonsense.

Consider the following passage:

“We feel that when all possible scientific questions have been answered, the problems of life remain completely untouched.  Of course there are no questions left, and this itself is the answer.”

In this characteristic excerpt, Wittgenstein at once seemingly gives cause and justification for the existence of all religious thought and activity -- and then swiftly suggests that there may be no point in talking about it.  But he goes on to say

“The solution to the problem of life is seen in the vanishing of the problem.  (Is not this the reason why those who have found after a long period of doubt that the sense of life became clear to them have then been unable to say what constituted that sense?) There are indeed things that cannot be put in to words.  They make themselves manifest.  They are what is mystical.”

And so he says that there are indeed truths that are inexpressible in language.

As the book goes on, it builds progressively, statement by numbered statement, until in the final passages, we begin to experience the boundary to precise expression that Wittgenstein hoped to illuminate.  His dramatic concluding statement, “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence” has the character of a final, extended chord, as in the Beatles’ song A Day in the Life.

Acknowledging that he himself, in the body of the book, had used language to express his point, he concedes just before the end:

“My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands me eventually recognizes them as nonsensical, when he has used them - as steps - to climb up beyond them.  (He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.)  He must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.”

These and other similar statements in the book are what motivate me to describe the work as poetry.  It does not purport to be poetry, but its tautness and, in places, lyrical expression, give it the feel of poetry.  And it possesses a “desert father”-like quality: it makes statements in the world, but tries to remain detached from it, referencing the mystical while acknowledging our limited expressive connection to it.  I’m reminded of the work of T. S. Eliot, particularly in passages like the following from Eliot’s poem Burnt Norton:

“Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die.  Words, after speech, reach
Into the Silence.”

In all this, the crucial point for me is how we personally react to this understanding of the mystical, as Wittgenstein defines it. Do our religious ceremonies and gestures have purpose and meaning?   Do our scriptures reveal truths, however poetically (unscientifically) they are expressed? 


With this as a backdrop, let’s consider this passage from John’s Gospel:

"My kingdom is not of this world. If My kingdom were of this world, then My servants would be fighting so that I would not be handed over to the Jews; but as it is, My kingdom is not of this realm."  John 18:36

Most of us would understand the distinction Jesus is making between an earthly kingdom and that of his Father’s heavenly kingdom.  The language of the time used the word kingdom, but we could easily translate earthly kingdom in this context to mean the temporal world as we experience it.  In a very simplistic sense we could say that the Bible throughout tries to draw us to an understanding of the existence of these two “kingdoms” and of the difference between them.  And there is never a question as to which is the more to be desired.

But when involved in a discussion and challenged to explain and defend this belief, we are typically only allowed the tools of language and logic.  And such tools are designed for the temporal realm, not the mystical.  Thus, when engaged with the philosophically astute, we are prone to being tied in the circular knot of our own words.  Or drawn into silence.

For myself, I often turn for help to the words from an early 20th century book on philosophy, one that might be considered an unlikely source.

Formation

Sullivan's Wainwright Building

In his article The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered, the architect Louis H. Sullivan put forth his formula for the solution of architectural problems, the essence of which is conveyed in the following excerpt:

“All things in nature have a shape, that is to say, a form, an outward semblance, that tells us what they are ... Unfailing in nature these shapes express the inner life, the native quality ... It is the pervading law of all things ... that the life is recognizable in its expression, that form ever follows function.  This is the law.”

Sullivan’s context was the architecture of buildings.  His motivation was to express a guiding principle for design.  In his ideal, great architecture makes manifest a synthesis of beauty and logic, of form and function.  And when achieved, we behold it as ineffable. 

Ludwig Wittgenstein, in addition to producing his influential philosophical output, also tried his hand at architecture, designing a house for his sister.  He commented in one of his notebooks that “Working in philosophy - like work in architecture in many respects - is really more a working on oneself.  On one’s own interpretation.  On one’s way of seeing things. (And what one expects of them.)" (Culture and Value, 16e).

These references came to my mind a few years ago as I prepared a talk for a retreat at my parish.  Part of my talk was to be a reflection on the importance of regularly receiving the Sacraments and especially of regular attendance at Mass.  Such participation was important, I thought, even if we do not completely understand why.  In contemplating how I might express this, Sullivan's “form follows function” seemed to jingle around in my head as perhaps being relevant.  I felt that I was searching for an answer to the question - “What outward form would we manifest if our function in life is to participate in the earthly expression of the beauty and logic of God’s creation?”

As it finally came out in my talk, I suggested that in the presence of doubt, it is important to “adopt the form while seeking the function”.  I offered witness to this, and said that by regularly receiving the Sacraments, we surrender ourselves to a process of formation that in turn provides a setting for revelation to take place in our lives.  And by this I mean we are strengthened in our faith in a way that reason alone cannot provide.  The ineffable becomes intelligible.  Such formation implies change, albeit gradual.  For if we, however immodestly, consider ourselves to be fully formed, there would be no need for change.  Formation is a genesis, a development, an emergence.

It was a short time after this retreat that the pattern of daily Mass and daily prayer (in the Benedictine tradition) became a part of my life.  It is probably fair to say that I was “working on myself” more than on my listeners when I shared my reflection. And some years hence, I now see something else that is functioning within this form, this pattern of daily life. Architecturally, the correspondent would be Frank Lloyd Wright's maxim, which evolved from that of his teacher, Sullivan. Wright stated that "form and function are one".

Reason and Revelation

We know that all creation is groaning in labor pains even until now; and not only that, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, we also groan within ourselves as we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved.  Romans 8:22-24

The daily readings during Easter feature the Acts of the Apostles and although the events are familiar, I have been listening this year with a more imaginatively involved ear. One aspect of this has been to alternatively adopt the perspective of each participant in the reading, doing so with the understanding that nothing that has been revealed to us of the future is known to them.

And so we came to the following passage beginning at Acts 5:34:

"A Pharisee in the Sanhedrin named Gamaliel, a teacher of the law, respected by all the people, stood up, ordered the Apostles to be put outside for a short time, and said to the Sanhedrin,

‘Fellow children of Israel, be careful what you are about to do to these men.  Some time ago, Theudas appeared, claiming to be someone important, and about four hundred men joined him, but he was killed,and all those who were loyal to him were disbanded and came to nothing. After him came Judas the Galilean at the time of the census.  He also drew people after him, but he too perished and all who were loyal to him were scattered.  So now I tell you, have nothing to do with these men, and let them go.  For if this endeavor or this activity is of human origin, it will destroy itself.  But if it comes from God, you will not be able to destroy them;  you may even find yourselves fighting against God.’

They were persuaded by him. After recalling the Apostles, they had them flogged, ordered them to stop speaking in the name of Jesus, and dismissed them.”

This passage, unlike most in the book of Acts, gives us a middle-ground perspective in the person of Gamaliel.  And this engaged me.  This passage has an apparent simplicity, but it held me and would not let me move on.

Was Gamaliel's intervention significant?  Would the Jesus movement have died if the apostles had been snuffed out in that moment of time and all their acts cut short?  If we believe that, then certainly Gamaliel was an unlikely hero.  But ironically, to believe that would also imbue the council with the power to control the fate of God's intervention with man, and to reduce the resurrection to the status of a story, a fable that could be suppressed and rendered harmless and forgotten.

That was the Sanhedrin's desire: to suppress this disruptive fantasy and restore the safety of tradition, to wake people up from this dream and bring them back to reality.  As I adhered to this desire - in the imagination - waking up from dream - aligning with the council’s choice - life seemed to lose a dimension.  (Was it the dimension of hope?)

I returned to Gamaliel and realized that I empathized with him.  He was trying to make the right decision, using all the logic he could muster.  I saw him as the good child, the obedient child, doing what he was taught and basing it on the authority of a long tradition of obedience to God.  An obedience that was being challenged by the followers of this man who claimed to be God.

But I also saw Gamaliel's statement as perhaps characterizing his own internal personal dilemma, even what might be called a crisis of faith.  This is the territory of his "middle ground".  A suspension between the backward look of tradition and the forward look into the unknown.  A suspension that cannot be sustained and must lead to either a settlement within the safe domain of accepted reasoning or a leap of faith on to an unmapped path.

I then realized what had “held” me about this passage: it is a stark confrontation between reason and revelation.  Between the mind and the heart.  Between doubt and faith.  It confronted me with the question of what I might have done, seated at the council table, having been given all the tools of intelligence and reason, and bolstered by the weight of tradition.

Stepping out of these imagined roles and into the present, I understood better the perspective that we often adopt when reading Scripture, reading it in the same manner that one might study a classic painting, with the result that the scripture passages become static, familiar and ultimately unmoving.  In contrast, the value of imaginative involvement is that it can help us avoid the tendency to insulate ourselves.  Our lives are not static and our need for decision making is ever present.  Scripture only comes alive in our lives if we consciously apply its teachings in the present moment, in our choices and in the paths we choose to follow.

As in the moment when we encounter the homeless person on the downtown street, only to cast our glance away and walk on by - we are the council.  Or when, as we feel uncomfortable and glance back - we are Gamaliel.  Or when the realization comes that if we had stopped and offered help - we would have been the apostle.

....

A Catholic friend of mine confided to me that he is a deist at heart and believes that nature unfolds following laws that will never change, in essence saying that God is finished creating the world and He leaves it to us to find meaning in it.  But how does the Truth play itself out?

Life either becomes a vanishing point (if it not be of God) or a space explored, a space never completely mapped or measured (if it be of God).

Reality bleeds through the neat lines that theory is fond of drawing. 

I said in response to my friend that I believe creation is still 'under way'.