The Inquisition: Logos

In my post on the subject of faith, I talk about the definition of the word faith and that ultimately I believe it pertains to all of life; and not merely religion. I won't go into all that again, for it'd be redundant, but a while later a friend of mine shared some of his objections to my conclusions concerning faith—especially where I talk about faith being something we put even in science. He shared his own definition of faith: that faith is unexamined, blind, and heeds only to its own course in spite of evidence and, especially, evidence to the contrary. With this definition he went on to point out that my claims fall apart as pertains to atheism. As not to remove the context, he then went on to share with me how faith relates to him (i.e., how he does not need it in his philosophies), that religion is unnatural, absurd, and, socially and otherwise, destructive; he then shared an Old Testament example which he feels is ridiculous, and finally summarizes that religion does carry some intrinsic truth of humanity, but ultimately that religion and ritual are no way of forming an organic thought.

I must say that when I concluded my reading of his response I agreed almost entirely with him. So I do not regard what he said as stupid in any way, but rather very honest and intelligent. He began with his own definition of faith, and from there showed how such faith would be wholly destructive within the religions that adopted such faith. The question then raises, is that really the sort of faith which all religions are based off of? I believe it's a bit cynical of a definition, and a generalization, really: like asserting that all children are 'needy', and adding that to be 'needy' means being pathetic and inhuman (due to a lack of independence). It's difficult to argue the idea since children are needy, but does that really mean they're pathetic and inhuman? Some would say yes. I'm reluctant even to give that example as I think it could be too distracting, so I'll move onto my main thought and hope my train of thought is followed.

In the book of John (fourth book within the New Testament of the Bible) one finds a rather curious start: "In the beginning was the Word." It goes on to explain how this is God, but I don't actually want to focus on that. I want to simply consider the final word within the verse—'Word'—and what that means. To understand this one must first realize that the New Testament is written in Greek, and what we read in English is actually a translation of this. Years ago, back when words meant more, this phrase made a bit more sense, but even then it was somewhat confusing. The Greek word for 'Word' comes from the Greek word Logos—which was far more meaningful for the Greeks than to us. (The word logic receives its root from this word.)I have heard it said that a better contemporary translation of this verse would be, "In the beginning was the definition." So it wasn't that in the beginning, before space and time, lingered some method of communication; rather that before all such anything was the very thing which defined: sort of like saying that before there was a wooden rocking horse there was the idea (which Christian's believe to have been within the Carpenter's mind). That's by no means a perfect example, but what the Greeks were trying to get across in this word is a difficult but powerful concept that even they, the ancient philosophers, couldn't quite understand and therefore used a single word to contain; much like the words infinity or universe.

As I thought about my friend's objections, I realized that there was absolutely no way I could refute him on his own terms: there was no where to go: no possible direction the conversation could progress because we were talking about a subject using the same words, but entirely different definitions. There was no Logos—no definition we were agreeing on—so how could I reply when, by his own definition, he was correct?

I am realizing more and more as time goes on how incredibly important it is to realize that words are not an end in themselves, but a means by which to communicate. This statement may seem unnecessary, but I will explain what I mean. I speak English, and presently I am in a country which speaks Tamil (locally) and Hindi (nationally). So when I go up to someone on the street and ask them how they are in English, they stare at me and usually mutter a few uncertain words in their own language. It isn't that I had no meaning behind my words, and in fact if they understood me it would have shaped the beginning of a conversation, but as the words I shared were meaningless to them, the whole message was lost. It goes both ways. The exact same result occurs when they start talking to me in Tamil: I stare at them for a moment, then give them that clueless grin I have had months to perfect. What's happening is that we're both saying words which are quite meaningful to us, but which the other person has not agreed on the definition of. This is quite obvious as relates to entirely different languages, but becomes less obvious (and therefore less assumed) within a single language; but it is just as prevalent and often more confusing: in India we assume to know nothing of what is being said, but in America we assume to understand almost all words—especially those we've heard the most. A simple example would be the word 'cool': "That's cool," we say. Americans understand per use and context, that what's really being said is "I like that." If we use this word around someone that only learned English in the classroom, then they would most likely find themselves confused by the use of the term 'cool'; their mind would try and figure how or why the temperature of the situation is cool, and may make some sort of conclusion which satisfies them.

I'll give another example, more close to my point. Let's say I were to read a piece of old American literature, such as Mark Twain or Emily Dickinson. Throughout the book I noticed a number of characters describing themselves as 'gay'. By the end of the book I might suppose that nearly every character, accept the more miserable ones, were all homosexual. By a single word, I would have effectively misunderstood most characters and figured them to be something they weren't. Most of us, however, remember that traditionally the word 'gay' meant 'happy'; so when someone in an old television show would sit up in the morning, stretch and exclaim, "I feel gay today," they weren't joyfully remarking the disposition of their sexual preference for that day; they were expressing a feeling of happiness. This is that's called an equivocal word—a word without a singular, univocal meaning, wherein the word itself (sound; pronunciation) does not alter, but the definition does. Now the assumption, within this example, would be that if I were confused about the word and someone corrected me, that I would then say something like, "Ohh! Now I get it! That makes a lot more sense!" But what if someone told me and I were to retort that the author was wrong and I am right: either their characters are homosexual, or they were incorrect in the use of the word. Now at times the latter possibility may be correct and the author truly did misuse a word, but the question then arises: 'What's more important? That the story is understood, or that the infallible diction of the reader is established?' More often than not, as well, it's not so much that the word was used incorrectly, but that the use by modern definition would be incorrect.

One philosopher I appreciate greatly, Dr. Ravi Zacharias, remarked at a university presentation that it's easy for philosophers to become "doodlers with words." My own father, in fact, helps me quite a bit by letting me know when I begin to "wax on philosophical." I know what he means. He's saying that I'm doodling with words and not actually getting anywhere, or else getting there painfully. I very much appreciate this, and have realized that the modern notion of a philosopher is one that says too much and means too little (which is also believed, often jovially, for most politicians). After much thought, the reason I believe philosophers do this is because before we doodled with words, we doodled with definitions. It's not too uncommon for me to be listening to some philosophical debate, and begin rolling my eyes as I hear one or two grown men refusing to understand what the other is trying to say: they're much more interested in how they're saying it and that, by their own definition, their words are incorrect. I found myself in this horrid context—wherein you finally realize that nothing you can say is correct, because the very words you say won't be accepted—and try to catch myself from doing this to others. These days one can use certain expletives as every form of a word (noun, adjective, verb, etc...); love ice cream, people, mountains and a movie with equal distancing and passion; and argue as to whether or not truth is true. As we put it, it's a 'word game': At times we learn new languages in order to understand other cultures, and other times we refuse to understand our own by refute of word use.

Recently I read the book Miracles by the famous twentieth-century philosopher C.S. Lewis. In the beginning of the second chapter he begins with a definition: "I use the word Miracle to mean an interference with Nature by supernatural power." This is all right and well, but while going through the chapter I realized that he relies heavily on his definition, and even states in a note that it is a definition which most theologians would not use but he chose it based on the context of his readers. If one were to read the chapter and miss that definition, then the entire chapter would be incredibly easy to debunk: the word wouldn't fit the context and he would be seen as contradicting himself. On the other hand, what if, like the old American novel, the reader simply refused to accept the definition of the word, and read the chapter based on their own 'more correct' definition? One might then ask the reader why they're even reading the book, as they clearly assume to know more on the subject than anyone else, but that would be a bit harsh. I should rather like to point out to the reader that just because one accepts a word for a context, does not mean they have effectively compromised the whole of their philosophy by choosing to understand what someone means by a word. To sum up, words are but vessels of definition, they are not the definition themselves.

So what of my friend as he considered faith? Well, though I would not use the word as he did, I appreciated that he gave me a definition by which to understand his thoughts. Indeed, if when I used the word faith I meant something blind and frankly stupid, I would be as far from it as possibl as well. So if he merely wanted to inform me that we ought to avoid such faith, I would agree with him wholeheartedly. But, and not to pick on my friend, I do not believe when we say such things we are merely speaking on our own behalf, for he was informing me that faith according to all religions is blind and unexamined. Perhaps he did not mean this, and so I shall move onto a more generic reference. I have heard that if by a single line of reasoning we felt that we could debunk an entire religion, we have likely not understood it. Indeed I am not nearly so intelligent as to assume that I have accumulative knowledge of every religion in order to make such a claim, and I understand that what my friend was really saying was that ultimately religion led to such blind faith. I have limited knowledge of all religions, and as I know Christianity best I will at least provide a short apologetic on its behalf. Please understand, however, that I am not trying to begin a debate, as much as I am attempting to create the pretext for even a conversation.

According to the Bible—considered the ultimate reference to Christians—in chapter eleven of the book of Hebrews in the New Testament, faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (NAS) Or in another translation, "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen." (KJV) It's important to understand that the latter part—talking about 'things not seen'—is not a description of 'blind faith.' It is actually much more literal: it's a Greek term referring to the literal sensory: evidence not being limited to what we immediately can detect with our five sense. This is sensible. If it were not then I would not be able to talk about the heat of fire without first placing my hand in it as to assure myself that it is still quite hot. I attempted to explain this within my post concerning faith itself, and will thus leave its elaboration therein. But I challenge all such biblical critics to consider whether or not they're considering the Bible on the coherence of its own definitions as relate to reality, or if they're merely refuting it on word use: like the American novel or Lewis' book examples.

I will conclude with this, however. In my essay on faith I regarded the dictionary definition as being 'untrue' or 'false'. Quite frankly I cannot make that claim as a whole, and I therefore write this as to explain what I meant but poorly expressed. More accurately, I was talking about faith as described by the Christian faith, and that according to this definition it would even be legitimate to describe science as being a form of faith. No doubt, however, that if one despised the very use of the word 'faith' then my thought could be refuted on the grounds of the improper use of a word. But really, that isn't to refute the ground of my logic, but my communication thereof.

This was a rather difficult essay to write, and I truly hope I have not caused more confusion than understanding. If, after reading, you feel as though what I said had absolutely no relevance to you, then completely disregard this essay as something which simply doesn't having anything to do with you at the present time. Disregard it entirely. On the other hand, if you managed to track with my thinking through this and believe there is something to it, then I hope you will understand better the phrase, 'please don't listen to what I'm saying; listen to what I'm trying to say.' No one of us has the corner market on philology: even Webster, as there have been countless revisions to his initial 72,000 word nineteenth-century release. Speak and listen, therefore, with humility and understanding.