why we need religion essay

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Why study religion?

Big questions.

Whether you consider yourself a religious person or not, or whether you think religion has played a positive or negative role in history, it is an incontrovertible fact that from the beginning of time, humans have engaged in activities that we now call religion, such as worship, prayer, and rituals marking important life passages. Moreover, religions have always asked fundamental questions, such as: What is the true meaning of life? What happens to us after death? How do we explain human suffering and injustices?

Human Understanding

The answers different religious traditions give to these important questions are many and varied and often contradictory. But the questions themselves are ones with which humans throughout time have grappled, and probably will continue to grapple with into the indefinite future. Thus, one of the first reasons to study religion is simply to deepen our understanding of others and ourselves, even as we pursue other realms of knowledge.

Cultural Influence

We also study religion in order to learn more about how different aspects of human life—politics, science, literature, art, law, economics—have been and continue to be shaped by changing religious notions of, for example, good and evil, images of the deity and the divine, salvation and punishment, etc. By studying different religious doctrines, rituals, stories, and scriptures, we can also come to understand how different communities of believers—past and present, East and West—have used their religious traditions to shape, sustain, transform themselves.

Global Insight

More than ever before, the world we live in is both multicultural and global. We no longer need to travel across the ocean to visit a Hindu temple or an Islamic mosque or to meet a Sikh or a Jain. The chances are that you can find a temple or mosque within a few miles of where you live, and it is almost certain that you will be meet someone from any and all of these religious traditions on campus or on the street. This makes it even more essential that we cultivate our ability to understand and interpret other people’s religious traditions.

Interdisciplinary

Finally, the academic study of religion is inherently multidisciplinary. This is reflected in our program here at Washington University, which draws faculty from different disciplines in the humanities and the social sciences, such as history, anthropology, literature, art history, and political science. Studying religion thus provides you an opportunity to learn about a range of disciplinary approaches, and, even more importantly, the connections and linkages among them. In this way studying religion invites us all to think in a more interdisciplinary and integral way about the world and our place in it.

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Why we need religion

Stephen asma, an agnostic, argues powerfully that religion is natural and beneficial. is it such a leap to believe that it is grounded in truth.

It is a truth, though sadly not one universally acknowledged, that what you think of  religion largely depends on what you think is  religion. If you believe religion to be primarily a means of explaining the origins and processes of the world and of nature, you’ll measure it with a scientific yardstick and find it wanting. If you think it is a metaphysical enterprise, making propositional but untestable statements about human identity and destiny, you’ll assess it on more philosophical principles, and find it momentous or meaningless depending on whether you like your ideas falsifiable. If you think it’s a series of ethical guidelines for how to navigate the world, with little truth content in themselves, you’ll measure it on a moral scale, and find it inspiring or dispiriting, depending on which bits you’re looking at. And so on and so forth. Stephen Asma is Professor of Philosophy at Columbia College in Chicago and, once upon time, a happy inhabitant of the first of these camps. Most of his early publications were “strenuously” critical of religion. He wrote enthusiastically for various sceptical and secularist publications, and even found himself listed in “Who’s who in hell,” a publication of which I was heretofore blissfully unaware. However, some challenging encounters, wider reading and deeper reflection began to change his mind. “I’m an agnostic and a citizen of a wealthy nation,” he confesses towards the end of his provocatively-entitled 2018  Why We Need Religion , “but when my own son was in the emergency room with an illness, I prayed spontaneously.” “I’m not naïve,” he goes on to say. “I don’t think it did a damn thing to heal him. But it is a response that will not go and that should not go away if it provides genuine relief for anxiety and anguish.” We have been here before. Such a non-conversion to “religion” is the cue for a toe-curlingly patronising exercise in religious non-defence. Religion may be irrational and infantile, you know, but it’s good for the children, especially the adult ones. This, however, is not the direction in which Asma heads. To be clear, he still sees religion as irrational, although his extended discussion of creationism rather suggests he’s going for the low-hanging fruit here. Rather, he now views religion—his focus is primarily on Christianity and Buddhism, but much of what he says applies more widely—as natural, beneficial, humanising, and, indeed, indispensable. The key is the body. Why We Need Religion  takes our embodied and affective nature very seriously and shows, in detail and with impressive supporting evidence, that religious commitment—beliefs, practices, rituals, etc.—help protect and manage our emotional life with unparalleled and probably irreplaceable success. Religion is, in effect, a management system for our emotional lives that helps the human organism stay healthy and well. Take grief as an example. Human grief has both elaborate cognitive and neurochemical dimensions (not, of course, disconnected things). We ruminate on moments past, futures lost, hopes dashed, memories decaying. At the same time, human—like all mammalian—grief is a form of separation distress. Mammalian brains are hardwired for the calming comfort of a caregiver’s touch, and when that is denied us, especially permanently, the brain experiences a “major reduction in opioids, oxytocin and prolactin.” Religious belief attenuates the severity of that separation, and religious practices develop, codify, and authenticate grieving customs that serve to offer a kind of emotional surrogate for loss. Both cognitively and affectively, religion helps us cope with grief. That, of course, is one of the reasons why non-religious religions like Secular Humanism so often get into the funeral business. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Asma looks at grief, forgiveness, resilience, sacrifice, joy, fear and other deep emotions besides. Time and again, he shows how religion contains “cultural structures that enshrine and celebrate some important adaptive psychological” states, drawing on evidence that would have upset his younger, more muscular secular self. Empirical studies, he writes half way through, confirm our long held assumption that “religious people try more than others to overcome their grudges.” Similarly, the evidence that education increases forgiveness and reduces violence “is somewhat thin.” The second of these is eminently believable but even I have problems believing the former. If true, there are certainly some pretty powerful counter-examples. The book differs from the “but isn’t religion helpful” genre, then, for reasons of its scientific rigour, but also on account of the author’s sensitivity and empathy. Not only does it take some courage to begin a book by confessing a change of heart (if not mind) as Asma does, but it takes more, for example, to emphasise with the religiously violent. “People who dismiss religious-fuelled rage as intrinsically evil or primitive,” he writes, “have usually never faced real enemies.” Asma is not, of course, legitimising such rage or violence; simply seeking to understand it. In prosperous western liberal democracies, like our own, it is easy to think of one’s enemy as “a misunderstood force, whom one can eventually negotiate with.” That being so, religious rage is intolerable and an obvious moral failing. “Would that such [western] circumstances were long-lived and ubiquitous,” he remarks. “But they are neither.” This is powerful, striking at the heart of what makes people like you, me and those likely to read his book feel so morally superior. All that being so, it seems to me to be a natural step to move (or at least to edge) from religion’s affective importance to its cognitive reliability; i.e. from the kind of goodness (or at least usefulness) of which Asma writes, to its truth. Now, to be clear, this move need  not be made. Just because something is (or can be) good, that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily true. However, we should, at least, pause here. You can make a very strong argument that religion has played a positive role in human evolution, enabling individual and group survival, strength and cohesion, thereby being selected for in the evolutionary process. True, evolution selects for survival, not truth… but the two are hardly independent. Broadly speaking, an organism whose cognitive functions are capable of tracking “that which is the case” is likely to do better than one that doesn’t. Whether you are finding prey, sensing a predator, or responding otherwise to your environment, it helps if your evolved senses are trained on the truth. It strikes me that the same point can be made of the apparently ubiquitous human need for religion (or in some places now, religion-like substitutes). As Steven Pinker (of all people!) once remarked “we have colour vision because there are differences in wavelength in the world.  We have depth perception because the world actually does exist in three dimensions. By the same logic someone might be tempted to say that if we have a ‘God module’ there must be a God it’s an adaptation to.” Pinker of course is not tempted to say that. Nor, it seems, is Asma. I am. Nick Spencer is Senior Fellow at Theos "Why We Need Religion" by Stephen Asma is published by Oxford University Press

The Importance of Religion in Human Lives Essay

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Some contend that humans require religion to be moral, to instill in them a sense of right and evil, and to motivate them to act morally. It penalizes bad behavior and establishes a standard for good behavior. Others might contend that morality and happiness can be attained without religion. Cooperation and advancing the common good are the cornerstones of morality. There are various kinds of character, such as compassion, devotion, fairness, fearlessness, regard, justice, and property rights, because there are many different kinds of cooperation. Good and terrible human behavior are products of both nature and nurture. How we are raised, the people we interact with, and our culture all impact how we behave. And, while it is typically assumed that “the moral requirements of religion and secular moral requirements are essentially the same” (Wainwright 11), religion and morality are not always related to one another. Religion is far more recent than morality. Long before we became religious, we were moral beings. And other religions might not even be honest.

Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all emphasize their unique covenants with God, established through Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad, respectively. While acknowledging God’s revelation to and covenant with the Jews, Christianity has generally considered itself as replacing Judaism with the arrival of Jesus. To appease everyone and ensure good fortune, many Buddhists and non-Buddhists hold similar beliefs, worship the same deities, and honor deities from other religions and their ancestral spirits. Christianity urges its adherents to take action to enhance their well-being, just like Buddhism does. Buddhism has a significant devotional component, just like Christianity. Faith in the Buddha is what makes this. Buddhism is apart from other religions in three ways: it does not require belief in a specific God, and it teaches the idea that there is no such thing as a soul or self, which implies that there is no permanent or enduring quality to living things. Scriptures, rituals, holy days, and gathering locations are part of every faith. Each religion instructs its adherents on how to treat other people in the world.

Works Cited

Wainwright, William J. Religion and morality . Routledge, 2017.

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IvyPanda. (2023, August 27). The Importance of Religion in Human Lives. https://ivypanda.com/essays/the-importance-of-religion-in-human-lives/

"The Importance of Religion in Human Lives." IvyPanda , 27 Aug. 2023, ivypanda.com/essays/the-importance-of-religion-in-human-lives/.

IvyPanda . (2023) 'The Importance of Religion in Human Lives'. 27 August.

IvyPanda . 2023. "The Importance of Religion in Human Lives." August 27, 2023. https://ivypanda.com/essays/the-importance-of-religion-in-human-lives/.

1. IvyPanda . "The Importance of Religion in Human Lives." August 27, 2023. https://ivypanda.com/essays/the-importance-of-religion-in-human-lives/.

Bibliography

IvyPanda . "The Importance of Religion in Human Lives." August 27, 2023. https://ivypanda.com/essays/the-importance-of-religion-in-human-lives/.

Home — Essay Samples — Religion — Religious Pluralism — Role of Religion in Society: Exploring its Significance and Implications

Role of Religion in Society: Exploring Its Significance and Implications

• Categories: Religious Beliefs Religious Pluralism

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Words: 1028 |

Published: Sep 5, 2023

Words: 1028 | Pages: 2 | 6 min read

Table of contents

Introduction, the significance of religion in society, the implications of religion in society, the debate surrounding the role of religion in society, the historical context of religion in society, the impact of religion on culture and identity, the role of religion in promoting social cohesion, the impact of religion on politics and governance, the relationship between religion and morality, the role of religion in promoting social justice and equality, the debate between secularism and religious influence in society, the impact of cultural attitudes towards religion on the debate, the potential consequences of religion's role in society.

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• U.S. Public Becoming Less Religious
• Chapter 1: Importance of Religion and Religious Beliefs

Table of Contents

• Chapter 2: Religious Practices and Experiences
• Chapter 3: Views of Religious Institutions
• Chapter 4: Social and Political Attitudes
• Appendix A: Methodology
• Appendix B: Putting Findings From the Religious Landscape Study Into Context

While religion remains important in the lives of most Americans, the 2014 Religious Landscape Study finds that Americans as a whole have become somewhat less religious in recent years by certain traditional measures of religious commitment. For instance, fewer U.S. adults now say religion is very important in their lives than did so seven years ago, when Pew Research Center conducted a similarly extensive religion survey. Fewer adults also express absolutely certain belief in God, say they believe in heaven or say their religion’s sacred text is the word of God.

The change in Americans’ religious beliefs coincides with the rising share of the U.S. public that is not affiliated with any religion. The unaffiliated not only make up a growing portion of the population, they also are growing increasingly secular, at least on some key measures of religious belief. For instance, fewer religious “nones” say religion is very important to them than was the case in 2007, and fewer say they believe in God or believe in heaven or hell.

Among people who do identify with a religion, however, there has been little, if any, change on many measures of religious belief. People who are affiliated with a religious tradition are as likely now as in the recent past to say religion is very important in their lives and to believe in heaven. They also are as likely to believe in God, although the share of religiously affiliated adults who believe in God with absolute certainty has declined somewhat.

When seeking guidance on questions of right and wrong, a plurality of Americans say they rely primarily on their common sense and personal experiences. But there has been a noticeable increase in the share of religiously affiliated adults who say they turn to their religious teachings for guidance.

This chapter takes a detailed look at the religious beliefs of U.S. adults – including members of a variety of religious groups – and compares the results of the current study with the 2007 Religious Landscape Study. The chapter also examines Americans’ views on religion and salvation, religion and modernity, and religion and morality.

Importance of Religion

Three-quarters of U.S. adults say religion is at least “somewhat” important in their lives, with more than half (53%) saying it is “very” important. Approximately one-in-five say religion is “not too” (11%) or “not at all” important in their lives (11%).

Although religion remains important to many Americans, its importance has slipped modestly in the last seven years. In 2007, Americans were more likely to say religion was very important (56%) or somewhat important (26%) to them than they are today. Only 16% of respondents in 2007 said religion was not too or not at all important to them.

The decline in the share of Americans who say religion is very important in their lives is closely tied to the growth of the religiously unaffiliated, whose share of the population has risen from 16% to 23% over the past seven years. Compared with those who are religiously affiliated, religious “nones” are far less likely to describe religion as a key part of their lives; just 13% say religion is very important to them. Furthermore, the share of the “nones” who say religion is not an important part of their lives has grown considerably in recent years. Today, two-thirds of the unaffiliated (65%) say religion is not too or not at all important to them, up from 57% in 2007.

For Americans who are religiously affiliated, the importance people attach to religion varies somewhat by religious tradition. Roughly eight-in-ten or more Jehovah’s Witnesses (90%), members of historically black Protestant churches (85%), Mormons (84%) and evangelical Protestants (79%) say religion is very important in their lives. These figures have stayed about the same in recent years.

Smaller majorities of most other religious groups say religion plays a very important role in their lives. This includes 64% of Muslims, 58% of Catholics and 53% of mainline Protestants. Roughly half of Orthodox Christians (52%) also say this. Fewer Jews, Buddhists and Hindus say religion is very important to them, but most members of those groups indicate that religion is at least somewhat important in their lives.

The survey also finds that older adults are more likely than younger adults to say religion is very important in their lives, and women are more likely than men to express this view. Additionally, those with a college degree typically are less likely than those with lower levels of education to say religion is very important in their lives. And blacks are much more likely than whites or Hispanics to say religion is very important in their lives. These patterns are seen in the population as a whole and within many – though not all – religious groups.

Belief in God

Nearly nine-in-ten Americans (89%) say they believe in “God or a universal spirit,” and most of them (63% of all adults) are absolutely certain in this belief. There has been a modest decline in the share of Americans who believe in God since the Religious Landscape Study was first conducted in 2007 (from 92% to 89%), and a bigger drop in the share of Americans who say they believe in God with absolute certainty (from 71% to 63%).

Majorities of adherents of most Christian traditions say they believe in God with absolute certainty. But this conviction has declined noticeably in recent years among several Christian groups. The largest drops have been among mainline Protestants (down from 73% in 2007 to 66% today), Catholics (from 72% to 64%) and Orthodox Christians (from 71% to 61%).

Among non-Christians, the pattern is mixed. Most Muslims (84%) are absolutely certain that God exists, but far fewer Hindus (41%), Jews (37%) or Buddhists (29%) are certain there is a God or universal spirit.

As was the case in 2007, most religiously unaffiliated people continue to express some level of belief in God or a universal spirit. However, the share of religious “nones” who believe in God has dropped substantially in recent years (from 70% in 2007 to 61% today). And religious “nones” who believe in God are far less certain about this belief compared with those who identify with a religion. In fact, most religiously unaffiliated believers say they are less than absolutely certain about God’s existence.

Nearly one-in-ten U.S. adults overall (9%) now say they do not believe in God, up from 5% in 2007.

Women are much more likely than men to say they are absolutely certain about God’s existence (69% vs. 57%), and older Americans are much more likely than younger adults to say they are absolutely convinced that God exists. Two-thirds of those with less than a college degree express certainty about God’s existence, compared with 55% of college graduates. Additionally, 83% of blacks say they are absolutely certain about God’s existence, while roughly six-in-ten whites (61%) and Hispanics (59%) hold this view.

There is considerable variation in the way members of different religious groups conceive of God. For example, seven-in-ten Christians think of God as a person with whom people can have a relationship. Only about a quarter of those who belong to non-Christian faiths (26%) share this view. Among non-Christian faiths, it is more common to see God as an impersonal force.

Among the religiously unaffiliated, roughly three-in-ten (31%) say God is an impersonal force, a quarter say God is best viewed as a person and a third say God does not exist. However, among the subset of religious “nones” who describe their religion as “nothing in particular” and who also say religion is very or somewhat important in their lives, a slim majority (53%) say they believe in a personal God.

Although the share of adults who believe in God has declined modestly in recent years, among those who do believe in God, views about the nature of God are little changed since 2007. In both 2007 and 2014, roughly two-thirds of people who believe in God said they think of God as a person, while just under three-in-ten see God as an impersonal force.

Beliefs About the Afterlife

Roughly seven-in-ten Americans (72%) believe in “a heaven, where people who have led good lives are eternally rewarded.”

Belief in heaven is nearly universal among Mormons (95%) and members of the historically black Protestant tradition (93%). Belief in heaven also is widely held by evangelical Protestants (88%), Catholics (85%), Orthodox Christians (81%) and mainline Protestants (80%).

The vast majority of Muslims (89%) also believe in heaven. About half of Hindus in the survey (48%) say they believe in heaven, as do 47% of Buddhists surveyed.

The only groups where significantly fewer than half say they believe in heaven are Jews (40%) and the unaffiliated (37%). While relatively few atheists or agnostics believe in heaven, a large share of those whose religion is “nothing in particular” and who also say religion is at least somewhat important in their lives do believe in heaven (72%).

The survey also finds that, overall, women are more likely than men to say they believe in heaven, and those with less than a college degree are more likely than those with a college degree to express this view. Slightly bigger shares of blacks and Hispanics than whites say they believe in heaven, and older Americans are slightly more likely than younger adults to hold this belief. In many cases, however, these demographic differences in belief in heaven are smaller within religious traditions than among the public as a whole. Among evangelical Protestants, for example, men are just as likely as women to believe in heaven, and young people are just as likely as older evangelicals to hold this belief.

Belief in “hell, where people who have lived bad lives and die without being sorry are eternally punished,” is less widespread than belief in heaven. About six-in-ten Americans (58%) believe in hell, little changed from 2007.

Belief in hell is most common among members of historically black Protestant churches (82%) and evangelical Protestant churches (82%). Somewhat fewer Catholics (63%), Mormons (62%), mainline Protestants (60%) and Orthodox Christians (59%) say they believe in hell.

Three-quarters of U.S. Muslims (76%) believe in hell, but belief in hell is less common among other non-Christian groups, including Buddhists (32%), Hindus (28%), Jews (22%) and the religiously unaffiliated (27%).

U.S. adults with less than a college degree are more likely than college graduates to say they believe in hell, and blacks are more likely than Hispanics and whites to believe in hell. However, there are minimal differences between men and women and between younger and older adults on this question.

Beliefs About Holy Scripture

Six-in-ten Americans (60%) view their religion’s sacred text as the word of God. This represents a slight decline from 2007, when 63% of the public held this view. Within most religious groups, there has been little movement on this question, but among the unaffiliated, there has been a modest decline in the share who view the Bible as the word of God (from 25% to 21%).

Three-quarters of Christians believe the Bible is the word of God, including about nine-in-ten evangelicals (88%), Mormons (91%) and Jehovah’s Witnesses (94%). Among members of other Christian traditions, smaller majorities say the Bible is the word of God.

Although there is widespread agreement across Christian groups on this question, there is disagreement about whether the Bible can be taken “literally, word for word.” Most evangelical Protestants (55%) and members of historically black Protestant churches (59%) believe the Bible should be taken literally, but fewer Christians from other traditions espouse a literalist view of the Bible. There has been little change in recent years in the share of Christians who believe the Bible should be interpreted literally, word for word.

Most Muslims (83%) accept the Quran (also spelled Koran) as the word of God. Far fewer Jews (37%), Hindus (29%) and Buddhists (15%) say their scripture is the word of God.

The share of the unaffiliated who believe the Bible was written by men and is not the word of God has risen by 8 percentage points in recent years, from 64% in 2007 to 72% in 2014. But while most religious “nones” say the Bible was written by men, about half of those who say they have no particular religion and who also say religion is at least somewhat important in their lives believe the Bible is the word of God (51%).

As on some other traditional measures of religious belief, older adults are more likely than younger adults to say their religion’s holy text is the word of God. And those with less than a college degree also are much more likely than college graduates to say their religion’s scripture is the word of God. Additionally, more women than men and more blacks than Hispanics and whites say their religion’s holy text is the word of God. For the most part, however, differences in beliefs about the Bible are larger across religious traditions (e.g., between evangelicals and Catholics and religious “nones”) than differences between demographic groups within the same religious tradition.

Beliefs About Religion and Modernity

Respondents in the survey who are affiliated with a religion were asked to choose one of three statements that best reflects their view of how their religion should engage with modernity. A plurality of religiously affiliated Americans (46%) believe their religion should “preserve traditional beliefs and practices.” A third (34%) say their congregation or denomination should “adjust traditional beliefs and practices in light of new circumstances.” Only 14% of people who are affiliated with a religious tradition say their religion should “adopt modern beliefs and practices.”

These findings are little changed from 2007, when 44% of affiliated respondents said their religion should preserve its traditional beliefs and practices, 35% said their religion should adjust its traditional beliefs and 12% said their religion should adopt modern beliefs and practices.

The belief that their religion should preserve traditional practices is held by most Mormons (70%), Jehovah’s Witnesses (60%), evangelical Protestants (61%) and members of historically black Protestant churches (53%), as well as half of Orthodox Christians (50%).

Muslims are closely divided on whether their religion should preserve traditional beliefs and practices or adjust traditional beliefs and practices in light of new circumstances. Among other religious groups, including Jews, mainline Protestants and Catholics, the most common view is that religions should adjust traditional practices.

Paths to Eternal Life

Two-thirds of those who identify with a religious group say many religions (not just their own) can lead to eternal life, down slightly from 2007, when 70% of all religiously affiliated adults said this.

This view is held by the vast majority of mainline Protestants (80%) and Catholics (79%), as well as smaller majorities of Orthodox Christians (68%) and members of historically black Protestant churches (57%) and about half of evangelicals (52%). Fewer than half of Mormons (40%) and only about one-in-ten Jehovah’s Witnesses (8%) believe that many religions can lead to eternal life.

Among the non-Christian religious traditions that are large enough to be analyzed, most say many religions can lead to eternal life.

Most Christians who say many religions can lead to eternal life also say non-Christian religions can lead to heaven. In fact, half of all Christians say some non-Christian faiths can lead to eternal life, while about four-in-ten say either that theirs is the one true faith leading to eternal life or that only Christianity can result in everlasting life. About one-in-ten Christians express no opinion or provide other views on these matters.

Two-thirds of Catholics (68%) and mainline Protestants (65%) say some non-Christian religions can lead to eternal life, as do 59% of Orthodox Christians. This view is less common among other Christian groups. Roughly four-in-ten members of historically black Protestant denominations (38%) say some non-Christian religions can lead to eternal life, as do three-in-ten evangelical Protestants and Mormons (31% each). Very few Jehovah’s Witnesses (5%) believe this.

Religion and Morality

When looking for answers to questions about right and wrong, more Americans say they turn to practical experience and common sense (45%) than to any other source of guidance. The next most common source of guidance is religious beliefs and teachings (33%), while far fewer turn to philosophy and reason (11%) or scientific information (9%).

Since the 2007 Religious Landscape Study, however, the share of U.S. adults who say they turn to practical experience has decreased by 7 percentage points (from 52% to 45%) while the share who say they look to religious teachings has increased by 4 points (from 29% to 33%). This turn to religious teachings as a source of moral guidance has occurred across many religious traditions, with the largest increases among evangelical Protestants and Catholics.

Six-in-ten or more evangelical Protestants, Mormons and Jehovah’s Witnesses say they turn to religious teachings and beliefs for moral guidance. Members of historically black Protestant churches are more divided: 47% say they rely on religious teachings while 41% rely on practical experience. Fewer Catholics (30%), mainline Protestants (29%) and Orthodox Christians (27%) turn primarily to religion for guidance on questions of right and wrong.

Fewer religious “nones” now say they use common sense and practical experience as their main source of guidance in this area (57%) than said this in 2007 (66%). But instead of finding guidance through religious teachings, more of the “nones” are turning to scientific information; the share who say they rely on scientific information has increased from 10% to 17% in recent years. The reliance on science is most common among self-identified atheists; one-third of this group (32%) relies primarily on scientific information for guidance on questions of right and wrong.

Nearly two-thirds of U.S. adults (64%) say that whether something is right or wrong depends on the situation, while a third say there are clear and absolute standards for what is right or wrong. In 2007, a different question about moral absolutes found that 39% of Americans completely agreed with the statement “there are clear and absolute standards for what is right and wrong.”

While Christians overall are more likely than members of other religious groups to say there are absolute standards for right and wrong, there are large differences within Christianity. Nearly six-in-ten Mormons (57%) and Jehovah’s Witnesses (57%) say there are clear standards for right and wrong. Evangelical Protestants are divided in their opinions, with 50% saying there are absolute standards and 48% saying it depends on the situation. Fewer Orthodox Christians (33%), mainline Protestants (32%), Catholics (30%) and members of the historically black Protestant tradition (29%) say there are clear and absolute standards of right and wrong.

Among members of non-Christian faiths, about three-quarters assert that determining right from wrong is often situational. Similarly, more than eight-in-ten atheists and agnostics express this view, as do three-quarters of those whose religion is “nothing in particular.”

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Does Ethics Require Religion?

There is a spectrum of views about how religion and ethics are related—from the view that religion is the absolute bedrock of ethics to one that holds that ethics is based on humanistic assumptions justified mainly, and sometimes only, by appeals to reason. These two extremes tend to be argued in a way that offers little room for compromise or pragmatic solutions to real issues we face everyday.

The relationship between religion and ethics is about the relationship between revelation and reason. Religion is based in some measure on the idea that God (or some deity) reveals insights about life and its true meaning. These insights are collected in texts (the Bible, the Torah, the Koran, etc.) and presented as “revelation.” Ethics, from a strictly humanistic perspective, is based on the tenets of reason: Anything that is not rationally verifiable cannot be considered justifiable. From this perspective, ethical principles need not derive their authority from religious doctrine. Instead, these principles are upheld for their value in promoting independent and responsible individuals—people who are capable of making decisions that maximize their own well-being while respecting the well-being of others.

Even though religious and secular ethics don’t derive their authority from the same source, we still must find a way to establish common ground between them; otherwise we’re condemning ourselves to live amidst social discord and division.

I believe we can accommodate the requirements of reason and religion by developing certain qualities that we would bring to our everyday ethical discussions. Aristotle said that cultivating qualities (he called them “virtues”) like prudence, reason, accommodation, compromise, moderation, wisdom, honesty, and truthfulness, among others, would enable us all to enter the discussions and conflicts between religion and ethics—where differences exist—with a measure of moderation and agreement. When ethics and religion collide, nobody wins; when religion and ethics find room for robust discussion and agreement, we maximize the prospects for constructive choices in our society.

About the Author

James a. donahue.

James A. Donahue, Ph.D., is the president and a professor of ethics at the Graduate Theological Union.

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• Self-Control
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• Spirituality

The vast majority of the world’s 7 billion people practice some kind of religion, ranging from massive worldwide churches to obscure spiritual traditions and local sects. Nobody really knows how many religions there are on the planet, but whatever the number, there are at least that many theories about why we have religion at all. One idea is that, as humans evolved from small hunter-gatherer tribes into large agrarian cultures, our ancestors needed to encourage cooperation and tolerance among relative strangers. Religion then—along with the belief in a moralizing God—was a cultural adaptation to these challenges.

But that’s just one idea. There are many others—or make up your own. But they are all just theories. None has been empirically tested. A team of psychological scientists at Queen’s University, Ontario, is now offering a novel idea about the origin of religion, and what’s more they’re delivering some preliminary scientific evidence to support their reasoning. Researcher Kevin Rounding and his colleagues are arguing that the primary purpose of religious belief is to enhance the basic cognitive process of self-control, which in turn promotes any number of valuable social behaviors.

They tested this theory in four fairly simple experiments, using classic measures of self-control. In the first study, for example, they used a word game to prime some volunteers’ (but not others’) subconscious thoughts of religion. Then they asked all the volunteers (using a ruse) to drink an unsavory mix of OJ and vinegar, one ounce at a time. They were told they could stop any time, and to take as much time as they liked, and that they would be paid a small amount for each ounce of the brew that they drank.

The amount they drank was a proxy for self-discipline. The more OJ and vinegar they forced down, they greater their self-control. And as predicted, those with religion on their mind endured longer at the unpleasant task. Since society and religion ask us to tolerate many things we don’t particularly like for the common good, the scientists interpret this finding as evidence of a particular kind of self-control.

Another way to think of self-control, perhaps the most familiar, is delayed gratification—resisting immediate temptation to wait for a greater reward later on. In another experiment, the scientists again primed some of the volunteers with hidden religious words, but in this case they were told (falsely) that the experiment was concluded and that they would be paid. They were told, further, that they could either return the next day and be paid $5, or come back in a week and get $6. This is a widely used laboratory paradigm for measuring the exertion of discipline in the face of temptation, and indeed, almost twice as many of those with religion opted for more money later.

Self-control is costly, consuming a lot of mental resources. Recent research has demonstrated that our cognitive power—in the form of glucose, the brain’s fuel—is limited. The mind and brain can become fatigued, just like a muscle, and when depleted, normal self-control is impaired. The third experiment built on an understanding of this process, often called “ego depletion.” The scientists wanted to see if cognitively depleted people are “refueled” with reminders of religion, so they had only half of the volunteers perform a mentally draining task while listening to loud music. Then they primed half of these depleted volunteers, and half the controls, with religious words. So at this point, there were four groups: Depleted; depleted but religiously primed; undepleted controls; and religiously primed controls. All of these volunteers then attempted a set of geometrical puzzles, which, unknown to them, were impossible to solve. The impossible task was included to test their persistence against great difficulty—another measure of self-control.

The results were unambiguous. Among those who were mentally depleted, the ones with religion on their minds persisted longer at the impossible task—suggesting that the religious priming restored their cognitive powers—and their patience in the process. They performed basically the same as those who were never tired out in the first place. The scientists take this as strong evidence for the replenishing effect of religion on self-discipline.

The fourth and final experiment was the only one with ambiguous results. The first three studies had shown direct causal evidence of religion on self-control—and downstream effects on enduring discomfort, delaying rewards, and exerting patience. But is it possible that the religious priming might have activated something else—moral intuition, or death-related concerns? In order to rule out these possibilities, the scientists used a completely secular self-control task, one with no moral overlay: the so-called Stroop task. This is the task where one must rapidly identify the ink that words are printed in, rather than read the words. It’s very difficult, requiring mental exertion and self-control.

The scientists primed some with religious words as usual, but others were primed with moral words—virtue, righteous—and still others with words related to mortality—deadly, grave, and so forth. Then all the volunteers attempted the Stroop task on a computer, which measured accuracy and reaction time. The results, as reported in a forthcoming issue of the journal Psychological Science , showed that religiously primed volunteers had much more self-control than did controls or those primed to think about mortality. But those with religion on their minds were statistically no different than those with morality on their minds. This was an unexpected finding, and it suggests that activating an implicit moral sensibility may have some of the same effects as religion.

It’s not entirely clear what cognitive mechanism is at work in religion’s influence on self-control. One possibility is that religion makes people mindful of an ever watchful God, and thus encourages more self-monitoring. Or religious priming may activate concerns of supernatural punishment. A more secular explanation is that religious priming makes people more concerned about their reputation in the community, leading to more careful self-monitoring. Notably, almost a third of the volunteers in these studies were self-defined atheists or agnostics, suggesting that these robust effects have little or nothing to do with the suggestibility of the most devout.

Wray Herbert’s book, On Second Thought, was recently published in paperback. Excerpts from his two blogs—“We’re Only Human” and “Full Frontal Psychology”—appear regularly in Scientific American and in The Huffington Post.

I think that religion was created by people and for people. When you look at the similarities between religions, they all have a core idea of something being there after death, and in Christianity especially, there is a punishment for doing the wrong thing and a reward for doing the right thing. In other words, it’s manipulation. We’ve seen throughout history how religion has been used to control massive populations through this manipulation. It’s also used as a source of comfort, i.e. thinking that someone is in a better place after death. But I also believe that religion is for people who are unable to think for themselves. Religions tell you how to think, what to think, when to think, and what to think about. If you legitimately believe that all people must rely on a 2,000-year-old book to be a good person and lead a good life, then I honestly don’t know what to tell you.

I completely agree.

Nothing in this world was invented by man without a need. Religion should have been invented to meet a need. To understand the need we need to port ourselves 2000 years hence leaving behind our prejudices and beliefs. In that world, you will find small colonies of humans who had ‘leaders’, kings may be.

Every king made his own laws. And it was not uncommon to find a new king ruling every now and then. Law kept changing with every king. Life should have been pretty difficult.

For example, one king might say all food is common for the village. And you just can pick up anything you want and eat it. The next guy might say if you keep food in your house it is yours. And if you pick food from others house, you will be beheaded. A kid moving from one king to the other might end up getting beheaded!

So people thought of common rules and laws. That’s why all religions espouse laws of life. How to live? What rules to follow? Etc.,

It also explains why most religions call themselves way of life. You will also find Mohammed the Prophet was a ‘judge’ as his prime job. Jesus was called a traitor, obviously, he created a new law which was against Roman laws. And you used ways to tell others what religion you follow. So that they know which law you follow. For instance, people wore cross. Or a head gear, a mark in the forehead, long hair and such.

It also explains why polity and religion went together in the early days.

And God was used to add sanctity to it!

Essentially it was in place of constitutions/ laws of the land. Now that laws are driven by nations, the need for religions slowly started vanishing. They took over the place held by philosophy thus far and laid claim to God analysis. But that is social history.

Religious beliefs or some particular religion was created by people(messenger) who wish to give people better life, at that time religion played important role for bettermint but actually now a days we need same role according to new generation but not in the name of religion. We have to learn that all human being at same importance, all need love and care. Cast, religion, colour, race, country , all these things is destroying human. Instead think tanks should make better rules and regulations to follow for bettermint same as business rules, traffic rules.

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Privacy Overview

Three Essays on Religion

Author:  King, Martin Luther, Jr.

Date:  September 1, 1948 to May 31, 1951 ?

Location:  Chester, Pa. ?

Genre:  Essay

Topic:  Martin Luther King, Jr. - Education

In the following three essays, King wrestles with the role of religion in modern society. In the first assignment, he calls science and religion “different though converging truths” that both “spring from the same seeds of vital human needs.” King emphasizes an awareness of God’s presence in the second document, noting that religion’s purpose “is not to perpetuate a dogma or a theology; but to produce living witnesses and testimonies to the power of God in human experience.” In the final handwritten essay King acknowledges the life-affirming nature of Christianity, observing that its adherents have consistently “looked forward for a time to come when the law of love becomes the law of life.”

"Science and Religion"

There is widespread belief in the minds of many that there is a conflict between science and religion. But there is no fundamental issue between the two. While the conflict has been waged long and furiously, it has been on issues utterly unrelated either to religion or to science. The conflict has been largely one of trespassing, and as soon as religion and science discover their legitimate spheres the conflict ceases.

Religion, of course, has been very slow and loath to surrender its claim to sovereignty in all departments of human life; and science overjoyed with recent victories, has been quick to lay claim to a similar sovereignty. Hence the conflict.

But there was never a conflict between religion and science as such. There cannot be. Their respective worlds are different. Their methods are dissimilar and their immediate objectives are not the same. The method of science is observation, that of religion contemplation. Science investigates. Religion interprets. One seeks causes, the other ends. Science thinks in terms of history, religion in terms of teleology. One is a survey, the other an outlook.

The conflict was always between superstition disguised as religion and materialism disguised as science, between pseudo-science and pseudo-religion.

Religion and science are two hemispheres of human thought. They are different though converging truths. Both science and religion spring from the same seeds of vital human needs.

Science is the response to the human need of knowledge and power. Religion is the response to the human need for hope and certitude. One is an outreaching for mastery, the other for perfection. Both are man-made, and like man himself, are hedged about with limitations. Neither science nor religion, by itself, is sufficient for man. Science is not civilization. Science is organized knowledge; but civilization which is the art of noble and progressive communal living requires much more than knowledge. It needs beauty which is art, and faith and moral aspiration which are religion. It needs artistic and spiritual values along with the intellectual.

Man cannot live by facts alone. What we know is little enough. What we are likely to know will always be little in comparison with what there is to know. But man has a wish-life which must build inverted pyramids upon the apexes of known facts. This is not logical. It is, however, psychological.

Science and religion are not rivals. It is only when one attempts to be the oracle at the others shrine that confusion arises. Whan the scientist from his laboratory, on the basis of alleged scientific knowledge presumes to issue pronouncements on God, on the origin and destiny of life, and on man’s place in the scheme of things he is [ passing? ] out worthless checks. When the religionist delivers ultimatums to the scientist on the basis of certain cosomologies embedded in the sacred text then he is a sorry spectacle indeed.

When religion, however, on the strength of its own postulates, speaks to men of God and the moral order of the universe, when it utters its prophetic burden of justice and love and holiness and peace, then its voice is the voice of the eternal spiritual truth, irrefutable and invincible.,

"The Purpose of Religion"

What is the purpose of religion? 1  Is it to perpetuate an idea about God? Is it totally dependent upon revelation? What part does psychological experience play? Is religion synonymous with theology?

Harry Emerson Fosdick says that the most hopeful thing about any system of theology is that it will not last. 2  This statement will shock some. But is the purpose of religion the perpetuation of theological ideas? Religion is not validated by ideas, but by experience.

This automatically raises the question of salvation. Is the basis for salvation in creeds and dogmas or in experience. Catholics would have us believe the former. For them, the church, its creeds, its popes and bishops have recited the essence of religion and that is all there is to it. On the other hand we say that each soul must make its own reconciliation to God; that no creed can take the place of that personal experience. This was expressed by Paul Tillich when he said, “There is natural religion which belongs to man by nature. But there is also a revealed religion which man receives from a supernatural reality.” 3 Relevant religion therefore, comes through revelation from God, on the one hand; and through repentance and acceptance of salvation on the other hand. 4  Dogma as an agent in salvation has no essential place.

This is the secret of our religion. This is what makes the saints move on in spite of problems and perplexities of life that they must face. This religion of experience by which man is aware of God seeking him and saving him helps him to see the hands of God moving through history.

Religion has to be interpreted for each age; stated in terms that that age can understand. But the essential purpose of religion remains the same. It is not to perpetuate a dogma or theology; but to produce living witnesses and testimonies to the power of God in human experience.

[ signed ] M. L. King Jr. 5

"The Philosophy of Life Undergirding Christianity and the Christian Ministry"

Basically Christianity is a value philosophy. It insists that there are eternal values of intrinsic, self-evidencing validity and worth, embracing the true and the beautiful and consummated in the Good. This value content is embodied in the life of Christ. So that Christian philosophy is first and foremost Christocentric. It begins and ends with the assumption that Christ is the revelation of God. 6

We might ask what are some of the specific values that Christianity seeks to conserve? First Christianity speaks of the value of the world. In its conception of the world, it is not negative; it stands over against the asceticisms, world denials, and world flights, for example, of the religions of India, and is world-affirming, life affirming, life creating. Gautama bids us flee from the world, but Jesus would have us use it, because God has made it for our sustenance, our discipline, and our happiness. 7  So that the Christian view of the world can be summed up by saying that it is a place in which God is fitting men and women for the Kingdom of God.

Christianity also insists on the value of persons. All human personality is supremely worthful. This is something of what Schweitzer has called “reverence for life.” 8  Hunan being must always be used as ends; never as means. I realize that there have been times that Christianity has short at this point. There have been periods in Christians history that persons have been dealt with as if they were means rather than ends. But Christianity at its highest and best has always insisted that persons are intrinsically valuable. And so it is the job of the Christian to love every man because God love love. We must not love men merely because of their social or economic position or because of their cultural contribution, but we are to love them because  God  they are of value to God.

Christianity is also concerned about the value of life itself. Christianity is concerned about the good life for every  child,  man,  and  woman and child. This concern for the good life and the value of life is no where better expressed than in the words of Jesus in the gospel of John: “I came that you might have life and that you might have it more abundantly.” 9  This emphasis has run throughout the Christian tradition. Christianity has always had a concern for the elimination of disease and pestilence. This is seen in the great interest that it has taken in the hospital movement.

Christianity is concerned about increasing value. The whole concept of the kingdom of God on earth expressing a concern for increasing value. We need not go into a dicussion of the nature and meaning of the Kingdom of God, only to say that Christians throughout the ages have held tenaciouly to this concept. They have looked forward for a time to come when the law of love becomes the law of life.

In the light of all that we have said about Christianity as a value philosophy, where does the ministry come into the picture? 10

1.  King may have also considered the purpose of religion in a Morehouse paper that is no longer extant, as he began a third Morehouse paper, “Last week we attempted to discuss the purpose of religion” (King, “The Purpose of Education,” September 1946–February 1947, in  Papers  1:122).

2.  “Harry Emerson Fosdick” in  American Spiritual Autobiographies: Fifteen Self-Portraits,  ed. Louis Finkelstein (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1948), p. 114: “The theology of any generation cannot be understood, apart from the conditioning social matrix in which it is formulated. All systems of theology are as transient as the cultures they are patterned from.”

3.  King further developed this theme in his dissertation: “[Tillich] finds a basis for God’s transcendence in the conception of God as abyss. There is a basic inconsistency in Tillich’s thought at this point. On the one hand he speaks as a religious naturalist making God wholly immanent in nature. On the other hand he speaks as an extreme supernaturalist making God almost comparable to the Barthian ‘wholly other’” (King, “A Comparison of the Conceptions of God in the Thinking of Paul Tillich and Henry Nelson Wieman,” 15 April 1955, in  Papers  2:535).

4.  Commas were added after the words “religion” and “salvation.”

5.  King folded this assignment lengthwise and signed his name on the verso of the last page.

6.  King also penned a brief outline with this title (King, “The Philosophy of Life Undergirding Christianity and the Christian Ministry,” Outline, September 1948–May 1951). In the outline, King included the reference “see Enc. Of Religion p. 162.” This entry in  An Encyclopedia of Religion , ed. Vergilius Ferm (New York: Philosophical Library, 1946) contains a definition of Christianity as “Christo-centric” and as consisting “of eternal values of intrinsic, self-evidencing validity and worth, embracing the true and the beautiful and consummated in the Good.” King kept this book in his personal library.

7.  Siddhartha Gautama (ca. 563–ca. 483 BCE) was the historical Buddha.

8.  For an example of Schweitzer’s use of the phrase “reverence for life,” see Albert Schweitzer, “The Ethics of Reverence for Life,”  Christendom  1 (1936): 225–239.

9.  John 10:10.

10.  In his outline for this paper, King elaborated: “The Ministry provides leadership in helping men to recognize and accept the eternal values in the Xty religion. a. The necessity of a call b. The necessity for disinterested love c. The [ necessity ] for moral uprightness” (King, “Philosophy of Life,” Outline, September 1948–May 1951).

Source:  CSKC-INP, Coretta Scott King Collection, In Private Hands, Sermon file.

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• Published: 19 June 2018

The future of the philosophy of religion is the philosophy of culture—and vice versa

• Mike Grimshaw   ORCID: orcid.org/0000-0001-8829-061X 1  

Palgrave Communications volume  4 , Article number:  72 ( 2018 ) Cite this article

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This paper reads the future of the Philosophy of Religion via a critical engagement with the thought of Paul Tillich and diversions into other thinkers to support the main thrust of the argument. It takes as a starting point Tillich’s discussion of the relationship between religion and culture in On the Boundary (1967), in particular his statement “As religion is the substance of culture, culture is the form of religion” (69–70). With (unlikely) diversions via TS Eliot and Karl Barth, the argument is developed through a re-reading of Tillich’s work on a theology of culture and in particular the statement from Systematic Theology III (1964b) that “…religion cannot express itself even in a meaningful silence without culture, from which it takes all forms of meaningful expression. And we must restate that culture loses its depth and inexhaustibility without the ultimacy of the ultimate” (264). Central to the rethinking of this paper is then the reworking of Tillich’s statement in On the Boundary that “My philosophy of religion …consciously remains on the boundary between theology and philosophy, taking care not to lose the one in the other. It attempts to express the experience of the abyss in philosophical concepts and the idea of justification as the limitation of philosophy” (52). While this can be seen as expressing the basis of continental philosophy and its creative tension between theology and philosophy, this paper inserts culture as the meeting point that holds theology and philosophy in tension and not opposition. That is, a theology of culture also engages with a philosophy of culture; just as a philosophy of religion must engage with a philosophy of culture; for it is culture that gives rise to both theology and philosophy, being the place where they both meet and distinguish themselves. The final part of this paper articulates a rethought Philosophy of Culture as the boundary space from which the future of the Philosophy of Religion can be thought, in creative tension with a Tillich-derived radical theology.

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Preface: setting the scene.

This is an essay in conjecture—and deliberately so. It seeks to find a point from which to tackle the question of ‘‘what if’’ and ‘‘what for’’ regarding the future of the Philosophy of Religion. In doing so, the central figure from which to base this engagement is the great German-American theologian Paul Tillich; but because this is a deliberately discursive, conjectural essay, other figures arise, are named, perhaps engaged with and other times just briefly alluded to. This is a deliberate approach, for this article is a type of thinking piece that seeks to exist as a type of collected signposts: signposts from the past in that Tillich himself died over half a century ago and so to draw upon him for the future is to claim some form of continuity from his ‘‘then’’ to our ‘‘now’’ toward some possible future. A central aim of this essay is to draw theology back into a critical engagement with the Philosophy of Religion, positioning a radical secular theology as a way to think a future secular Philosophy of Religion.

As the collection of papers to which this essay belongs addresses, there appears to be a widespread sense of crisis within the Philosophy of Religion. This seems to have arisen due to an overly focused attention and discussion on arguments as to the existence or non-existence of God. The issue is that having debated this, what can now be said? In short, it can be caricatured as: here is an argument for God’s existence or here is an argument against God’s existence. But for most people this is an increasingly irrelevant argument. Their response will be: yes, I agree or no, I don’t; but few will be convinced to change their mind from one view to the other. To be blunt, the crisis is one of relevance. Kevin Schilbrack has identified a similar set of issues, stating the traditional view of Philosophy of Religion is too narrow , intellectualist and insular (Schilbrack, 2014 : p.10); from this critique he develops his own manifesto for a global philosophy of religion (Schilbrack, 2014 : p.140) whereby “the future of philosophy of religion should be more inclusive, more focused on practice, and more self-reflexive, but I do not think that Philosophy of religion should give up the traditional normative task of evaluating religious claims about the nature of reality.”(Schilbrack, 2014 : p.140). And therein lies the nub of the issue—even for someone attempting to rethink the future of Philosophy of Religion—because, how is that reality performed and experienced, expressed and constructed? For most people, the question is twofold: firstly, what is done or not done in the name of religion and why; and secondly what can be done or not done in the name of religion and why? For religion is as much a way of doing as a way of thinking; or perhaps in a more nuanced way the question could be: how does the doing of religion affect our thinking and how does the thinking of religion affect our doing? Yet this is where theology can be of help, for theology has never just reduced itself or limited its main focus to the question of the existence or non-existence of God. Rather theology seeks to apply the critical thinking regarding questions of God and religion to all of existence. In particular, arising from the encounter with modernity, in the mid-twentieth century there emerged what can be termed ‘‘death of god’’ theologies and secular theologies that realized they could not just focus on arguments for or against God’s existence. Footnote 1 This is why the rethinking of Philosophy of Religion is undertaken via a critical engagement with Theologies that themselves had to rethink their future in modernity. It is also interesting to note that an important mid-twentieth century collection of essays on Philosophy of Religion that in many ways, from its own time, attempted to address a very similar question to that posed by this collection, labeled itself “New Essays in Philosophical Theology” (Flew and MacIntyre, 1955). As the editors noted, their choice of title occurred because ‘‘Philosophy of Religion’’ “has become, and seems likely for some time to remain, associated with Idealist attempts to present philosophical prolegomena to theistic theology” (Flew and Macintyre, 1955, viii). Interestingly for this current essay and its call to engage with death of god and secular theologies, the editors of that collection observed: “We realize that many will be startled to find the word ‘‘theology’’ so used that: the expression ‘‘theistic theologian’’ is not tautological; and the expression ‘‘atheist theologian’’ is not self-contradictory. But unless this unusual usage of ours is adopted we have to accept the paradox that those who reach opposite conclusions about certain questions must be regarded as having shown themselves to have been engaged in different disciplines.” (Flew and MacIntyre, 1955, viii). So, we could say at the outset, that the future of Philosophy of Religion is to regain that name of philosophical theology and so be open to the expressions noted above in 1955. This also provides a background to what is expressed in this essay, for I also venture a future via the early theology of Karl Barth because many who found themselves as death of God or secular theologians (in particular Altizer, Hamilton, Vahanian) had arisen out of the theology of Barth and, taking seriously Barth’s criticism of modernity, sought a new relevance in light of modern, twentieth century secular culture. For just as theology had to come through its own crisis of meaning in modernity, perhaps Philosophy of Religion (or a reworked Philosophical theology?) can now gain from an encounter with those forms of theology that arose seeking a critical engagement with meaning in late modernity. Crucially, such theologies understood theology to be a constructive task of critical engagement and meaning, and it is here that the theological thought of Paul Tillich provides both a model and resource. For Tillich’s theology occupies a boundary between theology and secularity and between religion and culture, attempting always to express just what it might mean to be modern—and what we may need to draw upon to do so; and here TS Eliot provides a way to rethink what needs to be recognized.

This is also a time in which I find myself increasingly referencing Mary Ann Caw’s definition of what she terms ‘‘the manifesto moment’’ that is positioned “between what has been done and what will be done, between the accomplished and the potential, in a radical and energizing division” (Caws: xxi), a moment of crisis expressing “what it wants to oppose, to leave, to defend, to change” (Caws: xxiii) . These first decades of the twenty-first century seem to be decades of crisis—whether economically, politically, or socially. These are times where on the one hand we believe that via technology anything is possible—and yet the choices made seem increasingly to be those that privilege the self—and/or sectarian interests. At such times, the manifesto arises as the claim of the need to rethink so we can act in new ways. As such the manifesto moment is where the critical thinking is done, thinking that is necessarily both conjectural and radical, thinking that seeks to overturn existing orthodoxies and expectations in the hope of creating the possibility of something new, something better: a call for emancipation. What follows is an attempt to do via considering the future of Philosophy of Religion.

The time of crisis and the ‘‘necessary problem’’

We find ourselves in a time of crisis for the Philosophy of Religion—a crisis of meaning, a crisis of focus, a crisis of intent. Of course, it would be easy to state that such a crisis is inevitable given the two constituent elements of philosophy and religion; that is, what we have is the magnification, the concentration of existing crises in philosophy and religion. These are crises of meaning and crises of what future—if any—they hold that is positive. Yet is perhaps the sense of crisis is to be expected. If philosophy and religion do not think of themselves as existing in some form of crisis in modernity then we have, in effect collapsed out of modernity into that situation defined by Jean-Francios Lyotard whereby the post-modern is the return to pre-modern ways of thinking (Lyotard: p.79). For I would claim religion is ‘‘a necessary problem’’ for modernity that modernity seeks to continuously define itself against. Central to this is the challenge modernity throws down regarding religion as collective expression and claim of truth and religion as individual belief. We can trace this to the rise of the Enlightenment and the challenge to religion as political, cultural, and intellectual power. To be modern, I would argue, is to find some problem with religion as collective and individual claim; that is, to find a problem with how religion both seeks to interpret the world and human existence and meaning—and more so, how religion as collective entities and religious individuals may seek to challenge and undo modern understandings and values. For to be modern is to seek to live after religion—and yet religion continues, as both collective and individual claim, signaling that modernity is a project and not a realized state. This is why ‘‘religion is a necessary problem’’—for it reminds us that modernity is an unfinished project of emancipation within this world. Furthermore, if we trace religion back to relegare (to bind together) and to relegere (to re-read) then religion operates as the claim of an alternative to how things are organized and thought in modernity. To be modern is perhaps to attempt to live after religion—yet not be able to properly do so. To be modern is to recognize the existence of religion as a collective and individual sign that the hopes and dreams of modernity have yet to be realized. Therefore, when religion is not seen or experienced as a problem perhaps that is when we have slipped-over into the post-modern? For in the post-modern, religion becomes something we need not be emancipated from; rather it either becomes the source of an emancipation from the world and/or a means of accommodation to the world: in Marxist terms, the return of the opiate of the masses (Marx, 1844 ). As we shall see, the postmodern is also perhaps the end of the hopes and dreams of modernity, a type of collective and individual giving up of the modern aim of emancipation. We saw this shift into the post-modern with the rise of religion as just yet another lifestyle choice and part of identity-politics. That is, religion for many was not viewed as either an individual or collective problem, rather it did not matter whether people were religious nor what type of religious. We could say that such a turn to religion became an uncritical form of what Foucault termed the technologies of the self. (Foucault, 1988 ) Religion became a personal choice and expression and was not regarded nor experienced as a challenge nor critique of the collective status quo of contemporary society. Instead we saw a retreat into prosperity gospels, ecstatic Pentecostalism, and forms of evangelical emotionalism and pietism all focused upon personal salvation, often in a perverse combination of spiritual and economic divine favor. We also saw the rise of various forms of New Age beliefs as well as the turn to western Buddhism. In neo-Weberian terms, this is re-enchantment of the self, within capitalism.

Of course, such expressions are not pre-modern as per Lyotard’s description, but in their underlying endorsement of the status quo (often especially the economic status quo) and the retreat to personalist responses they signaled a shift whereby religion was, in the main, no longer experienced in the west as a problem or societal critique. Or perhaps, to be more accurate and in particular, Christianity was no longer experienced as such. At most, Christianity was regarded as a personal and collective oddity— and importantly, often regarded and dismissed as irrelevant to contemporary society. Even the rise of American evangelical Christian politics can be understood as part of this postmodern turn because this was a retreat into a form of Christianity that, in the main, turned its back on the challenges of and from modern theological and biblical scholarship. Also, its pursuit of various forms of Christian theocracy (if often never named as such) was in itself the pursuit of a pre-modern Christian governance.

Likewise, the rise of Islamic politics was and is in its own way a retreat into types of postmodern identities—whether in the rise of the revolutionary Islamic state in Iran or that of Isis, which combines postmodern identity-politics, social media religion, and nostalgic Islamist politics to tragic ends. For a theocracy can never be modern, but it certainly can be postmodern and the theocratic tendency is one form of the postmodern in the contemporary world. Similarly, the only form of religion that is really regarded and experienced as a problem in the West is that labeled radical Islam or Islamist and is so regarded because of terrorist actions and its challenge to both secular and Christian social and cultural norms. Yet here we need to be clear that whereas Christianity was regarded as a type of ‘‘necessary problem’’ for the modern West to define itself via and against, Islam is not seen or responded to in this way. Rather Islam is more often regarded as an alien problem, an external problem, a problem not central nor internal to Western self-definition. For Islam is often regarded as expressing a non-Western religion and culture (despite—or rather perhaps because of, the long history of Islam in the West). For Islam in the West is still a minority identity (despite the scaremongering of ‘‘Islamic demographics’’ evident in Europe) and so is also still responded to as part of both Western postmodern identity-politics and the identity-politics of multiculturalism.

A central theme of this essay is that while Christianity exists as and continues to be a ‘‘necessary problem’’ for Western modernity, this means it is also an intellectual and cultural resource to both draw upon—and react against. To understand how this may be so, it is useful to consider what TS Eliot expressed in the appendix to his Notes towards the Definition of Culture (1948). First delivered as radio talks to the recently defeated Germany in 1946 and arising from Eliot’s pre-war The Idea of a Christian Society (1939), he now expanded his central theme of the unity of European culture as expressed by the arts and ideas that arose out of a common Christian culture into a wider post-war discussion of culture. Eliot also saw the possible reconciliation of Modernism and Christianity as the way to restore an anti-romantic modernity against the newly defeated Volkgeist of Germany. He was, however, careful to state that the basis of European unity in a history of Christian culture did not necessitate or imply a unified contemporary Christian culture. Rather, in the modern world, the acknowledgment of a shared heritage to be drawn upon does not necessarily involve a shared belief in the present day. Developing the line of argument that would later become his famously all-inclusive definition of religion as culture and culture as “part of our lived religion” (Eliot, 1948 : p.31) Footnote 2 , Eliot commented: “It is against a background of Christianity that all our thought has significance. An individual European may not believe the Christian faith is true, and yet what he says, and makes, and does, will all spring out of his heritage of the Christian faith for its meaning.” (Eliot, 1948 : p.122).

This is why Christianity was expressed and experienced as a ‘‘necessary problem’’ for modernity, for modernity in the West was a modernity that arose from and in reaction to Christianity—and most importantly, from and against a Christian culture. Importantly for our discussion, Western philosophy arose primarily from a combination of, reaction to, and various rejections of classical thought and Christianity—especially, Christian theology. Therefore, any attempt to rethink philosophies in the West needs to take heed of Eliot’s insight; even if the philosophy is directly situated to reject Christianity or a Christian-derived culture, it does so because of the culture and context that sits behind it.

As has been argued, the shift to the postmodern was a shift that at a cultural level no longer saw any need to seriously engage with or even acknowledge this Christian cultural heritage. While there may have often been an uncritical turn to ‘‘the religious’’ and ‘‘the spiritual’’ in the postmodern shift, it tended to do so in a highly individualistic manner. The postmodern, especially in popular and mass forms, too often and too easily drew upon religion and that nebulous criteria deemed ‘‘the spiritual’’ as resources for identity-politics, becoming primarily used in an eclectic personal assemblage.

I have referred to Eliot because I believe he expresses a cultural truth that we seem in danger of either forgetting or misinterpreting today. For on the one hand, the emphasis on a shared or common heritage is either conveniently forgotten and/or summarily dismissed by those seeking to emphasize difference. While there was indeed the need of a corrective turn toward the acknowledgement of plurality away from a mono-cultural, mono-theological hegemony, this can and did, too often and too easily, result in a dismissal of any shared heritage or cultural lineage as merely hegemonic imposition. Yet conversely, from within such a postmodern turn, in the face of competing pluralities and identities, there is an increasingly conservative retreat into cultural, religious, and theological singularities that result in the promotion of a purist cultural and religious sectarianism against often ill-defined ‘‘others.’’ Therefore, in the case of both extremes, I wish to position Eliot’s statement as a necessary reminder of what is at stake at a time when many in our globalized societies are attempting to reconcile postmodernism and religion in forms that are types of Volkgeist . This in itself raises serious issues for Philosophy of Religion, for does it follow such moves down an essentialist, romanticist line and become in effect a de facto justification for such forms of postmodern religion? For as noted earlier, the Post-modern openness to a plurality of beliefs and cultures and viewpoints has also, unfortunately, resulted in the rise of conservative—and increasingly extremist—religio-cultural claims that increasingly circulate through both non-digital and digital outlets, expressions and networks: political parties, lobby and protest groups, print and digital media, social media, and the internet. This rise in what can be termed counter-modern positions has occurred because the theory of postmodernism as applied to beliefs, spirituality, and cultural difference (to challenge hegemony and allow difference) as has been replaced by the bureaucratic politics of postmodernity as applied to cultural identity (the creation of new hegemonic demands of classification, reordering, and rights). In particular, the shift from the Enlightenment’s suspicion and rejection of religion to the notion of the equality of all beliefs in a relativist fashion in a spirit of tolerance has had the unforseen result of the revival of intolerant expressions of faith as identity-politics. In short, we have seen the rise of the demanded tolerance of the intolerant.

What makes Eliot’s statement concerning a shared heritage different from postmodern essentialist claims is the recognition the heritage does not have to be believed in . In effect, Eliot’s statement is one of religious and cultural agnosticism, in that the agnostic (and also it could be argued, the atheist) assumes their position in reference to particular statements and expressions of belief. This issue of particularity sits at the center of Eliot’s cultural criticism. European culture has a particular legacy that each particular individual responds to by dint of being European. Yet this legacy of Christianity and Christian culture is not a collective demand as a belief upon any European individual as an individual . The individual, although they may find their thought, actions and creations occurring under the cultural influence of the legacy of Christian culture, are not, as individuals required, demanded or imposed upon to believe in Christianity. A cultural secularity has occurred that guarantees the freedom of the individual, even though the religious legacy continues, both implicitly and explicitly—to shape and define the culture they live, work, think, and create within. This is the background to the state of crisis we find ourselves in.

On how to rethink the crisis; or, hopes and dreams?

As for our present situation, the cultural critic Dick Hebdige described it thus: “Postmodernity is modernity without the hopes and dreams which made modernity bearable” (Hebdige: p.195). While Hebdige was writing 30 years ago, in many ways we still find ourselves in what could be called the postmodern interregnum: a modernity beset by postmodern banalities and exclusions without the possibility—it seems—of hopes and dreams to make the present bearable. What we have instead of hopes and dreams is a culture of distraction, the digital intensification via social media and the internet of that situation so telling dissected by Neil Postman in Amusing Ourselves to Death (1985). So, to veer via Marx and his famous critique of religion as the opiate of the masses (1844), we find ourselves in a new form of digital capitalism where the opiate of the masses is a combination of postmodern identity-politics and data screen distraction.

A Barthian interlude?

I know this essay is really meant to be about what Tillich can offer us, but bear with me please for just one further deviation. If we are to think philosophically, religiously, and theologically about the crisis of modernity then we need to also look back a century to what Karl Barth did in Der Römerbrief of 1918/1919, for as Robert W. Jenson claims, Barth’s commentary “theologically divides the twentieth century from the nineteenth” (Jensen: p.2). With Barth’s Der Römerbrief a new type of theological modernity came into being: a rupture against the failures of the hopes and dreams of nineteenth century liberalism—whether theologically, religiously, or culturally. In many ways—and I acknowledge that it is perhaps heretical to say so—Barth’s Der Römerbrief was a type of proto-post-modern moment in and of itself, for it signaled a theology ‘‘without the hopes and dreams that made nineteenth century theology and culture bearable.’’

It is well known that Barth’s commentary arose as reaction to the manifesto of support for the Kaiser in 1914 signed by 93 of the most eminent German intellectuals. This occasioned nothing less a crisis of faith in the liberalism that provided his theological and cultural world up to that time. As Barth writes in 1915, “It was like the twilight of the gods when I saw the reaction of Harnack, Herman, Rade, Euchen and company to the situation” (Busch: p.81); later reflecting in 1927, “they seemed to have been hopelessly compromised by what I regarded as their failure in the face of the ideology of war” (Busch: p.81). Barth regarded this failure to be an ethical one that in turn prompted him to proclaim “their exegetical and dogmatic presuppositions could not be in order” (Busch: p.81). This is the context in which Barth turns to Romans , a turn to this text as part of a challenge to contemporary German culture Protestantism, liberal theology and a rejection of that which had developed in the wake of Schleiermacher. Romans was, therefore, positioned also against the romantic movement, idealism and pietism. (Busch: p.100) So a perceptive reader can see that while, on the one hand, I have stated that Barth’s Der Römerbrief could be a proto-postmodern rejection of nineteenth century theological and cultural modernity, on the other hand, Der Römerbrief is positioned against the forerunners of todays’ postmodern crisis. It is this that makes both Barth’s Der Römerbrief and the original Romans of Paul such fascinating—and troublesome—documents to engage with today.

One of the interesting moves of continental philosophy in the first decades of the twenty-first century is a turn to Romans , a turn back to Paul Footnote 3 —but not so much a turn to the possibilities offered by Barth. For Barth proclaims a problematic neo-orthodox theology in a critical confrontation with modernity. That is, Barth’s theology demands to be a necessary problem for modernity, holding modernity to account: modernity as theological event and modernity as cultural event. Barth’s turn to Romans is driven by the centrality of the term and idea of KRISIS Footnote 4 as biblical event that demands a theological response. For Barth, the crisis of the War and the support of the German theologians for war led to the KRISIS that asked as biblical and theological question ‘‘what decision is to be made?’’ For Barth the KRISIS was how could theology be done given the support of theologians for what had occurred? This act and the resultant KRISIS signaled the end of theology as was and the need for a new theology. Here Barth links the War to a central theological issue. The crisis of the war and more widely of modernity occurred because theology became religion. Theology gave up its role as what can be labeled corrective KRISIS and became that which celebrated human hubris in acts of divisive and destructive idolatry. For in Barth’s reading of Romans he finds the centrality of a theology opposed to all human attempts to reach God and express God’s will. These failures are identified as religion. Against religion stands Christianity and in Barth’s expression of Christianity, it rejects all human attempts to order and dominate. In his commentary Barth gives a list of all that Christianity does not support: Individualism, Collectivism, Nationalism, Internationalism, Humanitarianism, Ecclesiasticism, Nordic enthusiasm, and Devotion to western culture. Furthermore, Christianity “observes with a certain coldness the cult of both ‘‘nature’’ and ‘‘civilization’’, of both Romanticism and Realism” (Barth: pp.462–463).

Barth’s turn to Romans is, therefore, a turn to a text of KRISIS in response to what he perceived as a contemporary KRISIS. In this re-turn to biblical theology and exegesis Romans became the text from which a critique of modernity and its hubris could occur and in doing so Barth repositions Romans as a text for the later critics. This turn occurs also as part of what Graham Ward identifies as the post-1914 crisis of confidence regarding language and representation, a “crisis of legitimization and confidence in Western European civilization” (Ward: p.7).

In Barth’s Der Römerbrief we have the situation of crisis (intellectual, cultural, political) as the problem of the age and the challenge of KRISIS (theological and biblical) expressed as time of decision, challenging that which is and demanding a decision in response. The war is, therefore, both crisis and KRISIS for Barth, and the crisis of the culture is symptomatic of the wider KRISIS of the age. The war, therefore, expresses clearly the KRISIS that the modern world finds itself confronted with. As the Jewish critic Will Herberg observed in 1949 , Barth’s Der Römerbrief “put to an end the smug self-satisfaction of western civilization and therewith to western man’s high illusions approaching omnipotence and perfectibility” (Herberg: p.50). Furthermore, as Herberg reminded his contemporary post-WW2 audience, crisis occurred as two types. There was the contemporary sense of crisis of seeking a truth but of which we cannot be sure we have reached and the Greek KRISIS, which is that of judgment. (Herberg: p.50).

Getting to Tillich via the ‘‘neo-”

Barth serves his purpose here with the twin signposting of crisis and KRISIS. I would suggest that as we proceed we need to also hold onto Herberg’s delineation, for the crisis of the future of Philosophy of Religion is perhaps because it has veered back from KRISIS. That is, does Philosophy of Religion involve judgment? Or is it, as Schilbrak critiqued, too narrow , intellectualist and insular? (Schilbrack, 2014 : p.10).

So, when does Tillich make his appearance—and how? To get to Tillich and what he can offer, I suggest we should also remember James Clifford’s aphorism that “ ‘‘Post’’ is always shadowed by ‘‘neo’’”(Clifford: p.227). The crisis of religion can, therefore, be understood via this as the rise of the neo-modern. And what of the crisis of philosophy? Again, I would also situate philosophy as the alternate ‘‘necessary problem’’ of modernity; for both religion and philosophy attempt to hold the modern—that is the modus (the just now )—to critique and challenge (or in Barthian terms, to the judgment of KRISIS). Likewise, modernity was often suspicious of the basis and authority of claims made by the religious and the philosophical, especially if they claim a non-material basis. What occurred was a type of unresolved dialectic whereby any synthesis occurred within modernity and with a greater compromise of either religion or philosophy than of modernity itself. The question became one of what degree of accommodation could modernity make? Or more truthfully, what degree of accommodation was modernity prepared to make? This saw the rise of secular religious thought as a rethinking of religion as ‘‘necessary problem’’ within modernity. For philosophy, the issue was a different one. Lacking the public impact and collective identities that religion its various forms could call upon, philosophy either retreated to the academy or became political philosophies that in mass movements such as fascism or state communism were tragically—and inevitably I would argue given their hegemonic ideological collectivism—expressed in totalitarian regimes of oppression and mass death.

Conversely, in the turn to the postmodern—which is as Lyotard observes also the turn to the pre-modern—religion and philosophy hold a less problematic place; why is this? Because religion and philosophy become in effect, lifestyle choices, reduced to the personal away from the public and so while we may be in a crisis we lack the corrective of KRISIS.

Why Tillich matters

It is now time, finally, to bring in Paul Tillich (1886–1965) as a resource for a rethought neo-modern possibility that restores religion and philosophy as the necessary problems of the neo-modern. I want to begin with his famous statement (almost now a Tillichian cliché) from On the Boundary (1967), that “As religion is the substance of culture, culture is the form of religion” (Tillich, 1967 : pp.69–70). Yet what is often forgotten or perhaps even deliberately excluded, is the equally important statement that precedes this: “The relationship between religion and culture must be defined from both sides of the boundary” (Tillich, 1967 : p.69). This is why I included the earlier digression via Eliot for he attempted such definitions in his analysis.

Tillich’s starting point is that “religion is an aspect of the human spirit” that “presents itself to us as religious” when “we look at the human spirit from a special point of view” (Tillich, 1959 : p.5). Tillich clarifies this by stating “religion is not a special function of man’s spiritual life, but it is the dimension of depth in all of its functions” (Tillich, 1959 : pp.5–6), and then he provides his famous description: “Religion, in the largest and most basic sense if the word, is ultimate concern, and ultimate concern is manifest in all creative functions of the human spirit” (Tillich, 1959 : pp.7–8).

This provides our entry point for reconsidering the future of Philosophy of Religion. For as Tillich articulates, to attempt to separate thinking about religion from thinking about culture—and vice versa—is to fail to properly engage with either religion or culture. Yet, to be clear, this does not mean that our thinking on either involves an uncritical engagement, for as has been outlined, the issues of postmodern culture are expressed in postmodern religion just as the turn to the uncritical self helped to drive the worst excesses of postmodern culture.

Of course, both religion and culture are notoriously difficult concepts to pin down and define, which is a central reason why they are often engaged with academically via the interdisciplinary lens of ‘‘studies.’’ So, let us attempt a clarification here: to think about religion and culture via Tillich is also to think about these concepts and experiences via the legacy of Western Christian thought and culture. Of course, the expressions of religion and culture can be expanded outwards from this legacy, but this legacy is, as argued via Eliot, central to Western modernity and what we are arguing for here is a neo-modern turn and engagement that restores religion and philosophy as ‘‘necessary problems.’’ Therefore, to think about religion as a ‘‘necessary problem’’ via Tillich is also to think about religion as ultimate concern present in all creative functions of the human spirit. That is, the ‘‘necessary problem’’ that takes form as ultimate concern in culture. Religion is, therefore, to be thought about as that which raises ultimate questions within cultural expressions. However, to remember the other side of Tillich’s insight, these cultural expressions also put forward that, which as ultimate concern, is to be thought of as religious. These may—and indeed probably will and I would argue should—challenge that which we wish too easily, from the side of existing religion, philosophy of religion, theology and their institutions, to prescribe and define as ‘‘religion.’’ Otherwise, in our thinking about religion, we are only thinking about that which we (from the side of religion) expect to be religious and accept as existing religion. We forget that cultural expressions arise out of the concerns, questions and experiences of culture. In our view culture includes that heritage Eliot emphasized and, importantly its current expressions that arise out of—and against—that heritage.

Ultimate concern is, therefore, an expression arising from hermeneutics: how do we interpret the times we find ourselves in and what do we give rise to that offers a critique? It is in this way both religion and philosophy occur as ‘‘necessary problems’’ in modernity because they exist as problematic critiques of and from within modern culture. That is, religion and philosophy exist as ‘‘necessary problems’’ in three ways: as resources to draw upon; as ways of thinking to enable us to express those hopes and dreams that make modernity bearable; and as ways to critique that which makes modernity seem unbearable. However, we must be clear that to make modernity bearable is not the same as to make it enjoyable. Rather, in my understanding from Hebdige, ‘‘bearable’’ means making modernity meaningful—and meaningful in a way that is not just for me and my own pleasure. To draw upon Barth in the way a pure Tillichian never would, ‘‘bearable’’ means engaging with the crisis of modernity via expressions and thoughts of KRISIS. And what is the crisis of modernity? It is nothing more nor less than the secular turn of living ‘‘after God.’’ The crisis of modernity is realizing that ‘‘after God’’ we humans are responsible for the world and what happens in it. Ultimate concern is, therefore, our response today, to modernity after God. Here, we start to see the possibilities emerge for a secular Philosophy of Religion.

Towards a secular religious thought

Werner Schufler notes that when we understand via Tillich that theology is necessarily a theology of culture then everything becomes a theme for theology. (Schufler: p.15) I wish to expand this in two ways. Firstly, via Tillich we can understand that religion as ultimate concern is necessarily a religion of culture and, therefore, every cultural creation that deals with issues of ultimate concern becomes a theme for thinking about religion. It is here that the crisis and the KRISIS of religion and culture in modernity exist in creative tension. But then, I would argue further—via Gabriel Vahanian’s tracing of secular back to saeculum : the world of shared human experience (Vahanian: p.21)—that under-sitting all of this is what I would term secular theology; and culture is both wherein and whereby theology is created and also what theology is created in response to. Here, I acknowledge that cries of ‘‘crypto-theology’’ will be raised by those seeking a Philosophy of Religion (Continental or otherwise) after—and/or against theology. But I would argue that our thinking and understandings of religion are derived from theology and that there is no sui generis ‘‘religion’’ that exists in and by itself—even as a concept. Rather, religion is the forms our theological thinking takes: the forms in social organization, the forms in cultural and political expression. So, to think about religion is, at root, to think about theology and to think theologically. And what is the root, the radix of this theology? It is the noun ‘‘God’’, which I express and understand as the claim that holds within it both the excess and limit of possibility. Religion is the social and cultural response to this, expressed as ultimate concern. Theology is, therefore, a secular exercise and critique (arising out of and in response to the world of shared human experience) and is far more secular than the often sectarian and anti-secular expressions of religion. A Philosophy of Religion can, broadly speaking, proceed in two directions. It can be a Philosophy of Religion that, in its engagement with philosophy of culture, be a form of secular theology and, therefore, exist as continuing the ‘‘necessary problem’’ of modernity. Or it can retreat into sui generis , essentialist, idealist and romanticist notions of religion that privilege the self and become unproblematic for modernity. In short, in the second option, it stops trying to make modernity bearable and rather attempts to make postmodernity enjoyable—for me. The question of the future of Philosophy of Religion is, therefore, also a political one and situated in response to how we may wish to engage with modernity—and for whom? I would argue that this political question—who are we thinking for and why —is what enables us to make sense, today of the statement from Systematic Theology III (1964b) that “…religion cannot express itself even in a meaningful silence without culture, from which it takes all forms of meaningful expression. And we must restate that culture loses its depth and inexhaustibility without the ultimacy of the ultimate” (Tillich, 1964b : p.264). In this way, a Philosophy of Religion that engages with ultimate concern is never static and it finds its expression in continuous new ways. If we are unable to think this, if we are unable to engage with this from both sides of religion and culture then we find ourselves unable to properly engage in either Philosophy of Religion or Philosophy of Culture. In understanding this we need to think through Tillich’s statement in On the Boundary that “My philosophy of religion …consciously remains on the boundary between theology and philosophy, taking care not to lose the one in the other. It attempts to express the experience of the abyss in philosophical concepts and the idea of justification as the limitation of philosophy” (Tillich, 1967 : p.52). While on the one hand this can be seen as expressing the basis of continental philosophy and its creative tension between theology and philosophy, I wish to insert culture as the meeting point that holds theology and philosophy in tension and not opposition. That is, a Theology of Culture also engages with a Philosophy of Culture, just as a Philosophy of Religion must engage with a Philosophy of Culture. For it is culture that gives rise to both theology and philosophy, being the place where they both meet and distinguish themselves. Even more than this, culture is the central expression of the human spirit and occurs as language, artistic and intellectual creations, popular and elite expressions and manifestations of human identity. We also need to remember critic Raymond Williams’ comment that “culture” is one of the two or three most complicated words in the English language (Williams, 1976 : p.87). Culture, for Williams, can take three broad forms: that of individual enlightenment; that of the particular way of life of a group; and as cultural activity, often expressed and organized though cultural productions and institutions. What is important to note is that these can and do compete against each other and in such competition we can see ‘‘culture’’ used in a polemical fashion. We should also note that those cultural expressions of religion, theology and philosophy can also take polemical forms. But we must remember that Culture is also ‘‘ordinary’’, for it encompasses all the diverse means by which people are shaped and in turn give shape to their lived experience. This ‘‘shaping and giving shape’’ is where theology, religion and philosophy arise—as does politics. That is, they arise as the means in which lived experience is shaped, whereby what we can call the second-tier expressions of philosophy and religion (and of course politics and theology) arise out the primary tier of culture. Here, we slightly part company with Tillich, remembering that for him ‘‘ultimate concern is manifest in all creative functions of the human spirit.’’ I would wish to ensure that ultimate concern is not given an essence or an agency for it is but short step from there to idealism and even to sui generis notions of ultimate concern. Rather than ultimate concern being manifest, I would argue that ultimate concern can be interpreted as being manifest, that is, ultimate concern is a hermeneutical category and activity. That is, ultimate concern is not a thing in itself, existing separate to or separate within human construction, expression, and creation. Therefore, what ultimate concern is interpreted as being and expressing is also a question of politics. Here, we can draw again on Barth and use his twin categories of crisis and KRISIS for it is via these, in a hermeneutical activity, drawn from the positions of philosophy and religion as ‘‘necessary problems’’ in modernity that the politics of ultimate concern can be articulated. That is, why do I wish to identify this as ultimate concern in these creative functions and what are the implications of my doing so? What is the crisis that this ultimate concern speaks to and what is the KRISIS judgment it articulates? And just as importantly, via Elliot, what traditions do I draw upon in order to make such an interpretation? Therefore, only by thinking seriously about culture (Philosophy of Culture) can we think seriously about religion (Philosophy of Religion)—and vice versa. It is only through this, I would argue, that we can hold in creative tension that identified by Tillich as “the experience of the abyss in philosophical concepts and the idea of justification as the limitation of philosophy” (Tillich, 1967 : p.52). Confronted the void, the abyss of existence, we respond by creative functions of the human spirit. Yet it is only via theology that we can understand these as expressing a justification of the human spirit that does not become idolatry. For I would argue that theology is a response to the void that seeks to make life meaningful for others . It draws on a tradition in which the individual is called upon to act for others in the name of love: love expressed as the excess and limit of possibility; Love that is expressed also as crisis and KRISIS. Footnote 5 It is this that makes religion a ‘‘necessary problem’’ for modernity. Conversely, a response to the void that only makes or only seeks to make life meaningful for me is theologically an act of idolatry and anti-human in intent.

What I arguing for, via Tillich, is therefore a re-thought Philosophy of Religion that exists in a creative, hermeneutical tension with a Philosophy of Culture that views religion as a ‘‘necessary problem’’ for modernity; it is from this position that a future for Philosophy of Religion can begin to be articulated. A re-thought Philosophy of Religion exists as the critical engagement with culture whereby what is created and presented as ultimate concern is held up to hermeneutical engagement in light of the tradition from which the culture and religion arise. In this, religion and theology exist as ‘‘necessary problems’’—unable to be dismissed or excised but neither able to singularly determine what occurs nor what is to possibly be. Culture likewise is rethought as that which gives rise—in various creative expressions—to that determined through hermeneutical engagement and KRISIS to be ultimate concern. In all of this therefore, the future of the Philosophy of Religion occurs as the politics of what I term a radical secular theology: seeking to ask questions of and critique ultimate concern in and for this world of shared human experience in the name of the excess and limit of possibility arising from an emancipatory hermeneutics of tradition and culture. How we might approach this via Tillich proceeds from some insights from his Systematic Theology 1 . Firstly: “…in and through every preliminary concern the ultimate concern can actualize itself” (Tillich, 1964a : p.16). Or, as I would secularize this: in and through every preliminary concern the ultimate concern is able to be possibly interpreted and responded to . Secondly, we must also hear Tillich’s caution of culture in that “idolatry is the elevation of a preliminary concern to ultimacy”. (Tillich, 1964a : p.126). Thirdly, the basis for a secular theology (a theology from and of the word of shared human experience) is made clear: “…on every page of every religious or theological text these concepts appear: time, space, cause, thing, subject, nature, movement, freedom, necessity, life, value, knowledge, experience, being and non-being”.(Tillich, 1964a : p.24).

A secular theology is how these concepts are interpreted and expressed, critiqued and engaged within ways via theology and religion that express them as part of the ‘‘necessary problems’’ for modernity and also, most crucially, in ways that can make modernity bearable for others . What makes such a secular theology radical is that such a theology occurs as hermeneutical event out of the tradition yet also after the abyss of the void of the death of God that institutes modernity. That is, what can the name God mean as hermeneutical critique, event and thought in the world of shared human experience to act as crisis and KRISIS to make modernity bearable for others ? Tillich becomes our guide because as he remarks: “Since the split between a faith unacceptable to culture and culture unacceptable to faith was not possible for me, the only alternative was the attempt to interpret the symbols of faith through expressions of our own culture”. (Tillich, 1964b : p.5). It is this that provides the first half of a re-thought Philosophy of Religion, acknowledging religion’s unacceptability as the ‘‘necessary problem’’ of modernity. Similarly, we remember—via Eliot—that culture arises from the traditions formed by faith and now secularized. Drawing on Tillich, both are ways to express those responses to the ‘‘necessary problem’’, which can be labeled ultimate concern. Yet neither religion or culture nor the thinking about them can be properly engaged with from a Tillichian-derived perspective unless we engage with the other; otherwise neither faith/religion nor culture are secular, becoming instead sectarian idolatry and concerned with the self and not for others.

In considering how to proceed, it is useful to draw upon contemporary radical theology. Here I consider one of central statements to be that made by Robbins and Crockett regarding the role of theology in the work of Charles Winquist: “Theology was a discourse formulation that functioned to fissure other discourses by pushing them to their limits and interrogating them as to their sense and practicality” (in Winquist: p.10). We can also note similarities with Critical Theory and the Frankfurt School that Tillich found much in common with. The Frankfurt School, even though a neo-Marxist movement, recognized the value of theology because, as expressed by Eduardo Mendieta: “…critical theory…is reason criticizing itself” (Mendeita: p.7). In contemporary Modernity, theology, once vanquished, and religion, once segregated by the Enlightenment, are both being reemployed by critical theory because of their value as self-reflexive, critical tools. In particular theology, in its critique of existence itself, as “reason in search of itself” (Mendeita: p.10) acts as the self-critical reflexion on both society and religion. It is here that Tillich’s position as theologian of the boundary readily enables such a critique. The future for such a Philosophy of Religion as I am outlining also occurs because, as critical theorist Helmet Peukert declares, both Enlightenment and theology are unfinished projects in that both are continually to having to self-reflexively prove themselves anew as critical endeavors. (Peukert: p.353) As such, modernity occurs as a series of on-going ‘‘necessary problems’’ that seeks to make life bearable— for others . Therefore, how we think critically in modernity is the basis of how we choose to act for others . This is the future for the Philosophy of Religion and, as discussed, it occurs in a critical hermeneutics with Philosophy of Culture; that is, philosophy undertaken for others to make modernity bearable.

It is important to clarify that theology, as expressed by the Frankfurt School, is “inverse, or negative theology [that] must reject and refute God, for the sake of God, and it must also reject and refute religion for the sake of what the religion prefigures and recalls” (Mendeita: pp.10–11). Therefore the radical secular theology I am arguing for is not theology as commonly understood, but rather a self-reflexive, critical, secular theology that stands as “argumentative discourse” (Peukert: p.368) in critique of both institutional, orthodox theology and those forms of Philosophy of Religion that seek to shy away from its role as argumentative discourse within modernity.

Carl Raschke, like Robbins and Crockett engaging with the legacy of Winquist, in tracing a lineage back to Kant argues, “To think intensely what remains concealed in the depths of thought is to think theologically”, and yet, because of the Enlightenment, such theological thinking has become “a very difficult, if not impossible, peculiar labor” (in Winquist: xiii). Here, we also hear a challenge from situating theology in dialectic with deconstruction, whereby in Modernity, theology is now “a thought that has learned to think what is unthought within the thought of itself” (in Winquist: xv). The challenge from this for Philosophy of Religion and Philosophy of Culture is clear. If religion and culture wish to be meaningful within an ongoing Modernity and so engage with that which is—as of yet—unthought within religion and culture they too must engage with the ‘‘necessary problem’’ of theology. For theology in modernity had to become a problem unto itself and for everything else: a crisis and KRISIS of its own thinking and articulation to ensure it retained its necessity and could not be consigned to irrelevance. Or, as I would state, in Modernity, theology, if not sectarian, is the self-reflexivity of modern thought that thinks the unthought of both secularity and ‘‘religion.’’ I realize that this may be a difficult concept and even more difficult expression to comprehend. So, let me try and put it this way. Theology, if it seeks a meaningful engagement with the world of shared human experience (the saeculum ), is where and whereby we become aware of and critique what secularity and religion prefer not to think. As such, it is theology from which we stand—with Tillich—on the boundary between secularity and religion, between religion and culture. The crisis and KRISIS for both Philosophy of Culture and Philosophy of Religion is actually their desire not to engage with theologizing, that is ‘‘thinking studying thinking’’; for the challenge of theology is that of a self-reflexivity regarding that which we designate ‘‘religion’’, ‘‘the sacred and the profane’’ and ‘‘the secular’’ and ‘‘culture.’’ The centrality of theology occurs because theology is self-reflexivity about being human and what, in Tillichian terms we designate ‘‘ultimate concern.’’ Here, we can also draw upon what Charles Winquist notes regarding the self-reflexivity of theology—that is thinking about thinking—in that theology demands that then “we have to decide why we are calling any particular datum ‘‘religious’’” (Winquist: p.182). To this I would add that theology demands further decisions regarding the designations ‘‘sacred’’, ‘‘profane’’, ‘‘secular’’, and ‘‘culture’’—and of course ‘‘ultimate concern.’’

Radical secular theology is, therefore, done in modernity ‘‘after God’’, as a self-reflexive human activity of ‘‘thinking studying thinking’’ as to what is to be done for others , undertaken on the boundary between religion and culture. It is secular because we remember Vahanian’s maxim that, “in a pluralistic world, it is not religion we have in common. What we have in common is the secular” (Winquist: p.96). As to what this might mean and entail, a way to ‘‘think the future’’ is to consider another option from the past. In 1970, the theologian Van A Harvey reflecting on his own “zig-zag career—from department of religion (4 years) to seminary (10 years) back to department of religion” (Harvey: p.17) raised the issue of “the possibility and even the relevance of traditional systematic theology in our pluralistic and secular culture.” At that time, Harvey saw a new home and possibility for theology in Religious Studies, that included the possibility of “a new and probably non-Christian theology of some sort” being developed that is “ more strictly philosophical and does not at all understand itself as a servant of a church or a tradition.”[emphasis added] (Harvey: p.21). Referencing Victor Preller of Princeton, Harvey termed this a “meta-theology” (Harvey: p.28) or “a genuinely secular theology” (Harvey: p.28).

The future for Philosophy of Religion as I envisage it via Tillich is also in line with this option arising from Harvey. Yet both secular theology and a radically secular Philosophy of Religion are yet to find homes in either religious studies or philosophy. Rather, in a very Tillichian fashion, they exist ‘‘on the boundary’’ between such disciplines: too theological for philosophy and too secular for many in religious studies. Instead, such thinking tends to arise from those who find themselves ‘‘on the boundary’’ between disciplines which means there a critical tension between such thinking being written and such thinking being taught. This is not to say that there are not religious studies departments and philosophy programmes where such thinking is both taught and written. But they are few in number. What is interesting is how much of such thinking occurs from individuals located in various disciplines and departments neither labeled religious studies nor philosophy and who yet manage to write—and surprisingly often (if somewhat subversively) teach such thinking. Usually such departments are engaged in the critical study of culture in some way and these thinkers—often without even knowing they are doing so—are engaging in the critical hermeneutic of religion and culture argued for in this paper. Therefore, in many ways the future of Philosophy of Religion is already being undertaken, but we have to increasingly look outside of the expected places and voices to find it. Drawing on such places and voices, in finding a way beyond the split of religion and culture unacceptable to each other, we seek a rethinking of religion and culture each as ‘‘necessary problems’’ for modernity, necessary problems that articulate ultimate concern for others . Tillich’s thought can, therefore, be a basis of emancipatory potential for a secular radical theology of religion and culture as hermeneutics, in the name of that noun and its tradition used to express the limit and excess of possibility in the name of love for others.

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Perhaps still the best introduction to these debates regarding the challenges of theology in modernity is that set out in AN Prior’s “Can Religion Be Discussed?”. Written in 1942, Prior was a theologian, who at this time was in transition to becoming a philosopher and in particular, a noted logician. See AN Prior, “Can Religion Be Discussed?”, in A Flew and A MacIntyre New Essays in Philosophical Theology (London: SCM Press Ltd, 1963) [orig. 1955].

Eliot’s inclusive definition of culture “includes all the characteristic activities and interests of a people: Derby day, Henley regatta, Cowes, the twelfth of August, a cup final, the dog races, the pin table, the dart board, Wensleydale cheese, boiled cabbage cut into sections, beetroot in vinegar, nineteenth century Gothic churches and the music of Elgar. The reader can make his own list.” TS Eliot, Notes towards a Definition of Culture (London: Faber and Faber Ltd, 1948), 31. As Eliot goes on to note “bishops are part of English culture and horses and dogs are part of English religion.” Op.cit.32.

This ‘‘turn to Paul/Romans’’ includes: Giorgio Agamben, The Time That Remains. A Commentary on the Letter to the Romans , (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2005); Alain Badiou, Saint Paul. The Foundation of Universalism , trans. Ray Brassier (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003); Ward Blanton, A Materialism for the Masses. Saint Paul and the Philosophy of Undying Life (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014); Daniel Boyarin, A Radical Jew. Paul and the Politics of Identity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Theodore W. Jennings, Jr., Reading Derrida/Thinking Paul. On Justice . (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006); Jacob Taubes, The Political Theology of Paul , ed. Aleida Assmann and Jan Assmann with Horst Folkers, Wolf-Daniel Hartwich and Christoph Schulte (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2004); Slavoj Zizek, The Fragile Absolute—or, why is the Christian legacy worth fighting for? (London/ New York: Verso, 2000), Slavoj Zizek, The Puppet and the Dwarf: The perverse core of Christianity , (Cambridge, Mass.: The MIT Press, 2003). It is noted that the re-turn to Paul extends beyond Romans and that this re-turn has become an ever-expanding sub-field in both Continental thought and political theology. For an interesting overview, see Matthew Bullamore, ‘‘The Political Resurrection of Saint Paul’’ TELOS 134, Spring, 2006: pp.173–182.

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5 The Purpose of Religion

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The purposes of the practice of a religion are to achieve the goals of salvation for oneself and others, and (if there is a God) to render due worship and obedience to God. Different religions have different understandings of salvation and God. It is rational for someone to pursue these goals by following a religious way (the practices commended by some religion, e.g., Buddhism or Christianity), in so far as they judge that it would be greatly worthwhile to achieve those goals and in so far as they judge that it is to some degree probable that they will attain them by following the way of that religion. They will judge that in so far as they judge the creed of that religion to be to some degree probable (not necessarily more probable than not). The goals of the Christian religion are better than those of Buddhism.

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Why is Religion Important Essay

If we are not governed by a set of values, then our principles and idea of right and wrong are only based on opinion. The Nazis were not evil. They had a set of values that do not match many of the values that exist today. If they had kept to the religious promises they made the Vatican as they rose to power, then they would have had a hard time taking life in the way they did. My hypothesis is that religion is a human creation, but without some form of faith in more than human opinion, we are lost because only have ourselves to account to.

Human nature is bad. We are not born with a knowledge of right or wrong. That is why people turn out so differently. It is not because a person is born good or bad, but the way they are treated and the values they are taught is what makes them the person they become. Religion has sets of rules that people follow on mass. These rules are more than laws with punishments and rewards, they are based on a set of values, and those are the things that help a person grow to be well adjusted.

Imagine kids without the rule of parents. If a child was allowed to run around and do what he or she wished in an unchecked manner, then children would kill themselves by accident, become sociopaths, and become savages. There would be no way of knowing what would happen. Kids need a parental figure to give out rules and teach values, and that is what religion does for adults. It gives them a set of values and rules to live by.

We are taught what is right and wrong, and religion allows a certain unification that governments are unable to instill. The law tells us not to kill. We are not born with that knowledge. We are born to kill, which is why kids are often merciless insect (and pet) killers. We have both eyes facing front, which means we are born predators. The law tells us not to kill and not to steal. Most will never do such things, and part of that is due to religion. Religion came up with the idea that we shouldn’t kill and steal long before the law did.

The law simply tells us what to do, but religion tries to explain why we should do things. One may say that we do not do things because the law tells us not to, and that is a good enough reason for them, but it is too black and white for most people. Religion helps us shape values so we can make our own choices. For example, the law may say do not kill, but religion (the good religions) teaches us the sanctity of life, so if we had to kill a single person in order to save thousands–then religion allows us to make that choice where the law does not.

The law is the government’s way of trying to instill values, but they simply cannot do it with rules alone. The government would hope that if you follow the law, then you will see why it works and learn your values that way–but it is doing it all backwards. With peace-loving and good religions that do not condone killing, such as any religion “other than” the Arian brotherhood, Islam, and Satanism, you are taught why something is wrong so that you may then choose what you do. Good religions that do not condone killing say you can break the law because you have choices, but it first gives you the reasons and values needed to make the right decision (which usually involves following the law).

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Religion and Morality

From the beginning of the Abrahamic faiths and of Greek philosophy, religion and morality have been closely intertwined. This is true whether we go back within Greek philosophy or within Christianity and Judaism and Islam. The present entry will not try to step beyond these confines, since there are other entries on Eastern thought (see, for example, the entries on Ethics in Indian and Tibetan Buddhism and Chinese Ethics ). The entry proceeds chronologically, giving greatest length to the contemporary period. It cannot, within the present compass, aspire to be comprehensive. But it will be able to describe the main options as they have occurred historically. The purpose of proceeding historically is to substantiate the claim that morality and religion have been inseparable until very recently, and that our moral vocabulary is still deeply infused with this history. Since there are historically so many different ways to see the relation, a purely schematic or typological account is not likely to succeed as well. The entry will not try to enter deeply into the ethical theories of the individual philosophers mentioned, since this encyclopedia already contains individual entries about them; it will focus on what they say about the relation between morality and religion.

The term ‘morality’ as used in this entry will not be distinguished from ‘ethics.’ Philosophers have drawn various contrasts between the two at various times (Kant for example, and Hegel, and more recently R.M. Hare and Bernard Williams). But etymologically, the term ‘moral’ comes from the Latin mos , which means custom or habit, and it is a translation of the Greek ethos , which means roughly the same thing, and is the origin of the term ‘ethics’. In contemporary non-technical use, the two terms are more or less interchangeable, though ‘ethics’ has slightly more flavor of theory, and has been associated with the prescribed practice of various professions (e.g., medical ethics, etc.). In any case, this entry will assume that morality is a set of customs and habits that shape how we think about how we should live or about what is a good human life. The term ‘religion’ is much disputed. Again, we can learn from the etymology. The origin of the word is probably the Latin religare , to bind back. Not all uses of the term require reference to a divinity or divinities. But this entry will use the term so that there is such a reference, and a religion is a system of belief and practice that accepting a ‘binding’ relation to such a being or beings. This does not, however, give us a single essence of religion, since the conceptions of divinity are so various, and human relations with divinity are conceived so variously that no such essence is apparent even within Western thought. The ancient Greeks, for example, had many intermediate categories between full gods or goddesses and human beings. There were spirits (in Greek daimones ) and spiritual beings like Socrates's mysterious voice ( daimonion ) ( Apology , 31d1–4, 40a2–c3). There were heroes who were offspring of one divine and one human parent. There were humans who were deified, like the kings of Sparta. This is just within the culture of ancient Greece. If we included Eastern religions in the scope of the discussion, the hope for finding a single essence of religion would recede further. Probably it is best to understand ‘religion’ as a term for a group of belief/practice amalgams with a family resemblance to each other, but no set of necessary and sufficient conditions tying them together (see Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations , 65–7).

1. Ancient Greek Philosophy

• 2. The Hebrew Bible and the New Testament

3. The Middle Ages

4. modern philosophy, 5. contemporary philosophy, other internet resources, related entries.

We can start with the Greeks, and this means starting with Homer, a body of texts transmitted first orally and then written down in the seventh century BCE. So what does the relation between morality and religion look like in Homer? The first thing to say is that the gods and goddesses of the Homeric poems behave remarkably like the noble humans described in the same poems, even though the humans are mortal and the gods and goddesses immortal. Both groups are motivated by the desire for honor and glory, and are accordingly jealous when they receive less than they think they should while others receive more, and work ceaselessly to rectify this. The two groups are not however symmetrical, because the noble humans have the same kind of client relation to the divinities as subordinate humans do to them. There is a complex pattern that we might call ‘an honor-loop’ (see Mikalson, Honor Thy Gods ). The divinities have their functions (in Greek, the word is the same as ‘honors’), such as Poseidon's oversight of the sea, and humans seek their favor with ‘honor’, which we might here translate as ‘worship’. This includes, for example, sanctuaries devoted to them, dedications, hymns, dances, libations, rituals, prayers, festivals and sacrifices. In all of these the gods take pleasure, and in return they give ‘honor’ to mortals in the form of help or assistance, especially in the areas of their own expertise. There is a clear analogy with purely human client-relations, which are validated in the Homeric narrative, since the poems were probably originally sung at the courts of the princes who claimed descent from the heroes whose exploits make up the story. The gods and goddesses are not, however, completely at liberty. They too are accountable to fate or justice, as in the scene in the Iliad , where Zeus wants to save Hector, but he cannot because ‘his doom has long been sealed’ ( Iliad , 22: 179).

It is sometimes said that the Presocratic philosophers come out of Homer by rejecting religion in favor of science. There is a grain of truth in this, for when Thales (who flourished around 580) is reported as saying ‘Water is the origin (or principle) of all things,’ this is different from saying, for example, that Tethys is mother of all the rivers, because it deletes the character of narrative or story (Aristotle's Metaphysics , 983b20–8). When Anaximenes (around 545) talks of air as the primary element differing in respect of thinness and thickness, or Heraclitus explains all change as a pattern in the turnings of fire igniting in measures and going out in measures, they are not giving stories with plot-lines involving quasi-human intentions and frustrations (DK 13, A 5, DK 22, B 30). But it is wrong to say that they have left religion behind. Heraclitus puts this enigmatically by saying that the one and only wisdom does and does not consent to be called Zeus (DK 22, B 14). He is affirming the divinity of this wisdom, but denying the anthropomorphic character of much Greek religion. ‘To god all things are beautiful and good and just but humans suppose some things to be just and others unjust’ (DK 22, B 102). He ties this divine wisdom to the laws of a city, ‘for all human laws are nourished by the one divine law’ (DK 22, B 114), though he does not have confidence that ‘the many’ are capable of making law. The sophists, to whom Socrates responded, rejected this tie between human law and divine law and this was in part because of their expertise in rhetoric, by which they taught their students how to manipulate the deliberations of popular assemblies, and so change the laws to their own advantage. The most famous case is Protagoras (c. 490–21), who stated in the first sentence of his book Truth that ‘A human being is the measure of all things, of what is that it is, and of what is not that it is not’ (Plato's Theaetetus , 152a). Protagoras is not correctly seen here as skeptical about morality or religion. It is true that he claimed he was not in a position to know either the manner in which the gods are or are not (another translation is ‘that they are or are not’) or what they are like in appearance (DK 80, B 4). But as Plato (c. 430–347) presents him, he told the story that all humans have been given by the gods the gifts of shame and justice, so as to make possible the founding of cities; this is why each human is the measure. Even Thrasymachus, in the first book of Plato's Republic , thinks of justice as the same thing amongst gods and humans ( Republic , 388c). His view of what this justice is, namely the interest of the stronger, is disputed by Plato. But the claim that justice operates at both the divine and human levels is common ground.

Socrates (c. 470–399) in one of the early dialogues debates the nature of the holy with Euthyphro, who is a religious professional. Euthyphro is taking his own father to court for murder, and though ordinary Greek morality would condemn such an action as impiety, Euthyphro defends it on the basis that the gods behave in the same sort of way, according to the traditional stories. Socrates makes it clear that he does not believe these stories, because they attribute immorality to the gods. This does not mean, however, that he does not believe in the gods. He was observant in his religious practices, and he objects to the charge of not believing in the city's gods that was one of the bases of the prosecution at his own trial. He points to the spirit who gives him commands about what not to do ( Apology , 31d), and we learn later that he found it significant that this voice never told him to stop conducting his trial in the way that in fact led to his death ( Ibid ., 40a-c). Socrates interpreted this as an invitation from the gods to die, thus refuting the charge that, by conducting his trial in the way he did, he was guilty of theft – i.e., depriving the gods of his life that properly belonged to them ( Phaedo , 62b). His life in particular was a service to god, he thought, because his testing of the wisdom of others was carrying out Apollo's charge given by the oracle at Delphi, implicit in the startling pronouncement that he was the wisest man in Greece ( Apology , 21a-d).

Socrates's problem with the traditional stories about the gods gives rise to what is sometimes called ‘the Euthyphro dilemma’. If we try to define the holy as what is loved by all the gods (and goddesses), we will be faced with the question ‘Is the holy holy because it is loved by the gods, or do they love it because it is holy?’ ( Euthyphro , 10a). Socrates makes it clear that his view is the second (though he does not argue for this conclusion in addressing this question, and he is probably relying on the earlier premise, at Euthyphro , 7c10f, that we love things because of the properties they have). (See Hare, Plato's Euthyphro , on this passage.) But his view is not an objection to tying morality and religion together. He hints at the end of the dialogue ( Euthyphro , 13de) that the right way to link them is to see that when we do good we are serving the gods well. Plato probably does not intend for us to construe the dialogues together as a single philosophical system, and we must not erase the differences between them. But it is significant that in the Theaetetus (176b), Socrates says again that our goal is to be as like the god as possible, and since the god is in no way and in no manner unjust, but as just as it is possible to be, nothing is more like the god than the one among us who becomes correspondingly as just as possible. In several dialogues this thought is connected with a belief in the immortality of the soul; we become like the god by paying attention to the immortal and best part of ourselves (e.g., Symposium , 210A-212B). The doctrine of the immortality of the soul is also tied to the doctrine of the Forms, whereby things with characteristics that we experience in this life (e.g., beauty) are copies or imitations of the Forms (e.g., The Beautiful-Itself) that we see without the distraction of the body when our souls are separated at death. The Form of the Good, according to the Republic , is above all the other Forms and gives them their intelligibility (as, by analogy, the sun gives visibility), and is (in a pregnant phrase) ‘on the other side of being’ ( Republic , 509b). Finally, in the Laws (716b), perhaps Plato's last work, the character called ‘the Athenian’ says that the god can serve for us in the highest degree as a measure of all things, and much more than any human can, whatever some people say; so people who are going to be friends with such a god must, as far as their powers allow, be like the gods themselves.

This train of thought sees the god or gods as like a magnet, drawing us to be like them by the power of their goodness or excellence. In Plato's Ion (533d), the divine is compared to a magnet to which is attached a chain of rings, through which the attraction is passed. This conception is also pervasive in Aristotle (384–22), Plato's student for twenty years. In the Nicomachean Ethics , for example, the words ‘god’ and ‘divine’ occur roughly twice as often as the words ‘happiness’ and ‘happy’. This is significant, given that Aristotle's ethical theory is (like Plato's) ‘eudaimonist’ (meaning that our morality aims at our happiness). Mention of the divine is not merely conventional for Aristotle, but does important philosophical work. In the Eudemian Ethics (1249b5–22) he tells us that the goal of our lives is service and contemplation of the god. He thinks that we become like what we contemplate, and so we become most like the god by contemplating the god. Incidentally, this is why the god does not contemplate us; for this would mean becoming less than the god, which is impossible. As in Plato, the well-being of the city takes precedence over the individual, and this, too, is justified theologically. It is nobler and more divine to achieve an end for a city than for an individual ( NE 1094b9–10). Aristotle draws a distinction between what we honor and what we merely commend ( NE , 1101b10–35). There are six states for a human life, on a normative scale from best to worst: divine (which exceeds the merely human on the one extreme), virtuous (without wrongful desire), strong-willed (able to overcome wrongful desire), weak-willed (unable to do so), vicious and bestial (which exceeds the merely human on the other extreme, and which Aristotle says is mostly found among barbarians) ( NE , 1145a15–22). The highest form of happiness, which he calls blessedness, is something we honor as we honor gods, whereas virtue we merely commend. It would be as wrong to commend blessedness as it would be to commend gods ( NE , 1096a10–1097a15). Sometimes Aristotle uses the phrase ‘God or understanding’ (in Greek, nous ) (e.g., Politics , 1287a27–32). The activity of the god, he says in the Metaphysics , is nous thinking itself (1074b34). The best human activity is the most god-like, namely thinking about the god and about things that do not change. Aristotle's virtue ethics, then, needs to be understood against the background of these theological premises. He is thinking of the divine, to use Plato's metaphor, as magnetic, drawing us, by its attractive power, to live the best kind of life possible for us. This gives him a defense against the charge sometimes made against virtue theories that they simply embed the prevailing social consensus into an account of human nature. Aristotle defines ethical virtue as lying in a mean between excess and defect, and the mean is determined by the person of practical wisdom (actually the male, since Aristotle is sexist on this point). He then gives a conventional account of the virtues such a person displays (such as courage, literally manliness, which requires the right amount of fear and confidence, between cowardice and rashness). But the virtuous person in each case acts ‘for the sake of the noble (or beautiful)’, and Aristotle continually associates the noble with the divine (e.g., NE , 1115b12).

There are tensions in Aristotle's account of virtue and happiness. It is not clear whether the Nicomachean Ethics has a consistent view of the relation between the activity of contemplation and the other activities of a virtuous life (see Hare, God and Morality , chapter 1, and Sarah Broadie, Ethics with Aristotle , chapter 7). But the connection of the highest human state with the divine is pervasive in the text. One result of this connection is the eudaimonism mentioned earlier. If the god does not care about what is not divine (for this would be to become like what is not divine), the highest and most god-like human also does not care about other human beings except to the degree they contribute to his own best state. This degree is not negligible, since humans are social animals, and their well-being depends on the well-being of the families and cities of which they are members. Aristotle is not preaching self-sufficiency in any sense that implies we could be happy on our own, isolated from other human beings. But our concern for the well-being of other people is always, for him, contingent on our special relation to them. Within the highest kind of friendship ‘a friend is another self’, he says, and within such friendship we care about friends for their own sake, but if the friend becomes divine and we do not, then the friendship is over ( NE , 1159a7). We therefore do not want our friends to become gods, even though that would be the best thing for them. Finally, Aristotle ties our happiness to our end (in Greek, telos ); for humans, as for all living things, the best state is its own activity in accordance with the natural function that is unique to each species. For humans the best state is happiness, and the best activity within this state is contemplation ( NE , 1178b17–23).

The Epicureans and Stoics who followed Aristotle differed with each other and with him in many ways, but they agreed in tying morality and religion together. For the Epicureans, the gods do not care about us, though they are entertained by looking at our tragicomic lives (rather as we look at soap operas on television). We can be released from a good deal of anxiety, the Epicureans thought, by realizing that the gods are not going to punish us. Our goal should be to be as like the gods as we can, enjoying ourselves without interruption, but for us this means limiting our desires to what we can obtain without frustration. They did not mean that our happiness is self-interested in any narrow sense, because they held that we can include others in our happiness by means of our sympathetic pleasures. The Stoics likewise tied the best kind of human life, for them the life of the sage, to being like the divine. The sage follows nature in all his desires and actions, and is thus the closest to the divine. One of the virtues he will have is ‘apathy’ (in Greek apatheia ), which does not mean listlessness, but detachment from wanting anything other than what nature, or the god, is already providing. Like the Epicureans, the Stoics had an argument against any narrow self-interest, but this time based on their conception of right reason which is directed by the law common to all, ‘which pervades everything and is the same as Zeus, lord of the ordering of all that exists’ (Diogenes Laertius, Lives of the Philosophers , VII 88. For the views of the Epicureans and Stoics about morality and religion, see Julia Annas, The Morality of Happiness , chapters 5 and 7.)

2. The Hebrew Bible And The New Testament

The second line of thought to be traced in this entry starts with the Hebrew Bible and continues with the Greek scriptures called by Christians ‘The New Testament’. Morality and religion are connected in the Hebrew Bible primarily by the category of God's command. Such commands come already in the first chapter of Genesis . God created by command, for example ‘Let there be light’ ( Gen . 1:3). Then, after the creation of animals, God gives the command, ‘Be fruitful and multiply’, and repeats the command to the humans he creates in the divine image ( Gen . 1:22). In the second chapter God tells Adam that he is free to eat from any tree in the garden, but he must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. When Eve and Adam disobey and eat of that fruit, they are expelled from the garden. There is a family of concepts here that is different from what we met in Greek philosophy. God is setting up a kind of covenant by which humans will be blessed if they obey the commands God gives them. Human disobedience is not explained in the text, except that the serpent says to Eve that they will not die if they eat the fruit, but will be like God, knowing good and evil, and Eve sees the fruit as good for food and pleasing to the eye and desirable for gaining wisdom. After they eat, Adam and Eve know that they are naked, and are ashamed, and hide from God. There is a turning away from God and from obedience to God that characterizes this as a ‘fall into sin’. As the story goes on, and Cain kills Abel, evil spreads to all the people of the earth, and Genesis describes the basic state as a corruption of the heart (6:9). This idea of a basic orientation away from or towards God and God's commands becomes in the Patristic period of early Christianity the idea of a will. There is no such idea in Plato or Aristotle, and no Greek word that the English word ‘will’ properly translates.

In the Pentateuch, the story continues with Abraham, and God's command to leave his ancestral land and go to the land God promised to give him and his offspring ( Gen . 17:7–8). Then there is the command to Abraham to kill his son, a deed prevented at the last minute by the provision of a ram instead ( Gen . 22:11–14). Abraham's great grandchildren end up in Egypt, because of famine, and the people of Israel suffer for generations under Pharaoh's yoke. Under Moses the people are finally liberated, and during their wanderings in the desert, Moses receives from God the Ten Commandments, in two tables or tablets ( Exod . 20:1–17, 31:18). The first table concerns our obligations to God directly, to worship God alone and keep God's name holy, and keep the Sabbath. The second table concerns our obligations to other human beings, and all of the commands are negative (do not kill, commit adultery, steal, lie, or covet) except for the first, which tells us to honor our fathers and mothers. God's commands taken together give us the law (on some lists there are 613 mitzvot , Hebrew for ‘commands’.) One more term belongs here, namely ‘kingdom’. The Greeks had the notion of a kingdom, under a human king (though the Athenians were in the classical period suspicious of such an arrangement). But they did not have the idea of a kingdom of God, though there is something approaching this in some of the Stoics. This idea is explicable in terms of law, and is introduced as such in Exodus in connection with the covenant on Mt. Sinai. The kingdom is the realm in which the laws obtain.

This raises a question about the extent of this realm. The Ten Commandments are given in the context of a covenant with the people of Israel, though there are references to God's intention to bless the whole world through this covenant. The surrounding laws in the Pentateuch include prescriptions and proscriptions about ritual purity and sacrifice and the use of the land that seem to apply to this particular people in this particular place. But the covenant that God makes with Noah after the flood is applicable to the whole human race, and universal scope is explicit in the Wisdom books, which make a continual connection between how we should live and how we were created as human beings. For example, in Proverbs 8 Wisdom raises her voice to all humankind, and says that she detests wickedness, which she goes on to describe in considerable detail. She says that she was the artisan at God's side when God created the world and its inhabitants. Judaism distinguishes seven ‘Noahide’ laws given to Noah before the covenant with Abraham.

In the writings which Christians call ‘The New Testament’ the theme of God's commands is recapitulated. Jesus sums up the commandments under two, the command to love God with all one's heart and soul and mind (see Deuteronomy 6:5), and the command to love the neighbor as the self (see Leviticus 19:18). The first of these probably sums up the first ‘table’ of the Ten Commandments to Moses, and the second sums up the second. The New Testament is unlike the Hebrew Bible, however, in presenting a narrative about a man who is the perfect exemplification of obedience and who has a life without sin. New Testament scholars disagree about the extent to which Jesus actually claimed to be God, but the traditional interpretation is that he did make this claim; in any case the Christian doctrine is that we can see in his life the clearest possible revelation in human terms both of what God is like and at the same time of what our lives ought to be like. In the ‘Sermon on the Mount’ ( Matthew 5–7) Jesus issues a number of radical injunctions. He takes the commandments inside the heart; for example, we are required not merely not to murder, but not to be angry, and not merely not to commit adultery, but not to lust (see Ezekiel 11:19, ‘I will give them a heart of flesh, that they may walk in my statutes.’) We are told, if someone strikes us on the right cheek, to turn to him also the left. Jesus tells us to love our enemies and those who hate and persecute us, and in this way he makes it clear that the love commandment is not based on reciprocity ( Matt 5:43–48; Luke 6:27–36). Finally, when he is asked ‘Who is my neighbor?’, he tells the story ( Luke 10) of a Samaritan (traditional enemies of the Jews) who met a wounded Jew he did not know by the side of the road, was moved with compassion, and went out of his way to meet his needs; Jesus commends the Samaritan for being ‘neighbor’ to the wounded traveler.

The theme of self-sacrifice is clearest in the part of the narrative that deals with Jesus' death. This event is understood in many different ways in the New Testament, but one central theme is that Jesus died on our behalf, an innocent man on behalf of the guilty. Jesus describes the paradigm of loving our neighbors as the willingness to die for them. This theme is connected with our relationship to God, which we violate by disobedience, but which is restored by God's forgiveness through redemption. In Paul's letters especially we are given a three-fold temporal location for the relation of morality to God's work on our behalf. We are forgiven for our past failures on the basis of Jesus' sacrifice ( Rom . 3:21–26). We are reconciled now with God through God's adoption of us in Christ ( Rom . 8:14–19). And we are given the hope of future progress in holiness by the work of the Holy Spirit ( Rom . 5:3–5). All of this theology requires more detailed analysis, but this is not the place for it.

There is a contrast between the two traditions I have so far described, namely the Greek and the Judeo-Christian. The idea of God that is central in Greek philosophy is the idea of God attracting us, like a kind of magnet, so that we desire to become more like God, though there is a minority account by Socrates of receiving divine commands. In the Jewish and Christian scriptures, the notion of God commanding us is central. It is tempting to simplify this contrast by saying that the Greeks favor the good , in their account of the relation of morality and religion, and the Judeo-Christian account favors the right or obligation. It is true that the notion of obligation makes most sense against the background of command. But the picture is over-simple because the Greeks had room in their account for the constraint of desire; thus the temperate or brave person in Aristotle's picture has desires for food or sex or safety that have to be disciplined by the love of the noble. On the other side, the Judeo-Christian account adds God's love to the notion of God's command, so that the covenant in which the commands are embedded is a covenant by which God blesses us, and we are given a route towards our highest good which is union with God.

The rest of the history to be described in this entry is a cross-fertilization of these two traditions or lines of thought. In the patristic period, or the period of the early Fathers, it was predominantly Plato and the Stoics amongst the Greek philosophers whose influence was felt. The Eastern and Western parts of the Christian church split during the period, and the Eastern church remained more comfortable than the Western with language about humans being deified (in Greek theosis ). In the Western church, Augustine (354–430) emphasized the gap between the world we are in as resident aliens and our citizenship in the heavenly Jerusalem, and even in our next life the distance between ourselves and God. He describes in the Confessions the route by which his heart or will, together with his understanding, moved from paganism through Neo-Platonism to Christianity. The Neo-Platonists (such as Plotinus, 205-270) taught a world-system of emanation, whereby the One (like Plato's Form of the Good) flowed into Intellect (the realm of the Forms) and from there into the World-Soul and individual souls, where it encountered the realm of bodies, from where it returned to itself (‘the flight of the alone to the alone’). Augustine accepted that the Platonists taught, like the beginning of the prologue of John , that the Word (in Greek, logos ) is with God and is God, since the Intellect is the mediating principle between the One and the Many ( John 1:1–5). Augustine held that Plato had asserted that the supreme good, possession of which alone gives us blessedness, is God, ‘and therefore (Plato) thought that to be a philosopher is to be a lover of God.’ ( De Civ. Dei VIII.8). But the Platonists did not teach, like the end of John's prologue, that the Word is made flesh in Jesus Christ, and so they did not have access to the way to salvation revealed in Christ or God's grace to us through Christ's death. Nonetheless, it is surprising how far Augustine can go in rapprochement. The Forms, he says, are in the mind of God and God uses them in the creation of the world. Human beings were created for union with God, but they have the freedom to turn towards themselves instead of God. If they turn to God, they can receive divine illumination through a personal intuition of the eternal standards (the Forms). If they turn towards themselves, they will lose the sense of the order of creation, which the order of their own loves should reflect. Augustine gives primacy to the virtue of loving what ought to be loved, especially God. In his homily on I John 4:8, he says, ‘Love and do what you will.’ But this is not a denial of the moral law. He held that humans who truly love God will also act in accord with the other precepts of divine and moral law; though love not merely fulfills the cardinal virtues (wisdom, justice, courage and temperance) but transforms them by supernatural grace.

The influence of Augustine in the subsequent history of ethics resulted from the fact that it was his synthesis of Christianity (the official religion of the Roman Empire after 325) and Greek philosophy that survived the destruction of the Western Roman Empire, especially in the monasteries where the texts were still read. Boethius (c. 480–524) gave us the definition of the concept of ‘person’ that has been fundamental to ethical theory. To understand this, we need to go back into the history of the development of the doctrine of the Trinity. The church had to explain how the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit could be distinct and yet not three different gods. They used, in Latin, the term persona , which means ‘role’ but which was also used by the grammarians to distinguish what we call ‘first person, second person and third person’ pronouns and verb-forms. The same human being can be first person ‘I’, second person ‘you’, and third person ‘he’ or ‘she’, depending on the relations in which he or she stands. The doctrine of the Trinity comes to be understood in terms of three persons, one God, with the persons standing in different relations to each other. But then this term ‘person’ is also used to understand the relation of the second person's divinity to his humanity. The church came to talk about one person with two natures, the person standing under the natures. This had the merit of not making either the humanity or the divinity less essential to who Jesus was. Plato and Aristotle did not have any term that we can translate ‘person’ in the modern sense, as some one (as opposed to some thing ) that stands under all his or her attributes. Boethius, however, defines ‘person’ as ‘individual substance of rational nature,’ a key step in the introduction of our present concept.

In the West knowledge of most of Aristotle's texts was lost, but not in the East. They were translated into Syriac, and Arabic, and eventually (in Muslim Spain) into Latin, and re-entered Christian Europe in the twelfth century accompanied by translations of the great Arabic commentaries. In the initial prophetic period of Islam (CE 610–32) the Qur'an was given to Mohammad, who explained it and reinforced it through his own teachings and practices. The notion of God's (Allah's) commands is again central, and our obedience to these commands is the basis of our eventual resurrection. Disputes about political authority in the period after Mohammad's death led to the split between Sunnis and Shiites. Within Sunni Muslim ethical theory in the Middle Ages two major alternative ways developed of thinking about the relation between morality and religion. The first, the Mu'tazilite, was given its most developed statement by ‘Abd al-Jabbar from Basra (d. 1025). ‘Abd al-Jabbar defines a wrongful act as one that deserves blame, and holds that the right and wrong character of acts is known immediately to human reason, independently of revelation. These standards that we learn from reason apply also to God, so that we can use them to judge what God is and is not commanding us to do. He also teaches that humans have freedom, in the sense of a power to perform both an act and its opposite, though not at the same time. (For Mu'tazilite ethical theory, see Sophia Vasalou, Moral Agents and Their Deserts: The Character of Mu'tazilite Ethics and George Hourani, Islamic Rationalism: The Ethics of ‘Abd al-Jabbar .) The second alternative was taught by al-Ashari (d. 935), who started off as a Mu'tazilite, but came to reject their view. He insists that God is subject to none and to no standard that can fix bounds for Him. Nothing can be wrong for God, who sets the standard of right and wrong. This means that ‘if God declared lying to be right, it would be right, and if He commanded it, none could gainsay Him’ ( The Theology of al-Ash'ari , 169-70). With respect to our freedom, he holds that God gives us only the power to do the act (not its opposite) and this power is simultaneous to the act and does not precede it. A figure contemporary with al-Ashari, but in some ways intermediate between Mu'tazilites and Asharites, is al-Maturidi of Samarqand (d. 944). He holds that because humans have the tendency in their nature towards ugly or harmful actions as well as beautiful or beneficial ones, God has to reveal to us by command what to pursue and what to avoid. He also teaches that God gives us two different kinds of power, both the power simultaneous with the act (which is simply to do the act) and the power preceding the act (to choose either the act or its opposite). (For the work of al-Maturidi, see Ulrich Rudolph, Al-Maturidi and Sunni Theology in Samarkand .)

Medieval reflection within Judaism about morality and religion has, as its most significant figure, Maimonides (d. 1204) who was born in Muslim Spain, and was familiar with much of the Muslim discussion of these questions. The Guide of the Perplexed was written for young men who had read Aristotle and were worried about the tension between the views of the philosopher and their faith. Maimonides teaches that we do indeed have some access just as human beings to the rightness and wrongness of acts; but what renders conforming to these standards obligatory is that God reveals them in special revelation. The laws are obligatory whether we understand the reasons for them or not, but sometimes we do see how it is beneficial to obey, and Maimonides is remarkably fertile in providing such reasons.

The reentry of Aristotle into Europe caused a rebirth (a ‘renaissance’), but it also gave rise to a crisis, because it threatened to undermine the harmony established from the time of Augustine between the authority of reason, as represented by Greek philosophy, and the authority of faith, as represented by the doctrines of the Christian church. There were especially three ‘errors of Aristotle’ that seemed threatening: his teaching that the world was eternal, his apparent denial of personal immortality, and his denial of God's active agency in the world. (See, for example, Bonaventure, In Hexaemeron , VI.5 and In II Sent ., lib. II, d.1, pars 1, a.1, q.2.) These three issues (‘the world, the soul, and God’) become in one form or another the focus of philosophical thought for the next six centuries.

Thomas Aquinas (c. 1224–74) undertook the project of synthesis between Aristotle and Christianity, though his version of Christianity was already deeply influenced by Augustine, and so by Neo-Platonism. Aquinas, like Aristotle, emphasized the ends (vegetative, animal and typically human) given to humans in the natural order. He described both the cardinal virtues and the theological virtues of faith, hope and love, but he did not feel the tension that current virtue ethicists sometimes feel between virtue and the following of rules or principles. The rules governing how we ought to live are known, some of them by revelation, some of them by ordinary natural experience and rational reflection. But Aquinas thought these rules consistent in the determination of our good, since God only requires us to do what is consistent with our own good. Aquinas's theory is eudaimonist; ‘And so the will naturally tends towards its own last end, for every man naturally wills beatitude. And from this natural willing are caused all other willings, since whatever a man wills, he wills on account of the end.’ ( Summa Theologiae I, q.60. a.2) God's will is not exercised by arbitrary fiat; but what is good for some human being can be understood as fitting for this kind of agent, in relation to the purpose this agent intends to accomplish, in the real environment of the action, including other persons individually and collectively. The principles of natural moral law are the universal judgments made by right reasoning about the kinds of actions that are morally appropriate and inappropriate for human agents. They are thus, at least in principle and at a highly general level, deducible from human nature. Aquinas held that reason, in knowing these principles, is participating in the eternal law, which is in the mind of God ( Summa Theologiae I, q.91. a.2). Aquinas was not initially successful in persuading the church to embrace Aristotle. In 1277 the Bishop of Paris condemned 219 propositions (not all Thomist), including the thesis that a person virtuous in Aristotle's terms ‘is sufficiently disposed for eternal happiness.’ But in the Counter-Reformation, the synthesis which Aquinas achieved became authoritative in Roman Catholic education.

Aquinas was a Dominican friar. The other major order of friars, the Franciscan, had its own school of philosophy, starting with Bonaventure (c. 1217–74), who held that while we can learn from both Plato and Aristotle, and both are also in error, the greater error is Aristotle's. One other major figure from this tradition is John Duns Scotus (literally John from Duns, the Scot, c. 1266–1308), and there are three significant differences between him and Aquinas on the relation between morality and religion. First, Scotus is not a eudaimonist. He takes a double account of motivation from Anselm (1033–1109), who made the distinction between two affections of the will, the affection for advantage (an inclination towards one's own happiness and perfection) and the affection for justice (an inclination towards what is good in itself independent of advantage) (Anselm, De Concordia 3.11, 281:7–10; De Casu Diaboli 12, 255:8–11). Original sin is a ranking of advantage over justice, which needs to be reversed by God's assistance before we can be pleasing to God. Scotus says that we should be willing to sacrifice our own happiness for God if God were to require this. Second, he does not think that the moral law is self-evident or necessary. He takes the first table to be necessary, since it derives (except for the ‘every seventh day’ provision of the command about the Sabbath) from the necessary principle that God is to be loved. But the second table is contingent, though fitting our nature, and God could prescribe different commands even for human beings ( Ord . I, dist. 44). One of his examples is the proscription on theft, which applies only to beings with property, and so not necessarily to human beings (since they are not necessarily propertied). God also gives dispensation from the commands, according to Scotus, for example the command to Abraham to kill Isaac ( Ord III, suppl. Dist. 37). Third, Scotus denied the application of teleology to non-intentional nature, and thus departed from the Aristotelian and Thomist view. This does not mean that we have no natural end or telos , but that this end is related to the intention of God in the same way a human artisan intends his or her products to have a certain purpose (see Hare 2006, chapter 2).

Europe experienced a second Renaissance when scholars fled Constantinople after its capture by the Muslims in 1453, and brought with them Greek manuscripts that were previously inaccessible. In Florence Marsilio Ficino (1433–99) identified Plato as the primary ancient teacher of wisdom, and (like Bonaventure) cited Augustine as his guide in elevating Plato in this way. His choice of Plato was determined by the harmony he believed to exist between Plato's thought and the Christian faith, and he set about making Latin translations of all the Platonic texts so that this wisdom could be available for his contemporaries who did not know Greek. He was also the first Latin translator of Plotinus, the Neo-Platonist.

Many of the central figures in the Reformation were humanists in the Renaissance sense (where there is no implication of atheism). But there is also a fundamental similarity in the way the relation between morality and religion is conceived between Scotus and the two Reformers Martin Luther (1483–1546) and John Calvin (1509–64), though neither of them make the distinctions about natural law that Scotus (the ‘subtle doctor’) does. Luther says ‘What God wills is not right because he ought or was bound so to will; on the contrary, what takes place must be right, because he so wills.’ ( Bondage of the Will , Works , pp. 195–6). Calvin says ‘God's will is so much the highest rule of righteousness that whatever he wills, by the very fact that he wills it, must be considered righteous’ ( Institutes 3. 23. 2). The historical connection between Scotus and the Reformers can be traced through William of Ockham (d. 1349) and Gabriel Biel (1410–95). The Counter-Reformation in Roman Catholic Europe, on the other hand, took the work of Aquinas as authoritative for education. Francisco de Suarez (1548–1617) claimed that the precepts of natural law can be distinguished into those (like ‘Do good and avoid evil’) which are known immediately and intuitively by all normal human beings, those (like ‘Do no injury to anyone’) which require experience and thought to know them, but which are then self-evident, and those (like ‘Lying is always immoral’) which are not self-evident but can be derived from the more basic precepts ( De Legibus , 2. 7. 5). However, Suarez accepted Scotus's double account of motivation.

The next two centuries in European philosophy can be described in terms of two lines of development, rationalism and empiricism, both of which led, in different ways, to the possibility of a greater detachment of ethics from theology. The history of rationalism from René Descartes (1596–1650) to Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716) is a history of re-establishing human knowledge on the foundation of rational principles that could not be doubted, after modern science started to shake the traditional foundations supported by the authority of Greek philosophy and the church. Descartes was not primarily an ethicist, but he located the source of moral law (surprisingly for a rationalist) in God's will. The most important rationalist in ethics was Benedict de Spinoza (1623–77). He was a Jew, but was condemned by his contemporary faith community as unorthodox. Like Descartes, he attempted to duplicate the methods of geometry in philosophy. Substance, according to Spinoza, exists in itself and is conceived through itself ( Ethics , I, def. 3); it is consequently one, infinite, and identical with God ( Ethics , I, prop. 15). There is no such thing as natural law, since all events in nature (‘God or Nature’) are equally natural. Everything in the universe is necessary, and there is no free will, except in as far as Spinoza is in favor of calling someone free who is led by reason ( Ethics , I, prop. 32). Each human mind is a limited aspect of the divine intellect. On this view (which has its antecedent in Stoicism) the human task is to move towards the greatest possible rational control of human life. Leibniz was, like Descartes, not primarily an ethicist. He said, however, that ‘the highest perfection of any thinking being lies in careful and constant pursuit of true happiness’ ( New Essays on Human Understanding , XXI, 51). The rationalists were not denying the centrality of God in human moral life, but their emphasis was on the access we have through the light of reason rather than through sacred text or ecclesiastical authority.

After Leibniz there was in Germany a long-running battle between the rationalists and the pietists, who tried to remain true to the goals of the Lutheran Reformation. Examples of the two schools are Christian Wolff (1679–1754) and Christian August Crusius (1715–75), and we can understand Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), like his teacher Martin Knutzen (1713–51), as trying to mediate between the two. Wolff was a very successful popularizer of the thought of Leibniz, but fuller in his ethical system. He took from Leibniz the principle that we will always select what pleases us most, and the principle that pleasure is the apprehension of perfection, so that the amount of pleasure we feel is proportional to the amount of perfection we intuit ( New Essays on Human Understanding , XXI, 41). He thought we are obligated to do what will make us and our condition, or that of others, more perfect, and this is the law of nature that would be binding on us even if ( per impossible ) God did not exist. He saw no problem about the connection between virtue and happiness, since both of them result directly from our perfection, and no problem about the connection between virtue and duty, since a duty is simply an act in accordance with law, which prescribes the pursuit of perfection. His views were offensive to the pietists, because he claimed that Confucius already knew (by reason) all that mattered about morality, even though he did not know anything about Christ. Crusius by contrast accepted Scotus's double theory of motivation, and held that there are actions that we ought to do regardless of any ends we have, even the end of our own perfection and happiness. It is plausible to see here the origin of Kant's categorical imperative. But he also added a third motivation, what he called ‘the drive of conscience’ which is ‘the natural drive to recognize a divine moral law’ (“A Guide to Rational Living,” Moral Philosophy from Montaigne to Kant , §132, 574). His idea was that we have within us this separate capacity to recognize divine command and to be drawn towards it out of a sense of dependence on the God who prescribes the command to us, and will punish us if we disobey (though our motive should not be to avoid punishment) (Ibid., §135).

The history of empiricism in Britain from Hobbes to Hume is also the history of the attempt to re-establish human knowledge, but not from above (from indubitable principles of reason) but from below (from experience and especially the experience of the senses). Thomas Hobbes (1588–1649) said that all reality is bodily (including God), and all events are motions in space. Willing, then, is a motion, and is merely the last act of desire or aversion in any process of deliberation. His view is that it is natural, and so reasonable, for each of us to aim solely at our own preservation or pleasure. In the state of nature, humans are selfish, and their lives are ‘solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short’, a war of all against all ( Leviathan , Ch. 13). The first precept of the law of nature is then for each of us, pursuing our own interest, ‘to endeavor peace, as far as he has hope of attaining it; and when he cannot obtain it, that he may seek, and use, all helps, and advantages of war.’ ( Ibid ., Ch. 14). The second precept is that each of us should be willing to lay down our natural rights to everything to the extent that others are also willing, and Hobbes concludes with the need to subordinate ourselves to a sovereign who alone will be able to secure peace. The second and longest portion of Leviathan is devoted to religion, where Hobbes argues for the authority of Scripture (‘God's word’), which he thinks is needed for the authority of law. He argues for the authority in the interpretation of Scripture to be given to that same earthly sovereign, and not to competing ecclesiastical authorities (whose competition had been seen to exacerbate the miseries of war both in Britain and on the continent) ( Ibid ., Ch. 33).

John Locke (1632–1704) followed Hobbes in deriving morality from our need to live together in peace given our natural discord, but he denied that we are mechanically moved by our desires. He agreed with Hobbes in saying that moral laws are God's imposition, but disagreed by making God's power and benevolence both necessary conditions for God's authority in this respect ( Treatises , IV. XIII. 3). He also held that our reason can work out counsels or advice about moral matters; but only God's imposition makes law (and hence obligation), and we only know about God's imposition from revelation ( The Reasonableness of Christianity , 62–5). He therefore devoted considerable attention to justifying our belief in the reliability of revelation.

The deists (e.g., William Wollaston, 1659–1724) believed that humans can reason from their experience of nature to the existence and some of the attributes of God, that special revelation is accordingly unnecessary, that God does not intervene in human affairs (after creation) and that the good life for humans finds adequate guidance in philosophical ethics. Frances Hutcheson (1694–1746) was not a deist, but does give a reading of the sort of guidance involved here. He distinguished between objects that are naturally good, which excite personal or selfish pleasure, and those that are morally good, which are advantageous to all persons affected. He took himself to be giving a reading of moral goodness as agape , the Greek word for the love of our neighbor that Jesus prescribes. This love is benevolence, Hutcheson said, and it is formulated in the principle ‘That Action is best, which procures the greatest Happiness for the greatest Numbers’ ( Inquiry II, III, VIII). Because these definitions of natural and moral good produce a possible gap between the two, we need some way to believe that morality and happiness are coincident. Hutcheson thought that God has given us a moral sense for this purpose ( Essay on the Nature and Conduct of the Passions , II). This moral sense responds to examples of benevolence with approbation and a unique kind of pleasure, and benevolence is the only thing it responds to, as it were the only signal it picks up. It is, like Scotus's affection for justice, not confined to our perception of advantage. The result of our having moral sense is that when intending the good of others, we ‘undesignedly’ end up promoting our own greatest good as well because we end up gratifying ourselves along with others. God shows benevolence by first making us benevolent and then giving us this moral sense that gets joy from the approbation of our benevolence. To contemporary British opponents of moral sense theory, this seemed too rosy or benign a picture; our joy in approving benevolence is not enough to make morality and happiness coincident. We need also obligation and divine sanction.

Joseph Butler (1692–1752, Bishop of Bristol and then of Durham) held that God's goodness consists in benevolence, in wanting us to be happy, and that we should want the same for each other. He made the important point that something can be good for an agent because it is what he wants without this meaning that the content of what he wants has anything to do with himself ( Fifteen Sermons , 126–27).

David Hume (1711–76) is the first figure in this narrative who can properly be attached to the Enlightenment, though this term means very different things in Scotland, in France and in Germany. Hume held that reason cannot command or move the human will. Since morals clearly do have an influence on actions and affections, ‘it follows that they cannot be derived from reason; and that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have any such influence’ ( Treatise III.1). For Hume an action, or sentiment, or character, is virtuous or vicious ‘because its view causes a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind’ ( Ibid ., III.2). The denial of motive power to reason is part of his general skepticism. He accepted from Locke the principle that our knowledge is restricted to sense impressions from experience and logically necessary relations of ideas in advance of experience (in Latin, a priori ). From this principle he derived more radical conclusions than Locke had done. For example, we cannot know about causation or the soul. The only thing we can know about morals is that we get pleasure from the thought of some things and pain from the thought of others. Since the idea of morality implies something universal, there must be some sentiment of sympathy or (he later says) humanity, which is common to all human beings, and which ‘recommends the same object to general approbation’ ( Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Morals , IX. I. 221). Hume thought we could get conventional moral conclusions from these moral sentiments, which nature has fortunately given us. He was also skeptical about any attempt to derive conclusions containing ‘ought’ from premises containing only ‘is’, though scholars debate about the scope of the premises he is talking about here. Probably he included premises about God's will or nature or action. This does not mean he was arguing against the existence of God. He thought (like Calvin) that we cannot rely on rational proofs of God's existence, even though humans have what Calvin called a sense of the divine and Human called ‘true religion’. But Hume never identified himself as an atheist, though he had opportunity in the atheist circles he frequented in Paris, and his Dialogues on Natural Religion end with the sentiment that ‘to be a philosophical skeptic is, in a man of letters, the first and most essential step towards being a sound, believing Christian’ ( Dialogues , part XII, penultimate paragraph). Some scholars take this remark (like similar statements in Hobbes) as purely ironic, but this goes beyond the evidence.

The Enlightenment in France had a more anti-clerical flavor (in part because of the history of Jansenism, unique to France), and for the first time in this narrative we meet genuine atheists, such as Baron d'Holbach (1723–89) who held not only that morality did not need religion, but that religion, and especially Christianity, was its major impediment. François-Marie Voltaire (1694-1778) was, especially towards the end of his life, opposed to Christianity, but not to religion in general ( Letters of Voltaire and Frederick the Great , letter 156). He accepted from the English deists the idea that what is true in Christian teachings is the core of human values that are universally true in all religions, and (like the German rationalists) he admired Confucius. Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1712-78) said, famously, that mankind is born free, but everywhere he is in chains ( The Social Contract , Ch. 1). This supposes a disjunction between nature and contemporary society, and Rousseau held that the life of primitive human beings was happy inasmuch as they knew how to live in accordance with their own innate needs; now we need some kind of social contract to protect us from the corrupting effects of society upon the proper love of self. Nature is understood as the whole realm of being created by God, who guarantees its goodness, unity, and order. Rousseau held that we do not need any intermediary between us and God, and we can attain salvation by returning to nature in this high sense and by developing all our faculties harmoniously. Our ultimate happiness is to feel ourselves at one with the system that God created.

Immanuel Kant (1724–1804) is the most important figure of the Enlightenment in Germany, but his project is different in many ways from those of his French contemporaries. He was brought up in a pietist Lutheran family, and his system retains many features from, for example, Crusius. But he was also indebted through Wolff to Leibniz. Moreover, he was ‘awoken from his dogmatic slumbers’ by reading Hume, though Kant is referring here to Hume's attack on causation, not his ethical theory ( Prolegomena , 4:260). Kant's mature project was to limit human knowledge ‘in order to make room for faith’ ( KrV , B xxx). He accepted from Hume that our knowledge is confined within the limits of possible sense experience, but he did not accept skeptical conclusions about causation or the soul. Reason is not confined, in his view, to the same limits as knowledge, and we are rationally required to hold beliefs about things as they are in themselves, not merely things as they appear to us. In particular, we are required to believe in God, freedom and immortality. These are three ‘postulates of practical reason’, required to make rational sense of the fact of moral obligation, the fact that we are under the moral law (the ‘categorical imperative’) that requires us to will the maxim of an action (the prescription of the action together with the reason for it) as a universal law (removing any self-preference) and to treat humanity in any person as always at the same time an end and never merely as a means ( Groundwork , 4.421, 429). Kant thought that humans have to be able to believe that morality in this demanding form is consistent in the long run with happiness (both their own and that of the people they affect by their actions), if they are going to be able to persevere in the moral life without rational instability. He did not accept the three traditional theoretical arguments for the existence of God (though he was sympathetic to a modest version of the teleological argument). But the practical argument was decisive for him, though he held that it was possible to be morally good without being a theist, despite such a position being rationally unstable.

In Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason he undertook the project of using moral language in order to translate the four main themes of Biblical revelation (accessible only to particular people at particular times) into the revelation to Reason (accessible to all people at all times). This does not mean that he intended to reduce Biblical faith to morality, though some scholars have taken him this way. The translated versions of Creation, Fall, Redemption and Second Coming are as follows (see Hare 1996): Humans have an initial predisposition to the good, which is essential to them, but is overlaid with a propensity to evil, which is not essential to them. Since they are born under ‘the Evil Maxim’ that subordinates duty to happiness, they are unable by their own devices to reverse this ranking, and require ‘an effect of grace’ ( Religion , 6.53). Providence ushers in progress (though not continuous) towards an ‘ethical commonwealth’ in which we together make the moral law our own law, by appropriating it as authoritative for our own lives (this is what Kant means by ‘autonomy’) ( Religion , 6.98–99; Groundwork , 4.433–34).

A whole succession of Kant's followers tried to ‘go beyond’ Kant by showing that there was finally no need to make the separation between our knowledge and the thing-in-itself beyond our knowledge. One key step in departing from the surviving influence in Kant of Lutheran pietism was taken by Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814), who identified (as Kant did not) the will of the individual with the infinite Ego which is ordering the universe morally. Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) accomplished a somewhat similar end by proposing that we should make the truth of ideas relative to their original historical context against the background of a history that is progressing towards a final stage of ‘absolute knowledge’, in which Spirit (in German Geist , which means also ‘mind’) understands that reality is its own creation and there is no ‘beyond’ for it to know. Hegel is giving a philosophical account of the Biblical notion of all things returning to God, ‘so that God may be all in all.’ ( I Cor . 15:28) In this world-history, Hegel located the Reformation as ‘the all-enlightening sun’ of the bright day that is our modern time ( The Philosophy of History , 412). He thought that Geist moves immanently through human history, and that the various stages of knowledge are also stages of freedom, each stage producing first its own internal contradiction, and then a radical transition into a new stage. The stage of absolute freedom will be one in which all members freely by reason endorse the organic community and the concrete institutions in which they actually live ( Phenomenology , BB, VI, B, III).

One of Hegel's opponents was Arthur Schopenhauer (1799–1860), the philosopher of pessimism. Schopenhauer thought that Hegel had strayed from the Kantian truth that there is a thing-in-itself beyond appearance, and that the Will is such a thing. He differed from Kant, however, in seeing the Will as the source of all our endless suffering, a blind striving power without ultimate purpose or design ( The World as Will and Representation , §56 p. 310 and §57 p. 311). It is, moreover, one universal Will that underlies the wills of all separate individuals. The intellect and its ideas are simply the Will's servant. On this view, there is no happiness for us, and our only consolation is a (quasi-Buddhist) release from the Will to the limited extent we can attain it, especially through aesthetic enjoyment.

Hegel's followers split into what are sometimes called ‘Right Hegelians’ and ‘Left Hegelians’ (or ‘Young Hegelians’). Right Hegelians promoted the generally positive view of the Prussian state that Hegel expressed in the Philosophy of Right . Left Hegelians rejected it, and with it the Protestant Christianity which they saw as its vehicle. In this way Hegel's peculiar way of promoting Christianity ended up causing its vehement rejection by thinkers who shared many of his social ideals. David Friedrich Strauss (1808–74) wrote The Life of Jesus Critically Examined , launching the historical-critical method of Biblical scholarship with the suggestion that much of the Biblical account is myth or ‘unconscious invention’ that needs to be separated out from the historical account. Ludwig Andreas Feuerbach (1804–72) wrote The Essence of Christianity in which he pictured all religion as the means by which ‘man projects his being into objectivity, and then again makes himself an object to this projected image of himself’ ( The Essence of Christianity , 30). Feuerbach thought religion resulted from humanity's alienation from itself, and philosophy needed to destroy the religious illusion so that we could learn to love humankind and not divert this love onto an imaginary object. Karl Marx (1818–83) followed Feuerbach in this diagnosis of religion, but he was interested primarily in social and political relations rather than psychology. He became suspicious of theory (for example Hegel's), on the grounds that theory is itself a symptom of the power structures in the societies that produce it. “Theory,” Marx writes, “is realized in a people only in so far as it is a realization of the people's needs” (“Critique of Hegel's Philosophy of Right,” Early Writings , 252). And ‘ideologies’ and ‘religion,’ he believes, arise from “conditions that require [these] illusions” (Ibid., 244). Marx returned to Hegel's thoughts about work revealing to the worker his value through what the worker produces, but Marx argues that under capitalism the worker was alienated from this product because other people owned both the product and the means of producing it. Marx urged that the only way to prevent this was to destroy the institution of private property (“Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts,” Early Writings , 348). Thus he believed, like Hegel, in progress through history towards freedom, but he thought it would take Communist revolution to bring this about.

A very different response to Hegel (and Kant) is found in the work of Søren Kierkegaard (1813–55), a religious thinker who started, like Hegel and Kant, from Lutheranism. Kierkegaard mocked Hegel constantly for presuming to understand the whole system in which human history is embedded, while still being located in a particular small part of it. On the other hand, he used Hegelian categories of thought himself, especially in his idea of the aesthetic life, the ethical life and the religious life as stages through which human beings develop by means of first internal contradiction and then radical transition. Kierkegaard's relation with Kant was problematic as well. In Either/Or he caricatured Kant's ethical thought (as well as Hegel's) in the person of Judge William, who is stuck within the ethical life and has not been able to reach the life of faith. On the other hand, his own description of the religious life is full of echoes of Kant's Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason . Kierkegaard wrote most of his work pseudonymously, taking on the names of characters who lived the lives he describes. In the aesthetic life the goal is to keep at bay the boredom that is constantly threatening, and this requires enough distance from one's projects that one is not stuck with them but can flit from engagement to engagement without pain ( Either/Or , II. 77). This life deconstructs, because it requires (in order to sustain interest) the very commitment that it also rejects. The transition is accomplished by making a choice for one's life as a whole from a position that is not attached to any particular project, a radical choice that requires admitting the aesthetic life has been a failure. In this choice one discovers freedom, and thus the ethical life ( Either/Or , II. 188). But this life too deconstructs, because it sets up the goal of living by a demand, the moral law, that is higher than we can live by our own human devices. Kierkegaard thought we have to realize that God is (contrary to Fichte) ‘another’ ( Sickness unto Death xi 128), with whom we have to relate, and whose assistance is necessary even for the kind of repentance that is the transition into the religious life. He also suggested that within the religious life, there is a ‘repetition’ of the aesthetic life and the ethical life, though in a transformed version.

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) was the son of a Lutheran pastor in Prussia. He was trained as a classical philologist, and his first book, The Birth of Tragedy , was an account of the origin and death of ancient Greek tragedy. Nietzsche was deeply influenced by Schopenhauer, especially his view of the will (which Nietzsche called ‘the Will to Power’), and was first attracted and then repelled by Wagner, who was also one of Schopenhauer's disciples. The breaking point seems to have been Wagner's Parsifal . Nietzsche by this time was opposed to orthodox Christianity and was promoting Ancient Greece instead, and he thought that Wagner was betraying his integrity by using an ‘anti-Greek’ Christian story for the opera. Nietzsche saw clearly the intimate link between Christianity and the ethical theories of his predecessors in Europe, especially Kant. In On the Genealogy of Morals , he says, ‘The advent of the Christian God, as the maximum god attained so far, was therefore accompanied by the maximum feeling of guilty indebtedness on earth. Presuming we have gradually entered upon the reverse course, there is no small probability that with the irresistible decline of faith in the Christian God, there is now also a considerable decline in mankind's feeling of guilt’ ( On the Genealogy of Morals , 90–1). This is the ‘death of God’ which Nietzsche announced, and which he predicted would also be the end of Kantian ethics ( The Gay Science , §108, 125, 343). It is harder to know what Nietzsche was for, than what he was against. This is partly an inheritance from Schopenhauer, who thought any system of constructive ethical thought a delusion. But Nietzsche clearly admired the Ancient Greeks, and thought we would be better off with a ‘master’ morality like theirs, rather than a ‘slave’ morality like Christianity. ‘Mastery over himself also necessarily gives him mastery over circumstances, over nature, and over all more short-willed and unreliable creatures’ ( Genealogy , 59-60). By this last clause, he meant mastery over other people, and the model of this mastery is the ‘overman’ who is free of the resentment by the weak of the strong that Nietzsche thought lay at the basis of Christian ethics.

To return to Britain, Hume had a number of successors who accepted the view (which Hume took from Hutcheson) that our fundamental obligation is to work for the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Four are especially significant. William Paley (1743–1805) thought he could demonstrate that morality derived from the will of God and required promoting the happiness of all, that happiness was the sum of pleasures, and that we need to believe that God is the final granter of happiness if we are to sustain motivation to do what we know we ought to do ( The Principles of Moral and Political Philosophy , II. 4). Jeremy Bentham (1748–1832) rejected this theological context. His grounds were radically empiricist, that the only ‘real’ entities are publicly observable, and so do not include God (or, for that matter, right or time or relations or qualities). He thought he could provide a scientific calculus of pleasures, where the unit that stays constant is the minimum state of sensibility that can be distinguished from indifference. He thought we could then separate different ‘dimensions’ in which these units vary, such as intensity, duration, certainty, propinquity (how soon the pleasures will come), fecundity (how many other pleasures this pleasure will produce) and purity. Discarding the theological context made moral motivation problematic, for why should we expect (without God) more units of pleasure for ourselves by contributing to the greater pleasure of others? Bentham's solution was to hope that law and social custom could provide individuals with adequate motives through the threat of social sanctions, and that what he called ‘deontology’ (which is personal or private morality) could mobilize hidden or long-range interests that were already present but obscure.

John Stuart Mill (1806–73) was raised on strict utilitarian principles by his father, a follower of Bentham. Unlike Bentham, however, Mill accepted that there are qualitative differences in pleasures simply as pleasures, and he thought that the higher pleasures were those of the intellect, the feelings and imagination, and the moral sentiments. He observed that those who have experienced both these and the lower pleasures, tend to prefer the former. At the age of twenty he had a collapse and a prolonged period of ‘melancholy’. He realized that his education had neglected the culture or cultivation of feelings , of which hope is a primary instance ( Autobiography , 1. 84). In his Three Essays on Religion (published posthumously in 1874) he returned to the idea of hope, saying that ‘the indulgence of hope with regard to the government of the universe and the destiny of man after death, while we recognize as a clear truth that we have no ground for more than a hope, is legitimate and philosophically defensible’; without such hope, we are kept down by ‘the disastrous feeling of “not worth while”’ ( Three Essays 249–50). Mill did not believe, however, that God was omnipotent, given all the evil in the world, and he insisted, like Kant, that we have to be God's co-workers, not merely passive recipients of God's assistance.

Henry Sidgwick (1838–1900) in Methods of Ethics distinguished three methods: Intuitionism (which is, roughly, the common sense morality that some things, like deliberate ingratitude to a benefactor, are self-evidently wrong in themselves independently of their consequences), Egoistic Hedonism (the view that self-evidently an individual ought to aim at a maximum balance of happiness for herself, where this is understood as the greatest balance of pleasure over pain), and Utilitarianism or Universalistic Hedonism, (the view that self-evidently she ought to aim at the maximum balance of happiness for all sentient beings present and future, whatever the cost to herself). Of these three, he rejected the first, on the grounds that no concrete ethical principles are self-evident, and that when they conflict (as they do) we have to take consequences into account in order to decide how to act. But Sidgwick found the relation between the other two methods much more problematic. Each principle separately seemed to him self-evident, but when taken together they seems to be mutually inconsistent. He considered two solutions, psychological and metaphysical. The psychological solution was to bring in the pleasures and pains of sympathy, so that if we do good to all we end up (because of these pleasures) making ourselves happiest. Sidgwick rejected this on the basis that sympathy is inevitably limited in its range, and we feel it most towards those closest to us, so that even if we include sympathetic pleasures and pains under Egoism, it will tend to increase the divergence between Egoistic and Utilitarian conduct, rather than bring them closer together. The metaphysical solution was to bring in a god who desires the greatest total good of all living things, and who will reward and punish in accordance with this desire. Sidgwick recognized this as a return to the utilitarianism of Paley (Compare Methods of Ethics , II. 1, 2 and IV. 4, 5). He thought this solution was both necessary and sufficient to remove the contradiction in ethics. But this was only a reason to accept it, if in general it is reasonable to accept certain principles (such as the Uniformity of Nature) which are not self-evident and which cannot be proved, but which bring order and coherence into a central part of our thought. Sidgwick did not commit himself to an answer to this, one way or the other.

In the twentieth century professional philosophy in the West divided up into two streams, sometimes called ‘Analytic’ and ‘Continental’, and there were periods during which the two schools lost contact with each other. Towards the end of the century, however, there were more philosophers who could speak the languages of both traditions. The beginning of the analytic school is sometimes located with the rejection of a neo-Hegelian idealism by G.E. Moore (1873-1958). One way to characterize the two schools is that the Continental school continued to read and be influenced by Hegel, and the Analytic school (with some exceptions) did not. Another way to make the distinction is geographical; the analytic school is located primarily in Britain, Scandinavia and N. America, and the continental school in the rest of Europe, in Latin America and in certain schools in N. America.

We will start with some figures from the Continental school, and then move to the analytic (which is this writer's own). Martin Heidegger (1889–1976) was initially trained as a theologian, and wrote his dissertation on what he took to be a work of Duns Scotus. He took an appointment under Edmund Husserl (1855–1938) at Freiburg, and was then appointed to succeed him in his chair. Husserl's program of ‘phenomenology’ was to recover a sense of certainty about the world by studying in exhaustive detail the cognitive structure of appearance. Heidegger departed from Husserl in approaching Being through a focus on ‘Human Being’ (in German Dasein ) concerned above all for its fate in an alien world, or as ‘anxiety’ ( Angst ) towards death (see Being and Time I. 6). In this sense he is the first existentialist, though he did not use the term. Heidegger emphasized that we are ‘thrown’ into a world that is not ‘home’, and we have a radical choice about what possibilities for ourselves we will make actual. Heidegger drew here from Kierkegaard, and he is also similar in describing the danger of falling back into mere conventionality, what Heidegger calls ‘the They’ ( das Man ). On the other hand he is unlike Kierkegaard in thinking of traditional Christianity as just one more convention making authentic existence more difficult. In Heidegger, as in Nietzsche and Schopenhauer, it is hard to find a positive or constructive ethics. Heidegger's position is somewhat compromised, moreover, by his initial embrace of the Nazi party. In his later work he moved increasingly towards a kind of quasi-religious mysticism. His Romantic hatred of the modern world and his distrust of system-building led to the espousal of either silence or poetry as the best way to be open to the ‘something’ (sometimes he says ‘the earth’) which reveals itself only as ‘self-secluding’ or hiding itself away from our various conceptualizations. He held the hope that through poetry, and in particular the poetry of Hölderlin, we might be able to still sense something of the unknown god who appears ‘as the one who remains unknown,’ who is quite different from the object of theology or piety, but who can bring us back to the Being we have long lost sight of ( Poetry, Language, Thought , 222).

Jean-Paul Sartre (1905-80) did use the label ‘existentialist’, and said that ‘Existentialism is nothing else than an attempt to draw all the consequences of a coherent atheist position’ ( Existentialism and Human Emotions , 51). He denied (like Scotus) that the moral law could be deduced from human nature, but this was because (unlike Scotus) he thought that we give ourselves our own essences by the choices we make. His slogan was, ‘Existence precedes essence’ (Ibid., 13). ‘Essence’ is here the defining property of a thing, and Sartre gave the example of a paper cutter, which is given its definition by the artisan who makes it. Sartre said that when people believed God made human beings, they could believe humans had a God-given essence; but now that we do not believe this, we have realized that humans give themselves their own essences (‘First of all, man exists, turns up, appears on the scene, and, only afterwards, defines himself.’ Ibid., 15). On this view there are no outside commands to appeal to for legitimation, and we are condemned to our own freedom. Sartre thought of human beings as trying to be God (on a Hegelian account of what God is), even though there is no God. This is an inevitably fruitless undertaking, which he called ‘anguish’. Moreover, we inevitably desire to choose not just for ourselves, but for the world. We want, like God, to create humankind in our own image, ‘If I want to marry, to have children, even if this marriage depends solely on my own circumstances or passion or wish, I am involving all humanity in monogamy and not merely myself. Therefore, I am responsible for myself and for everyone else. I am creating a certain image of man of my own choosing. In choosing myself, I choose man’ (Ibid., 18). To recognize that this project does not make sense is required by honesty, and to hide this from ourselves is ‘bad faith’. One form of bad faith is to pretend that there is a God who is giving us our tasks. Another is to pretend that there is a ‘human nature’ that is doing the same thing. To live authentically is to realize both that we create these tasks for ourselves, and that they are futile.

The twentieth century also saw, within Roman Catholicism, forms of Christian Existentialism and new adaptations of the system of Thomas Aquinas. Gabriel Marcel (1889–1973), like Heidegger, was concerned with the nature of Being as it appears to human being, but he tried to show that there are experiences of love, joy, hope and faith which, as understood from within , give us reason to believe in an inexhaustible Presence, which is God. Jacques Maritain (1882–1973) developed a form of Thomism that retained the natural law, but regarded ethical judgment as not purely cognitive but guided by pre-conceptual affective inclinations. He gave more place to history than traditional Thomism did, allowing for development in the human knowledge of natural law, and he defended democracy as the appropriate way for human persons to attain freedom and dignity. The notion of the value of the person and the capacities given to persons by their creator was at the center of the ‘personalism’ of Pope John Paul II's The Acting Person (1979), influenced by Max Scheler (1874–1928).

Natural law theory has been taken up and modified more recently by three philosophers who write in a style closer to the analytic tradition, John Finnis, Alastair MacIntyre and Jean Porter. Finnis holds that our knowledge of the fundamental moral truths is self-evident, and so is not deduced from human nature. His Natural Law and Natural Rights (1980) was a landmark in integrating the modern vocabulary and grammar of rights into the tradition of Natural Law. MacIntyre, who has been on a long journey back from Marxism to Thomism, holds that we can know what kind of life we ought to live on the basis of knowing our natural end, which he now identifies in theological terms. In After Virtue (1981) he is still influenced by a Hegelian historicism, and holds that the only way to settle rival knowledge claims is to see how successfully each can account for the shape taken by its rivals. A different account of natural law is found in Porter, who in Nature as Reason (2005) retains the view that our final motivation is our own happiness and perfection, but rejects the view that we can deduce absolute action-guiding moral principles from human nature. Another contemporary school is virtue ethics, for example Philippa Foot in Natural Goodness (2001) and Rosalind Hursthouse in On Virtue Ethics (1999). They are not Roman Catholic but they are strongly influenced by Aristotle and Aquinas. They emphasize the notion of virtue which belongs to human nature just as bees have stings. Hursthouse ends her book by saying that we have to hold onto the hope that we can live together, not at each other's expense, a hope which she says used to be called belief in (God's) Providence ( On Virtue Ethics , 265). One final contribution to be mentioned here is Linda Zagzebski's Divine Motivation Theory (2004) which proposes, as an alternative to divine command theory, that we can understand all moral normatively in terms of the notion of a good emotion, and that God's emotions are the best exemplar. We will return to the rebirth of divine command theory at the end of this entry.

Michel Foucault (1926–84) followed Nietzsche in aspiring to uncover the ‘genealogy’ of various contemporary forms of thought and practice (he was concerned, for example, with our treatment of sexuality and mental illness), and how relations of power and domination have produced ‘discourses of truth’ (“Truth and Power,” Power , 131). In his later work he described four different aspects of the ‘practice of the self’: We select the desires, acts, and thoughts that we attend to morally, we recognize ourselves as morally bound by some particular ground, e.g., divine commands, or rationality, or human nature, we transform ourselves into ethical subjects by some set of techniques, e.g., meditation or mortification or consciousness-raising, and finally, we propose a ‘ telos ’ or goal, the way of life or mode of being that the subject is aiming at, e.g., self-mastery, tranquility or purification. Foucault criticized Christian conventions that tend to take morality as a juristic and often universal code of laws, and to ignore the creative practice of self-making. Even if Christian and post-Christian moralists turn their attention to self-expression, he thought they tend to focus on the confession of truth about oneself, a mode of expression which is historically linked to the church and the modern psycho-sciences. Foucault preferred stressing our freedom to form ourselves as ethical subjects, and develop ‘a new form of right’ and a ‘non-disciplinary form of power’ (“Disciplinary Power and Subjection,” Power , 242). He did not, however, tell us much more about what these new forms would be like.

Jürgen Habermas (1929-) proposed a ‘communicative ethics’ that develops the Kantian element in Marxism ( The Theory of Communicative Action , Vols. I and II). By analyzing the structure of communication (using speech-act theory developed in analytic philosophy) he lays out a procedure that will rationally justify norms, though he does not claim to know what norms a society will adopt by using this procedure. The two ideas behind this procedure are that norms are valid if they receive the consent of all the affected parties in unconstrained practical communication, and if the consequences of the general observance of the norms (in terms of how each person's interests are affected) are acceptable to all. Habermas thinks he fulfills in this way Hegel's aim of reconciling the individual and society, because the communication process extends individuals beyond their private perspectives in the process of reaching agreement. Religious convictions need to be left behind when entering the public square, on this scheme, because they are not communicable in the way the procedure requires. In recent work he has modified this position, by recognizing that certain religious forms require their adherents to speak in an explicitly religious way when advancing their prescriptions for public life, and it is discriminatory to try to prevent their doing so.

Within contemporary Jewish ethics mention should be made of Martin Buber (1878–1965) and Emmanuel Levinas (1906–95). Buber's form of existentialism emphasized the I-You relationship, which exists not only between human beings but (out of that) between human beings and God. When we reject I-You relationship, we return to I-It relations, governed by our impositions of our own conceptualizations on objects. Buber said these two relations are exhaustive. ‘There is no I as such but only the I of the basic word I-You and the I of the basic word I-It.’ ( I and Thou , 54). Levinas studied under Husserl, and knew Heidegger, whose work he first embraced and then rejected. His focus, like Buber's, was on the ‘ethics of the Other’, and he held that the face of the Other makes a demand on us even before we recognize our freedom to accept it or reject it. To meet the Other is to have the idea of Infinity ( Ethics and Infinity , 90–1).

We are sometimes said to live now in a ‘post-modern’ age. This term is problematic in various ways. As used within architectural theory in the 1960's and 1970's it had a relatively clear sense. There was a recognizable style that either borrowed bits and pieces from styles of the past, or mocked the very idea (in modernist architecture) of essential functionality. In philosophy, the term is less clearly definable. It combines a distaste for ‘meta-narratives’ and a rejection of any form of foundationalism. The effect on philosophical thinking about the relation between morality and religion is two-fold. On the one hand, the modernist rejection of religion on the basis of a foundationalist empiricism is itself rejected. This makes the current climate more hospitable to religious language than it was for most of the twentieth century. But on the other hand, the distaste for over-arching theory means that religious meta-narratives are suspect to the same degree as any other, and the hospitality is more likely to be towards bits and pieces of traditional theology than to any theological system as a whole. Habermas uses the term ‘post-secular age’ to describe our current condition, in which the secularization hypothesis (that religion was destined to wither away under the impact of science and education) has apparently failed.

Mention should be made of some movements that are not philosophical in a professional sense, but are important in understanding the relation between morality and religion. Liberation theology, of which a leading spokesman from Latin America is Gustavo Gutiérrez (1928-), has attempted to reconcile the Christian gospel with a commitment (influenced by Marxist categories) to revolution to relieve the condition of the oppressed. The civil rights movement (drawing heavily on Exodus ), feminist ethics, animal liberation, environmental ethics, and the gay rights and children's rights movements have shown special sensitivity to the moral status of some particular oppressed class. The leadership of some of these movements has been religiously committed, while the leadership of others has not. At the same time, the notion of human rights, or justified claims by every human being, has grown in global reach, partly through the various instrumentalities of the United Nations. There has, however, been less consensus on the question of how to justify human rights. There are theological justifications, deriving from the image of God in every human being, or the command to love the neighbor, or the covenant between God and humanity (see Wolterstorff, Justice : Rights and Wrongs , chapter 16). Whether there is a non-theological justification is not yet clear. Finally, there has also been a burst of activity in professional ethics, such as medical ethics, engineering ethics, and business ethics. This has not been associated with any one school of philosophy rather than another. The connection of religion with these developments has been variable. In some cases (e.g., medical ethics) the initial impetus for the new sub-discipline was strongly influenced by theology, and in other cases not.

The origin of analytic philosophy can be associated with G.E. Moore. His Principia Ethica (1903) can be regarded as the first major ethical document of the school. He was strongly influenced by Sidgwick at Cambridge, but rejected Sidgwick's negative views about intuitionism. He thought that intrinsic goodness was a real property of things, even though (like the number two) it does not exist in time and is not the object of sense experience. He explicitly aligned himself here with Plato and against the class of empiricist philosophers, ‘to which most Englishmen have belonged’ ( Principia Ethica , 162). His predecessors, Moore thought, had almost all committed the error, which he called ‘the naturalistic fallacy,’ of trying to define this value property by identifying it with a non-evaluative property. For example, they proposed that goodness is pleasure, or what produces pleasure. But whatever non-evaluative property we try to say goodness is identical to, we will find that it remains an open question whether that property is in fact good. For example, it makes sense to ask whether pleasure or the production of pleasure is good. This is true also if we propose a supernatural property to identify with goodness, for example the property of being commanded by God. It still makes sense to ask whether what God commands is good. This question cannot be the same as the question ‘Is what God commands what God commands?’ which is not still an open question. Moore thought that if these questions are different, then the two properties, goodness and being commanded by God, cannot be the same, and to say (by way of a definition) that they are the same is to commit the fallacy. Intrinsic goodness, Moore said, is a simple non-natural property (i.e., neither natural nor supernatural) and indefinable. He thought we had a special form of cognition that he called ‘intuition,’ which gives us access to such properties. By this he meant that the access was not based on inference or argument, but was self-evident (though we could still get it wrong, just as we can with sense-perception). He thought the way to determine what things had positive value intrinsically was to consider what things were such that, if they existed by themselves in isolation, we would yet judge their existence to be good.

At Cambridge Moore was a colleague of Bertrand Russell (1872–1970) and Ludwig Wittgenstein (1889–1951). Russell was not primarily a moral philosopher, but he expressed radically different views at different times about ethics. In 1910 he agreed with Moore that goodness (like roundness) is a quality that belongs to objects independently of our opinions, and that when two people differ about whether a thing is good, only one of them can be right. By 1922 he was holding an error theory (like that of John Mackie, 1917–81) that although we mean by ‘good’ an objective property in this way, there is in fact no such thing, and hence all our value judgments are strictly speaking false (“The Element of Ethics,” Philosophical Essays ). Then by 1935 he had dropped also the claim about meaning, holding that value judgments are expressions of desire or wish, and not assertions at all. Wittgenstein's views on ethics are enigmatic and subject to wildly different interpretations. In the Tractatus (which is about logic) he says at the end, ‘It is clear that ethics cannot be put into words. Ethics is transcendental. (Ethics and aesthetics are one and the same.)’ ( Tractatus , 6.421). Perhaps he means that the world we occupy is good or bad (and happy or unhappy) as a whole, and not piece-by-piece. Wittgenstein (like Nietzsche) was strongly influenced by Schopenhauer's notion of will, and by his disdain for ethical theories that purport to be able to tell one what to do and what not to do. The Tractatus was taken up by the Logical Positivists, though Wittgenstein himself was never a Logical Positivist. The Logical Positivists held a ‘verificationist’ theory of meaning, that assertions can be meaningful only if they can in principle be verified by sense experience or if they are tautologies (for example, ‘All bachelors are unmarried men.’) This seems to leave ethical statements (and statements about God) meaningless, and indeed that was the deliberately provocative position taken by A.J. Ayer (1910–89). Ayer accepted Moore's arguments about the naturalistic fallacy, and since Moore's talk of ‘non-natural properties’ seemed to Ayer just nonsense, he was led to emphasize and analyze further the non-cognitive ingredient in evaluation which Moore had identified. Suppose I say to a cannibal, ‘You acted wrongly in eating your prisoner.’ Ayer thought I am not stating anything more than if I had simply said, ‘You ate your prisoner.’ I am, rather, evincing my moral disapproval of it. It is as if I had said, ‘You ate your prisoner’ in a peculiar tone of horror, or written it with the addition of some special exclamation marks ( Language, Truth and Logic , 107–8).

The emotivist theory of ethics had its most articulate treatment in Ethics and Language by Charles Stevenson (1908–79). Stevenson was a positivist, but also the heir of John Dewey (1859–1952) and the American pragmatist tradition. Dewey had rejected the idea of fixed ends for human beings, and stressed that moral deliberation occurs in the context of competition within a person between different ends, none of which can be assumed permanent. He criticized theories that tried to derive moral principles from self-certifying reason, or intuition, or cosmic forms, or divine commands, both because he thought there are no self-certifying faculties or self-evident norms, and because the alleged derivation disguises the actual function of the principles as devices for social action. Stevenson applied this emphasis to the competition between people with different ends, and stressed the role of moral language as a social instrument for persuasion ( Ethics and Language , Ch. 5). On his account, normative judgments express attitudes and invite others to share these attitudes, but they are not strictly speaking true or false.

Wittgenstein did not publish any book after the Tractatus , but he wrote and taught; and after his death Philosophical Investigations was published in 1953. The later thought of Wittgenstein bears a similar relation to the Tractatus as Heidegger bears to Husserl. In both cases the quest for a kind of scientific certainty was replaced by the recognition that science is itself just one language, and not in many cases prior by right. The later Wittgenstein employed the notion of different ‘forms of life’ in which different ‘language games’ including those of religion are at home ( Philosophical Investigation , §7, 19, 373). In Oxford there was a parallel though distinct development centering round the work of John Austin (1911–60). Austin did not suppose that ordinary language was infallible, but he did think that it preserved a great deal of wisdom that had passed the test of centuries of experience, and that traditional philosophical discussion had ignored this primary material. In How to do Things with Words (published posthumously) Austin labeled ‘the descriptive fallacy’ the mistake of thinking that all language is used to perform the act of describing or reporting, and he attributed the discovery of this fallacy to Kant ( How to do Things with Words , 3).

R.M. Hare (1919–2002) took up the diagnosis of this fallacy, and proposed a ‘universal prescriptivism’ which attributed three characteristics to the language of morality. First, it is prescriptive, which is to say that moral judgments express the will in a way analogous to commands. This preserves the emotivist insight that moral judgment is different from assertion, but does not deny the role of rationality in such judgment. Second, moral judgment is universalizable. This is similar to the formula of Kant's categorical imperative that requires that we be able to will the maxims of our actions as universal laws. Third, moral judgment is overriding. This means that moral prescriptions legitimately take precedence over any other normative prescriptions. In Moral Thinking (1981) Hare claimed to demonstrate that utilitarianism followed from these three features of morality, though he excluded ideals (in the sense of preferences for how the world should be independently of the agent's concurrent desires or experience) from the scope of this argument. God enters in two ways into this picture. First, Hare proposed a figure he calls ‘the archangel’ who is the model for fully critical (as opposed to intuitive) moral thinking, having full access to all the relevant information and complete impartiality between the affected parties. Hare acknowledge that since archangels (e.g., Lucifer) are not reliably impartial in this way, it is really God who is the model. Second, we have to be able to believe (as Kant argued) that the universe sustains morality in the sense that it is worthwhile trying to be morally good. Hare thought that this requires something like a belief (he called it a ‘blik’) in the operation of Providence (“The Simple Believer,” Essays on Religion and Education , appendix, 37–9).

The most important opponent of utilitarianism in the twentieth century was John Rawls (1921–2005). In his Theory of Justice (1971) he gave, like Hare, an account of ethics heavily indebted to Kant. But he insisted that utilitarianism does not capture the Kantian insight that each person is an end in himself or herself, because it ‘does not take seriously the distinction between persons’ ( Theory of Justice , 22). He constructed the thought experiment of the ‘Original Position’ in which individuals imagine themselves not knowing what role in society they are going to play or what endowments of talent or material wealth they possess, and agree together on what principles of justice they will accept. Rawls thought it important that substantive conceptions of the good life were left behind in moving to the Original Position, because he was attempting to provide an account of justice that people with competing visions of the good could agree to in a pluralist society. Like early Habermas he included religions under this prohibition. In Political Liberalism (1993) he conceded that the procedure of the Original Position is itself ideologically constrained, and he moved to the idea of an overlapping consensus: Kantians can accept the idea of justice as fairness (which the procedure describes) because it realizes autonomy, utilitarians because it promotes overall utility, Christians because it is part of divine law, etc. But even here Rawls wanted to insist that adherents of the competing visions of the good leave their particular conceptions behind in public discourse and justify the policies they endorse on grounds that are publicly accessible. He described this as the citizen's duty of civility ( Political Liberalism , iv).

The section of this entry on the continental school discussed briefly the topic of postmodernism. Within analytic philosophy the term is less prevalent. But both schools live in the same increasingly global cultural context. In this context we can reflect on the two main disqualifiers of the project of relating morality intimately to religion that seemed to emerge in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. The first disqualifier was the prestige of natural science, and the attempt to make it foundational for all human knowledge. The various empiricist, verificationist, and reductionist forms of foundationalism have not yet succeeded, and even within modern philosophy there has been a continuous resistance to them. This is not to say they will not succeed in the future (for example we may discover a foundation for ethics in the theory of evolution), but the confidence in their future success has waned. Moreover, the secularization hypothesis seems to have been false, as mentioned earlier. Certainly parts of Western Europe are less attached to traditional institutional forms of religion. But taking the world as a whole, religion seems to be increasing in influence rather than declining as the world's educational standards improve. The second main disqualifier was the liberal idea (present in the narrative of this entry from the time of the religious wars in Europe) that we need a moral discourse based on reason and not religion in order to avoid the hatred and bloodshed that religion seems to bring with it. Here the response to Rawls has been telling. It seems false that we can respect persons and at the same time tell them to leave their fundamental commitments behind in public discourse, and it seems false also that some purely rational but still action-guiding component can be separated off from these competing substantive conceptions of the good (see Wolterstorff, “An Engagement with Rorty”.) It is true that religious commitment can produce the deliberate targeting of civilians in a skyscraper. But the history of the twentieth century suggests that non-religious totalitarian regimes have at least as much blood on their hands. Perhaps the truth is, as Kant saw, that people under the Evil Maxim will use any available ideology for their purposes. Progress towards civility is more likely if Muslims, Christians, Jews, (and Buddhists and Hindus) are encouraged to enter ‘the public square’ with their commitments explicit, and see how much common ethical ground there in fact is. This writer has done some of this discussion, and found the common ground surprisingly extensive, though sometime common language disguises significant differences. Progress seems more likely in this way than by trying to construct a neutral philosophical ground that very few people actually accept.

One recent development in analytic ethical theory has been a revival of divine command theory parallel to the revival of natural law theory that I have already described. A pioneer in this revival was Philip Quinn's Divine Command and Moral Requirements (1978). He defended the theory against the usual objections (one, deriving from Plato's Euthyprho , that it makes morality arbitrary, and the second, deriving from a misunderstanding of Kant, that it is inconsistent with human autonomy), and proposed that we understand the relation between God and moral rightness causally, rather than analyzing the terms of moral obligation as meaning ‘commanded by God’. Though we could stipulate such a definition, it would make it obscure how theists and non-theists could have genuine moral discussion, as they certainly seem to do. Robert M. Adams, in a series of articles and then in Finite and Infinite Goods (1999), first separates off the good (which he analyzes Platonically in terms of imitating the ultimate good, which is God) and the right. He then defends a divine command theory of the right by arguing that obligation is always obligation to someone, and God is the most appropriate person, given human limitations. John Hare, In God and Morality (2007) and Divine Command (2015), defends a version of the theory that derives from God's sovereignty and defends the theory against the objection that obedience to divine command itself requires justification. He also compares Christian, Jewish and Muslim accounts of divine command. Thomas L. Carson's Value and the Good Life (2000) argues that normative theory needs to be based on an account of rationality, and then proposes that a divine-preference account of rationality is superior to all the available alternatives. An objection to divine command theory is mounted by Mark Murphy's An Essay on Divine Authority (2002) and God and Moral Law (2012) on the grounds that divine command only has authority over those persons that have submitted themselves to divine authority, but moral obligation has authority more broadly. William Wainwright's Religion and Morality defends the claim that divine command theory provides a more convincing account of moral obligation than any virtue-based theory, including Zagzebski's divine motivation theory, discussed earlier. Finally, C. Stephen Evans, in Kierkegaard's Ethics of Love : Divine Commands and Moral Obligations (2004) and God and Moral Obligation (2013) articulates both in Kierkegaard and in its own right a divine command theory that is argued to be superior to all the main alternative non-theist accounts of the nature and basis of moral obligation.

To conclude this entry, the revival of interest in divine command theory, when combined with the revival of natural law theory I already discussed, shows evidence that the attempt to connect morality closely to religion is undergoing a robust recovery within professional philosophy.

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Aquinas, Thomas: moral, political, and legal philosophy | Aristotle, General Topics: ethics | Duns Scotus, John | ethics: natural law tradition | Holbach, Paul-Henri Thiry (Baron) d’ | Kant, Immanuel: and Hume on morality | Moore, George Edward: moral philosophy | morality, definition of | Nietzsche, Friedrich: moral and political philosophy | Plato: ethics | voluntarism, theological

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Why study religion?

The study of religion prepares you for more than a career—it prepares you for life..

Religion can inspire and provoke, unite and polarize.  It is the primary expression of humanity's quest to find meaning and purpose.  Understanding this phenomenon helps us explore the most basic questions of our existence. From politics and art to science and war, the study of religion opens a gateway to understanding the world around us.

A religious studies degree equips students with skills to enter a wide range of careers including law, education, medicine, journalism, government, the non-profit sector, and spiritual leadership. Religious studies alumni are civil rights activists, Hollywood screenwriters, motivational speakers, and college professors.

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Our gateway courses.

Want to grapple with profound ethical and theological questions? Or learn about the ideas, people, and rituals that shape religion? Begin with our gateway course  Religion Around the Globe . Or try  Is Stanford a Religion? , which examines how the university's culture resembles a religion through its myths, rituals, and taboos, or  The  Religious  Life of Things , which looks at how religions around the world understand the objects that surround us. Discover the various  other "frosh friendly" courses through our  Explore Majors page !

Digging deeper

Our Exploring series introduces the world's great religious traditions, like  Exploring Zen Buddhism, Exploring the New Testament or Exploring Islamic Mysticism . Follow up with courses that examine how religion relates to essential aspects of culture,  gender, politics, and identity, such as Buddhist Philosophy, the Language of Islam, or Malcom X and Martin Luther King Jr . 

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From exploring sacred sites around the world to participating in lively events on campus, there are myriad opportunities for enhancing your understanding of religion's role in history and society. In addition to events supported by the department, we also work closely with several affiliated centers.  Read more about our affiliates .

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I love learning about the different beliefs that people have and how those beliefs affect the way they live their lives. I think it's a very relevant subject for the 21st century world: now that technology has brought us all closer together, we need to learn to co-exist and collaborate with people who are different from us. Religious Studies is one angle to expose ourselves to diversity of thought and ways of living. I wish that more people could learn about religious studies because I think it would lead to a more peaceful world.

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Top Five Reasons to Study Religion at Springfield College

•   Studying religion might make you happier. Taking religion courses is a chance to figure out why people are religious and participate in religious practices. A recent study found that Americans—regardless of which religion they practice—are quite likely to pray when they have to make decisions. It also turns out that Americans who belong to a religious organization tend to be happier with their lives, even though it doesn’t make them any more likely to recycle or exercise. A minor in religion is a chance to explore why religion matters to people.
• Studying religion helps you understand different cultures. Ever seen a man wearing a turban? Ever wondered why some food at your grocery store is marked “Kosher”? Ever notice the variety of churches in your neighborhood? Ever read a newspaper story about a new temple in town? Religion surrounds our daily lives and studying types of religion can help you understand many types of differences that are visible all around you.
• Studying religion increases your understanding of global complexity. When he was Secretary of State, John Kerry remarked , “[I]f I went back to college today, I think I would probably major in comparative religion because that’s how integrated [religion] is in everything that we are working on and deciding and thinking about in life today.” International, national, and local politics are affected by religious ideas and religious sentiments. Estimates suggest that close to 85 percent of people in the world adhere to some sort of religious tradition or practice. To study religion is to delve into how religion interacts with all of these facets of our world.
• Studying religion increases cultural awareness. Religion and culture are two topics that are intertwined. Around the globe, human history has been impacted by religious ideas, religious institutions, religious art, religious laws, and religious commitments. Being able to understand key concepts in the major religions of the world develops you as a more broadly educated citizen, whatever your career path.
• Studying religion can improve your job prospects. Earning a minor in religion at Springfield College will assure that you have critical thinking skills, an ability to appreciate diversity, and a willingness to have your own ideas challenged. These are the kinds of skills that employers are looking for. Recent studies have found that 73 percent of employers are looking for students who are able to think critically and use tools of analytic reasoning. Almost 80 percent of employers preferred job candidates who are knowledgeable about global issues. A minor in religion prepares you for the 21st-century job market.

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Department of Religious Studies

Why study religion.

Because of the complexity and importance of religious phenomena, the scholarly study of religion in the modern research university is inherently interdisciplinary. The faculty in our department are trained in an enormous variety of scholarly methods, including textual studies and literary theory, history, ethnography and other social sciences, law, philosophy and theology, archaeology, and critical cultural theory. With this breadth of training, our faculty is equipped to offer students a range of skills that are invaluable for the exploration of human history and culture.

The study of religion is also inherently multicultural. Religions move across the globe, changing over time and in new cultural contexts. They constantly interact, leading sometimes to great lessons in human cooperation, sometimes to enormous conflict, and sometimes to creative new adaptations. It is impossible to study religion without recognizing the enormous power of cultural difference, both the difference of the past from the present and also the range of cultural differences to be found in the contemporary world.

Finally, the study of religion provides an invaluable opportunity for exploring the ways in which human beings find meaning, purpose, and wonder in their lives. Religion is a key mechanism for the transmission of cultural memory and tradition, but it is also a site of profound human creativity. The study of religion offers an extraordinary window into how human beings give structure to their personal identities, their communities, and their understandings of the cosmos around them.

Students in our department receive training that equips them for an enormous variety of careers—in law, medicine, teaching, business, social service, journalism, politics, the arts, and more. We seek to foster students’ skills in critical thinking, close reading, and oral and written communication. At the same time we train our students in these concrete skills essential in a range of professions, we also want them to become well-informed citizens, with broad knowledge of the richness of human history and cultural diversity.

Religious Education and the Meaning of Life

Figuring out what it’s all about is humanity’s most important shared project. Does religion have a role to play?

This is an edition of Time-Travel Thursdays, a journey through The Atlantic ’s archives to contextualize the present and surface delightful treasures. Sign up here.

In a 1927 Atlantic article , the Episcopal priest Bernard Iddings Bell leveled quite the original insult at college students: They were becoming “mental and ethical jellyfish.” These students were drifters and conformists, Bell complained; they lacked standards and had no real understanding of truth, beauty, or goodness. The problem, he believed, was that colleges were obsessed with teaching facts, and did not help students mold those facts into some sort of “interpretation of life.” Universities, Bell wrote, should be assisting students in “the answering of the question, ‘What is it all about?’” Yet, he continued, schools found it “easier to ignore this problem than to face it, because the facing of it inevitably involves religion.”

A century later, inevitable feels like the right word. A long line of American politicians , scholars, and community leaders has characterized education as a way to hand down values and ethical priorities. Is religion essential to this sort of education? Some religious conservatives say yes—and then go on to manipulate the issue to achieve their own aims. This past summer, several states introduced legislation that would require public schools to display the Ten Commandments , and Louisiana became the first state to pass such a law (a move that the Supreme Court had ruled unconstitutional in 1980). In some cases, state officials have defended these measures as a way to teach students history; in other cases, they haven’t even bothered hiding the role of their personal beliefs.

When it comes to private education, the quandary is not a legal one; instead, the primary question is one of pedagogy. What can, or should, private, secular institutions do to offer students a path toward exploring what it’s “all about”? And should the study of religion have anything to do with that search?

The answer might depend on what a person actually means by teaching religion. In a 1925 essay , the theologian and minister Charles M. Sheldon walked readers through some possible definitions: Does teaching religion mean teaching “doctrine,” or “faith,” or “conduct”? In other words, teaching religion might mean instructing students to follow certain ritual observances. Or it might mean encouraging them to believe in a certain god. Or it might just mean teaching them lessons about how to live a good and moral life—lessons that can be found in religion but not exclusively there.

Bell and Sheldon were writing at a time when American higher education was just starting to disentangle itself from Protestant Christian tenets. Most private, secular institutions separate themselves more clearly from religious indoctrination today—an important division in a multi-faith and multicultural society. In our modern era, a more specific question remains: Can the optional study of religion help students grasp the meaning of life?

Bell, for his part, argued that when it came to colleges, the “ ignoring of religion is fatal to the real purpose of education ” (italics his). But he didn’t appear to mean religion in the purely doctrinal sense. “Facts and behavior are dead stuff until man begins to interpret them; and that interpretation is bound to become a religious activity,” he wrote. Teachers, he believed, shouldn’t give “students a set of cut and dried religious interpretations to be swallowed by them without personal experiment … What ought to be done for the groping student is to present to him the religious interpretations of the ages and ask him to use them as possible keys to the understanding of material and life.”

Bell seems to have been proposing something between religion as doctrine, taught in order to inspire obedience, and religion as a mere lens through which students can learn facts. His approach to religious education allowed him to leave ample room for the truths of science too: Writing about efforts to forbid educators from teaching about, for example, how the Earth is older than Hebrew texts suggest, he argues that “no man with a sound philosophy of religion thinks that it detracts from the dignity of God to say that he took his time in making the universe.”

My own education has left me with the sense that religious study is by no means essential to a young person’s pursuit of meaning, although contending early on with moral concerns can help. I attended a modern Orthodox Jewish institution for elementary and high school, and although I spent much of my time there reconciling my opinions and beliefs with those being proposed to me as “true,” I’m still grateful to have spent my younger years tackling philosophical and theological inquiries. I learned to be a citizen of the world, someone equipped to make ethical decisions—not because of the specific religious framework I was offered (which, on some occasions, I challenged and even rejected), but because I’d given moral issues substantive thought. A shared religious experience also meant that I was part of a community, and that feeling inspired me to learn in a way that no curriculum could.

Religious education is far from the only method for imparting such a feeling. But it’s as true as it is clichéd to say that many Americans are missing a sense of community , of neighborly responsibility, perhaps even of purpose . Bell’s critique of the students of his day is a reminder that figuring out what it’s all about is humanity’s most important shared project. The answers might lie in nature, a good book, a great friend, or showing up for a person in need. But the facts of life on their own will never be enough.

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