Religion

THE IRRITANT:

The Judaism of George Steiner (J. J. Kimche, December 1, 2020, First Things)

Steiner’s portrayal of Judaism is unusual for a modern secularist, in that it defends an essentialist view of Jewishness, arguing that certain immutable qualities define and anchor Jewishness across its historical and cultural permutations. Yet Steiner dismisses the usual hallmarks posited by other essentialist Jewish thinkers: claims of racial, religious, ethical, or national uniqueness. His brilliant and disturbing essay on the subject, “Our Homeland, The Text” (1985), argues that the Jew, like the biblical patriarchs, lives a life of self-exclusion. Spurning society, nature, and passion, the Jew seeks closeness with a transcendent God, which translates practically into a withdrawal from all social and temporal spaces. The Jew has no earthly home; alienation, wandering, self-isolation, and retreat into a vortex of exponentially expanding texts are the essence of Jewishness. The textual canon is the true home of every Jew, and every commentary is a return. This textual Judaism repudiates all attempts to place political, nationalistic, ritualistic, or racial components at its core. The Kingdom of David, the Bar-Kochba Revolt, and Zionism are dismissed as antithetical to true Judaism, whose textual nature underpins its migratory, multilingual, and cosmopolitan attributes.

This view of Judaism lends itself to an ethically based exceptionalism. The Jew, in Steiner’s eyes, is always a stranger, ceaselessly migrating through countries, cultures, and languages, always—and this is the central metaphor—a guest in another’s home. The eternally exiled nation exemplifies Geworfenheit (“thrownness,” a Heideggerian term for the existential disposition of being thrust into an environment of neither one’s fashioning nor one’s choosing), thus teaching the rest of humanity the value of living as “guests of life and truth.” It is this aspect of their existence, this disposition forced on them by the vicissitudes of history, that lends the Jews their ethical ­superiority. The oppressed, bookish, unworldly Jews are superior, contends Steiner, because they have never subjugated another people, never soiled themselves with national realpolitik, never subjected their enemies to the rack or the firing squad. A Jew is one who treads lightly in every circumstance, who treats all with the deference due to a host, whose presence jolts all societies from the pursuit of ethnic or cultural homogeneity. The Jew is the world’s moral irritant, the exemplar of suffering and otherness that gives the human conscience no rest. Through this eternal restlessness, both physical and moral, the Jews actualize their mission unto humanity—a role Steiner terms “an honor beyond honors.”

This paradigm motivates Steiner’s non-Zionism. If the mission of the Jews is bound up with their eternal role as guest, if their moral purity is acquired at the price of rootlessness and displacement, then any attempt to settle is a repudiation of Jewishness. Nationalism is thus an impoverishment of the Jewish spirit, a betrayal of the principles that fueled all prior spiritual and intellectual accomplishments. Zionism can never be forgiven for normalizing the Jew, for introducing political expediency, racial discrimination, and territoriality into Jewish history. Nothing could be more degrading for the people of Isaiah and Spinoza than to sink to the level of Jezebel and Herod, exchanging parchment and pedagogy for ministers and missiles. Despite his grudging admission that Israel has proven necessary for the physical protection of the Jews (a “sad miracle”), disappointment over the Jews’ turn from itinerant scribes to nation-building settlers pervades Steiner’s writings. Like the Hebraic prophets of old, Steiner castigates his fellow Jews for reneging on their historical mission and betraying their raison d’être.

BELIEF IN MORALITY IS MONOTHEISM:

Evidence of Objective Morality Is Hidden in Plain Sight: A new book finds this evidence in rational arguments. And in something those arguments can’t capture. (Noah M. Peterson, 9/24/25, Christianity Today)

Moral realism is the philosophical term for the view that objective morality exists. The authors’ definition has four distinct features. First, moral judgments are “truth-apt” (meaning that statements like “Murder is wrong” are capable of being true or false). Second, some moral judgments are true (murder is wrong). Third, the truth of these judgments does not depend on human attitudes (murder is wrong even if people think it’s not). And fourth, at least some clear moral truths are known.

Without this foundation, moral arguments for God’s existence can’t get off the ground. But how do we know whether moral realism is true? We can’t run lab tests on justice. Nor can we dissect the human brain and find “goodness” inside. We need a different set of tools.

Secular philosophers Terence Cuneo, Russ Shafer-Landau, and John Bengson have approached the question by identifying moral “data” in need of explanation and suggesting we let the best theory win. For example, one’s moral theory should be able to explain why there is both widespread agreement about some moral issues and widespread disagreement about others. It should be able to explain why moral judgments are thought to motivate or direct our actions. And it should be able to explain why moral demands apply regardless of what we think or feel.

Baggett and Walls agree with these criteria. They argue that moral realism, unlike its competitors, makes the best sense of what we actually experience. But as they remind us, “Moral theory is hard … and no single volume will clear everything up.” Though progress is possible, don’t expect knockout blows.

This intellectual humility is consonant with their previous books. They don’t overpromise. They don’t feign certainty. Their conclusions are modest, and their tone is winsome. They respect other thinkers and take their arguments seriously. It’s clear their goal is not to win but to woo.

The term “objective morality” is redundant. Were it subjective it would not be morality just personal preference.

THE AEESOMENESS OF ANTI-IDENTITY:

Days of Awe (Robert Zaretsky,| September 25, 2025, The American Scholar)

Yet perhaps we do not need alpine guides, but instead moral guides to experience this emotion. As a historian of France under the Nazi occupation, I cannot help but return, time and again, to the case of André Trocmé. He was a Protestant pastor and an ardent pacifist in the village of Chambon-sur-Lignon, a dot on the map of the rocky and austere Massif Central region in south-central France. Eighty-five years ago, that dot soon became a haven of safety for men, women, and children who were in fear for their lives.

In 1940, Trocmé and his equally remarkable wife, Magda, launched their effort to rescue as many Jewish refugees as possible who were fleeing Vichy police and SS officials. From his pulpit, Trocmé used his pulpit to spur les Chambonais to action. “Tremendous pressure will be put on us to submit passively to a totalitarian ideology,” he warned his parishioners. Yet, Trocmé continued, the “duty of Christians is to use the weapons of the Spirit to oppose the violence that they will try to put on our consciences. … We shall resist whenever our adversaries demand of us obedience contrary to the orders of the gospel. We shall do so without fear, but also without pride and without hate.”

Over the next four years, while Vichy collaborated with the Nazi implementation of the Final Solution, Trocmé and his congregation were, in every sense of the phrase, as good as their word. They made, in fact, their word flesh. As a growing stream of Jewish refugees, as well as French Jews whom Vichy had denaturalized, fled to Chambon, the townspeople opened wide their doors. They created safe houses, forged identity cards, sheltered, fed, and educated thousands of desperate Jewish men, women, and children.

The moral imperative of caring for children was the driving force in the young life of Trocmé’s nephew, Daniel Trocmé. He had come to Chambon to be a teacher, but he eventually found himself in the role of their protector. When the police captured his group of students, the young Trocmé refused to abandon the children. Instead, he kept them close, calming them as best he could. And he died with them at the extermination camp of Maidenek. Daniel Trocmé freely chose to follow the same ethical teaching expressed by his uncle. (In fact, Trocmé and his fellow pastors were also arrested and sent to a concentration camp, but they were mysteriously released a few months later.)

In his landmark account of Chambon, Lest Innocent Blood Be Shed, the late American philosopher Philip Hallie was obsessed by a single question: Why did goodness happen not only in Chambon, but also the surrounding towns and villages? Historians, psychologists, and philosophers have since widened and deepened the search for an answer to this question. It turns out that the nature of goodness is perhaps even more difficult to isolate than is the nature of evil. But if one had to boil it down, it might come down to the words spoken by André Trocmé to a French officer who had demanded the whereabout of the Jews the pastor had hidden. “We do not know what a Jew is,” Trocmé replied. “We know only men.”

HOW THE ANGLOSPHERE WAS SAVED FROM THE CONTINENT’S DISASTROUS PLUNGE INTO REASON:

Can We Truly Know Anything? Hume’s Problem of Induction (Viktoriya Sus, 8/29/25, The Collector)

Induction is a technique of reasoning in which we derive general principles from specific observations. For example, if every swan we have ever seen is white, we might conclude that all swans are white. This kind of reasoning is deeply embedded in human thought and underpins a lot of science as well as our everyday decision-making.

But David Hume famously questioned this process, arguing that there is no logical justification for assuming that the future will resemble the past. Just because the sun has risen every morning up until now does not mean it will do so again tomorrow – yet this is what induction leads us to believe.

Hume’s critique is deeper than it first appears. It asks whether we can assume that the laws of nature will remain the same. For instance, how do we know gravity will work tomorrow exactly as it does today?

According to Hume, our belief in this consistency doesn’t come from logic itself. Instead, it is based on habit and custom. If something has always happened a certain way before, we expect it to happen like that again.

This raises an important question: if induction (our process of reasoning) lacks a logical foundation but our understanding of the world relies on induction, can we ever truly say we “know” anything for sure?

We ultimately choose among faiths and the best of us choose the most beautiful ones.

I AND THOU:

sex! swing dancing! sixtine!: come for the Renaissance erotics; stay for my problems with Brideshead Revisited (Tara Isabella Burton, Aug 07, 2025, The Lost Word)

This idea, like so much of the magical tradition, comes out of Plato, via hs late antique Alexandrian followers. We have an inherent attraction – and it is attraction – towards the good, and the true, and the beautiful, and God; erotic love, rightly understood, pulls us not just towards physical beauty but towards what that beauty represents: which you can find in higher forms of symmetry, or knowledge of prime numbers. Matthew Crawford helpfully touches on this in another context: in his recent First Things/Substack essays “Is Math Erotic?”/”Math is Erotic”. We’re attracted not just to the beautiful but the beautifully true. (I admit I want to read an even nerdier second postscript from him that goes into more detail about how eros differs from mere contemplative appreciation).

That attraction is, basically, hackable, by magicians capable of hacking it – but ultimately our attraction is to God, or the Good, or the One, or whatever Platonic words you want to use. Everything else is cosmological flotsam.

So far, so fair.

Oh, but, God, what do you do about other people?

This is the part where, I think, the magical worldview, and maybe the Platonic worldview, and whatever version of Christianity isn’t magical (or you might say, is magical differently) diverge. Maybe I’m too much of a Protestant, or a Kierkegaardian, or too much a nineteenth-century scholar, or a twenty-first century post-Kantian in my moral horror of treating people as means, but what always galls me about these ideas of ascent and descent, of loves that really mean the love of God, is that they seem to have so little to do with loving a person. The other night at a Cracks in Postmodernity event, a friend was explaining their reading of Brideshead Revisited to me: that we move from the aesthetic realm of Charles Ryder’s love for Sebastian, to the more explicitly romantic nature of Charles’s love for Julia, to the final completion: Charles’s conversion, his love for God. But does that mean Sebastian and Julia are just waystations? Is Charles’s love for them just a metaphor for divine love, the way, say, dancing is a metaphor for sex?

This idea may be the right one. It may – I’m not sure – also be deeply Christian; of course Christians have our own version of it; the batter my heart, three person’d God, the Bernini angel that pierces St. Teresa’s breast – He appeared to me to be thrusting it at times into my heart,…when he drew it out, he seemed to draw them out also, and to leave me all on fire with a great love of God…[that] made me moan. There’s precedent, too, of thinking of all the things of this world, love included, as merely conveyances for the knowledge and love of God. Augustine himself (as the always-insightful Sam Kimbriel reminded me, when I was driving myself nuts over this exact topic back in May) distinguishes between right objects of enjoyment (basically: God), and right objects of use (basically, everything else).

But is that all we are to each other? Objects?

Here’s what I can’t get past: the idea that whatever’s going on, with someone, at whatever communication is happening at the level of dance, or whatever dance is a metaphor for, is only real insofar as it points to this other, better, higher thing. Are we really supposed to conclude that desire for someone obviates all the particularities that make them them, in favor of a passion for unmoved movers and parallel lines? If I could be convinced that this were the right way to be I could, I think, accept it with resignation; but I don’t understand how you can love somebody, or want somebody, if what you actually want from or through them is something that has nothing to do their their them-ness, if they’re just an occasion for the real relationship between you and math, or even you and God. How is that fair to Sebastian? How to Julia? Is God that kind of jealous God?

When Christ commanded that we love one another as He loved us, He means as subjects, not objects.

GOOD LUCK WITH THAT ONE:

What Did Socrates Really Mean When He Said “Know Thyself”?: One of the most famous maxims in the history of philosophy is “Know thyself”, but what does it actually mean? (Maysara Kamal, 6/21/25, The Collector)

Although the dialogue ends inconclusively, it shows that self-knowledge is a self-examination that involves constituting ourselves as knowers, becoming aware of the limitations of our knowledge, and applying our knowledge of what is good into our actions.

In Phaedrus, Socrates famously proclaims, “I am not yet able, as the Delphic inscription has it, to know myself”. In this passage, Socrates explains why he has no time to contemplate the truth behind ancient Greek mythology. The passage highlights the importance of self-knowledge and suggests that self-knowledge is an ongoing process. One would assume that a philosopher as mature as Socrates would have completed the task of self-knowledge, but the Phaedrus shows that self-knowledge is not a destination but an ongoing journey, as there is always more room for self-examination and moral self-improvement.

No one can ever know themself and what they are capable of, which is why empathy is such an inane concept.

WHO YA GONNA TRUST? hIM OR YOUR LYING EMOTIONS:

The Fly in the Honey: Are emotions a trustworthy guide to God? (Aldous Huxley, June 1, 2025, Plough Quarterly)


The phrase “religion of experience” has two distinct and mutually incompatible meanings. There is the “experience” of which the Perennial Philosophy treats – the direct apprehension of the divine Ground in an act of intuition possible, in its fullness, only to the selflessly pure in heart. And there is the “experience” induced by revivalist sermons, impressive ceremonials, or the deliberate efforts of one’s own imagination. This “experience” is a state of emotional excitement – an excitement which may be mild and enduring or brief and epileptically violent, which is sometimes exultant in tone and sometimes despairing, which expresses itself here in song and dance, there in uncontrollable weeping. But emotional excitement, whatever its cause and whatever its nature, is always excitement of that individualized self, which must be died to by anyone who aspires to live to divine Reality. “Experience” as emotion about God (the highest form of this kind of excitement) is incompatible with “experience” as immediate awareness of God by a pure heart which has mortified even its most exalted emotions…. The peace that passes all understanding is one of the fruits of the spirit. But there is also the peace that does not pass understanding, the humbler peace of emotional self-control and self-denial; this is not a fruit of the spirit, but rather one of its indispensable roots.

STOP KIDDING YOURSELF:

Empathy & Sympathy: how do they relate, and how do they differ? (James R. Robinson, April 2025, Philosophy Now)

Now let’s turn at last to empathy and sympathy. The definitions I’ll propose are my own, but I believe they capture the way most people use these words. I define empathy as the entering into or the sharing of the affections of another person (though remember that empathy can only be an approximation of what the other person is feeling, not a reproduction of it). I define sympathy as affections of loyalty, favour, and/or support towards another person.

Empathy evidently serves a pragmatic purpose. If we’re able to share the affections of those around us, then we’re better able to understand them and navigate the social world.

We can’t even know our own minds, never mind enter into the minds of others. Empathy is a misleading conceit.

INFINITUDE:

When I lost my intuition: For years, I practised medicine with cool certainty, comfortable with life-and-death decisions. Then, one day, I couldn’t. (Ronald W Dworkin, 3/03/25, Aeon)

Researchers have long recognised intuition’s relevance to professional judgment. In 1938, the businessman Chester Barnard wrote the now-classic book The Functions of the Executive, in which he described two distinct forms of managerial decision-making, logical and non-logical, with intuition an example of the latter. In 1957, the scholar Herbert Simon coined the phrase ‘bounded rationality’ to illustrate the same division. The psychologist Daniel Kahneman spoke of two systems for decision-making: ‘System 1’ for intuition, and ‘System 2’ for deliberate and analytical thought. In the 1960s, the neuroscientist Roger Sperry attributed logic and reason to the brain’s left side, and intuition to the brain’s right. More recently, the division has been used to distinguish between personality types, as in the Myers-Briggs personality model, where a person can be ‘intuitive’ or ‘analytical’.

Intuition was pigeonholed in this way not merely to try to understand it, but also to control it. For, within the secular world, intuition is the sole survivor from those primitive days when people credited human behaviour to mystical and spiritual forces, and science was inseparable from divine doctrine. Most of those forces were elbowed out of existence in modern life, and consigned to the religious sphere. But intuitive thinking was too useful a professional tool to simply be tossed aside. Even today, more than 60 per cent of CEOs rely on intuition, or ‘gut feeling’, to guide their decisions. Under some circumstances, 90 per cent of intuitive decisions prove correct. Nevertheless, the concept of intuition threatens science, upon which much of modern professional life is based. Science uses logic, observation and measurement to find truth, while intuition, derived from the word intueri, which means ‘to look within’, seeks truth through inner contemplation. The latter method harkens back to a dark age before clarity and frankness came to dominate the realm of thought. Thus, while given its due, intuition had to be contained within a well-ordered system that downplayed its connection with mystical thinking.

‘Intuition is nothing more and nothing less than recognition’ prompted by a cue, Simon wrote. In the mind sit memories stored away in oblivion, which, when cued, return to consciousness because a temporary use for them has been found. Simultaneously, a feeling of certitude arises. There is nothing miraculous about any of this, researchers insist.

Yet, it is when professionals lose their intuition that its mystical value shines through. For, in tough cases, when facts are lacking and the path forward is unclear, intuition arrives like a revelation. Intuition is an article of faith we assent to when reason has reached its limits. Belief in that revelation is what puts intuition on an altogether different plane of cognitive experience. There can be no relation between intuition and reason, not because they work through different sides of the brain. Instead, it is like the difference between the infinite and the finite; the infinite is out of all proportion to the finite, so that no comparison or analogy can be established between them.