The Omen (2006)

Exactly 30 years after The Omen (1976), The Omen (2006) was released. An older boy plays Damien in the remake, which means that the actor is capable of acting facial expression-reactions; even so, what really distinguishes the remake as having more depth than the original film is the explicit use of a poem that undergirds the veracity of the narrative—that Damien as indeed been sent by his father, Satan, to usher in the apocalypse in a way that will fill hell with human souls. The poem is a Christian prophesy that functions in the film’s narrative as a thread. I contend that the poem partakes of several domains, rather than being exclusively religious in nature, and thus “muddies the water” in terms of answering the question of how the religious domain is distinctive, rather than to be read psychologically, historically, or scientifically.

The full essay is at "The Omen (2006)."

Jews and Arabs in 1930s Palestine: On the Impact of Categorical Overreaches

Writing on theology and ethics and their application to politics and economics in An Interpretation of Christian Ethics, Reinhold Niebuhr runs the risk of fusing the respective domains, which I maintain are qualitatively different, and thereby minimizing or losing outright what is unique to each domain. Besides occasioning category mistakes, such as in labeling divine love as ethical rather than as distinctly theological, overreaches from one domain onto another even at the expense of the other’s own criteria can occur from the underlying error. Besides being extant in Niebuhr’s text, the conflation of distinct domains and the related overreaches of their respective criteria has exacerbated the long-standing conflict between the Jews and Arabs in what was Palestine when Niebuhr was writing his book on Christian ethics in which he discusses the sheer intractability of the conflict.

In Niebuhr’s view, “the full evil of human finitude and sin is most vividly revealed in conflicts between national communities.”[1] Such conflicts “present a tragic revelation of the impossibility of the law of love because no party to the conflict has a perspective high enough to judge the merits of the opponent’s position.”[2] That is to say, every perspective is partial, and thus partisan, rather than wholistic containing tensions and even outright contradictions. “Every appeal to moral standards thus degenerates into a moral justification of the self against the enemy.”[3] To Niebuhr, “self-love is never justified.”[4] This is so both ethically and in religious terms. On the ethical level, Niebuhr insists that, “In spite of the relativity of morals every conceivable moral code and every philosophy of morals enjoins concern for the life and welfare of the other and seeks to restrain the unqualified assertion of the interests of the self against the other.”[5] Any moral justification on behalf of one’s own side against one’s enemy cannot be construed as moral, but, rather, immoral qua egoist. In terms of religion, Niebuhr wrote that “human egoism . . . is sin only from the perspective of the law of love.”[6] Here, Niebuhr’s statement would be more congruent on the religious level if self-love, which is a sin, were substituted for egoism, which is an ethical term. Self-love is a sin because it goes against charity, meaning love in a distinctive religious sense (i.e., caritas). The seventeenth-century Jansenist priest in Europe, Pierre Nicole, penned an essay railing against self-love precisely because it is antithetical to charity understood as love (rather than as philanthropy); even enlightened self-interest is still of sordid self-love and thus not at all consisting of love.

In Niebuhr’s discussion of international conflicts between nations in which distinctly religious love, such as manifests in compassion rather than hatred to enemies, is wholly absent, and taking into account the squalid theological idolatry of self-love that places love of self above love directed to an externally-based divine (e.g., God), Niebuhr’s theological claim, “Parties to a dispute inevitably make themselves judges over it and thus fall into the sin of pretending to be God,” is hardly surprising.[7] The gravitas of self-love that renders any combative perspective partisanship (i.e., partial) is ultimately sourced in self-idolatry, hence presumptuous infallibility and the presumed universalizability of one’s perspective as absolute can be expected. In the mid-2020s, in the midst of Israel’s militaristic decimation of Gaza, which went far beyond the damage that had been committed by Hamas in an attack in Israel in 2023, Niebuhr’s distinctly theological claim readily applies, and may even explain the longstanding intransigence of the aggressor in the multi-year operation that went far beyond justice to vengeance, which, incidentally, is supposed to belong to Yahweh alone.[8]

Writing in the mid-1930s, hence prior to the establishment of the modern state of Israel, Niebuhr perceived the “rivalry between Jews and Arabs in Palestine” as “a conflict between two races and religions, involving not only the natural will-to-live of two collective racial organisms, but [also] the economic differences between the feudalism of the Arabs and the technical civilization which the Jews [were] able to introduce into Palestine.”[9] From a standpoint in time after many decades from the establishment of Israel, it is easy in hindsight to grasp the superiority of the technical civilization not only economically, but also militarily. Even in the 1930s, the conflict must have been generally perceived as frozen in terse intractability. The rule of love based on forgiveness, as in being compassionate to enemies, was so far from the contending mentalities and emotions in Palestine that Niebuhr’s more general claim that such love is impossible in the world of politics appears to be tenable (even though I disagree with his claim).

So, in utter futility, Niebuhr asks his readers rhetorically, “How can a high enough rational and moral perspective be found to arbitrate the issue between” the Jews and Arabs in Palestine? “How is the ancient and hereditary title of the Jew to Palestine to be measured against the right of the Arab’s present possession? Or how is one to judge the relative merits of modern Jewish against ancient Moslem culture without introducing criteria which are involved in and do not transcend the struggle?”[10] Both peoples had some historical presence in the region, and the involvement of religion and questions of ethics in this mess renders the conflict that Niebuhr perceived in the 1930s as even more intractable. Conflating all of these domains doesn’t help.

For example, the claim that the Jews had a hereditary title is dubious if it comes out of a religious story, or myth, and has been superimposed on the political domain, for the religious and political domains are arguably distinct—each having its own unique basis—so criteria from one of the domains supervening on those of the other can be flagged as an overreaching encroachment and thus as out of bounds, to evoke sports. Put another way, the jurisdiction of material in the mythic genre does not extend into the political world, whose genre is that of political power rather than faith narratives. So, it would be more accurate to say politically and culturally that both the Jew and the Arab had (conflicting) historical interests in occupying the land.

Replacing the theological dimension with that of ethics and basing that on history, even fusing these two domains, is also problematic. Niebuhr disparages that the “(p)articipants cannot find a common ground of rational morality from which to arbitrate the issues because the moral judgments which each bring to them are formed by the very historical forces which are in conflict. Such conflicts are therefore sub- and supra-moral.”[11] In other words, ethical analysis would get only so far, rather than resulting in a definitive should that both parties would accept as legitimate as taking into account their respective interests and histories.

At this point, Niebuhr shifts back from the ethical to the religious level of analysis, but even in spiritual terms, he was not optimistic. “The effort to bring such a conflict under the dominion of a spiritual unity may be partly successful,” he admits, but then he observes that such efforts had “always [produced] a tragic by-product of the spiritual accentuation of natural conflict.”[12] Even though religion “may be regarded as the last and final effort of the human spirit to escape relativity and gain a vantage-point in the eternal,” the “introduction of religious motives into these conflicts [has usually been] no more than the final and most demonic pretension.”[13] In other words, the presence of religious motives on both sides contributed to the sheer intransigence of the antipodal political positions.

Again, warding off distinctly religious content from the turf of actual geopolitics between nations in the context of international relations is advisable, but distinguishing related domains is easier said than done, given the proclivity of the human mind to agglomerate different strands as if they were essentially the same stuff. This tendency is especially egregious when at least one of the domains, along with its criteria, is unique and thus not just different from the others. Given the tendency to project or apply religious meaning onto geopolitics, it is worth taking into account Niebuhr’s suggestion that “a contrite recognition of the finiteness and relativity which characterizes human spirituality, even in its moments of yearning for the transcendent,” is necessary in applying religion to political/cultural conflicts between nations lest the “religious aspiration” be “transmuted into sinful dishonesty” and thus make the political matters even worse.[14] In other words, without spiritual humility in line with the true situs of finite creatures, which of course are not deities and thus are not omniscient or omnipotent, religious beliefs can easily become weapons even in the midst of stultifying cognitive dissidence.

Hence Niebuhr laments, “Historical religions, which crown the structure of historic cultures, thus become the most brutal weapons in the conflict between cultures.”[15] This happens too much, and at least part of the problem, I submit, is that religious meaning is so often conflated with differing genres or domains, including those of history, politics, and even ethics. A religious entitlement to land, a title whose jurisdiction is limited to the religious domain, is not itself a political statement. Put another way, the criteria in the domain of religion that undergird the religious claim of being chosen by a deity, or even a shared deity, for the land, or even a chosen people, do not override the criteria of political power that are sovereign in and innate to the political domain; in fact, the criteria innate to religion do not even have validity there.

I contend that religious meaning, as in what religious scholars classify as myth (i.e., a religious story with a message), is qualitatively different, as well as unique, from the contents that are “home grown” in other, even related, domains. International disputes stand a better chance of being mitigated and even solved if all the combatants would “get on the same page” in the sense of focusing on the distinctly political criteria of international relations, whether the criteria are based on international law or the nature of power itself in the state of nature as described by Thomas Hobbes in his classic text, Leviathan. Diverging interpretations of a passage in a distinctly religious text need not complicate matters that could perhaps be solved politically, especially if those interpretations are subject to the gravitas of self-love and thus partial. At the very least, the contention that a convenient interpretation of one’s own text has universal validity incurs a conflict of interest even just in religious terms. For example, the statement, my sacred book says I get to win, inherently lacks credibility, and incurs the “extra-jurisdictional” overreaching of religious content onto the political domain of winning territory.

Category mistakes, consolidation, and especially presumptuous overreaches of one domain’s criteria into another domain even at the expense of that other domain’s own, sovereign criteria have been committed so much that they may be taken for granted, as valid, even as we look back at the Catholic Church’s overreaching onto Galileo’s valid scientific criteria and scoff at the theological overreach. The world is at the center of Genesis in that religious text, but this does not mandate or justify presuming that the religious meaning is astronomical in nature and applying theological criteria onto those belonging to astronomy. From the other direction, foisting criteria of the domain of history onto a faith narrative also counts as an overreach—in this case, at the expense of the sui generis (literally “of its own genus”) religious domain and its own criteria. From such errors, even peaceful international relations can be thwarted.

---

1. Reinhold Niebuhr, An Interpretation of Christian Ethics (London: Student Christian Movement Press, 1936), p. 136.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid., p. 64.
5. Ibid., p. 116.
6. Ibid., p. 124.
7. Ibid., p. 136.

8. “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord” gave rise to Nietzsche’s point that because the vice conflicts with the divine attribute of God’s goodness (omnibenevolence), the interlarding of the former invalidated the concept of the deity, hence Nietzsche wrote, Gott ist tot (God is dead), even as Nietzsche leaves the living deity itself untouched. Misinterpretations of Nietzsche’s famous line presume, in effect, that the actual divinity can be changed by human hands, and thus discredited and even killed. It is a problematic, internally inconsistent conception of the deity that is the object of Nietzsche’s critique. In the movie, Angels & Demons, a priest asks Prof. Langdon whether he believes in God, “not what men say about God.” This distinction reflects Augustine’s point that due to the Fall, divine revelation reaches us as through a smoke-chalked rather than transparent window.

9. Niebuhr, An Interpretation of Christian Ethics, pp. 136-37.
10. Ibid., p. 137.
11. Ibid.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid.
14. Ibid.
15. Ibid., pp. 137-38.

A Temporary Alignment of Politics and Religion: The U.S. Senate Sanctions Russia after a Funeral

It is easy to point to instances in which elected government-officials stage political theater for effect, for in the domain of politics, perception has a political currency that can leave a real imprint almost as if the staged were actual rather than pretense. When the leader of one group takes over as Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives from a person of another partisan group, for example, it is customary for them for the mallet literally to be handed over. In the U.S. Senate, its president, who is also the Vice President of the U.S., may sit in the presider’s chair during a vote if a tie is expected; the Senate President can vote only to break a tie. A certain depth of political meaning can go along with the actual presider presiding. Sometimes, however, an arrangement can have a depth of meaning as well as carry actual political weight. The Senate’s vote on additional economic sanctions on Russia on July 28, 2026 is a case in point, for the synchronicity itself could have caused goose-bumps on exposed skin. Even so, even profound political meaning (and fulfilment) is a far shot from religious belief and experience. Distinguishing these is important in this case, for the day of the vote included a very relevant funeral at the National Cathedral that many senators no doubt attended, and could be expected to ponder their own mortality and what may lie beyond.

The full essay is at "A Temporary Alignment of Politics and Religion."

Religiosity among Young Republican Men: An Escape from Homosexuality to White Privilege?

Idealism may exist especially in young adults because they have not experienced decade upon decade of the intractability of a deeply flawed social, political, and economic world’s status quo, which typically permits only incremental change. Zealous optimism can be expressed in a variety of domains, including religion, social issues, and politics. For example, political group-affiliation can stimulate a more intense devotion to religion, and vice versa. Even a passion on social agendas can translate into increased religiosity, and the latter can overreach onto the former. It can be asked of such instances whether the religiosity is genuine, or merely transferred energetic enthusiasm from another domain. The upsurge in religiosity among young Republican men polled by Gallup in the mid-2020s may be more political than religious. Relative to the growing numbers of non-religious-affiliated people in the U.S. as well as the E.U., the uptick among young Republicans should be put into perspective.

In 1979, Ronald Reagan ran a presidential campaign that brought in the “evangelical right” as well as blue-collar democrats. Accordingly, the Republican group went from pro-choice on Abortion to being against the procedure from a distinctly religious standpoint. The election of Pope John Paul II in the same year furthered the turn to the right on social issues as they took hold in the Roman Catholic Church and even went on to displace attention to soteriological matters especially in the American Catholic clerical hierarchy such that Pope Francis felt the need to suggest to his fellow bishops that the moral/social issues be de-prioritized relative to preaching on the vicarious sacrifice of Jesus Christ and his subsequent resurrection. In the mid-2020s, as shown by Gallup polling, an upsurge in religiosity among young Republican (American) men—the political context being explicit—may have begun, resonating with Reagan’s incorporation of the Moral Majority in Republican politics. What was behind the upsurge, and why weren’t young women enjoying an upsurge in religiosity too?

Gallup’s data in 2024-2025 “shows that 42% of men in the U.S. ages 18-29 said religion is very important to them, a notable increase from 28% in 2022-2023. Over the same time, young women’s attachment to religion . . . stayed low, at about 30%.”[1] The percentages of men and women who claimed to be very religious had gradually declined since the polling had begun in 2000, with the exception of the 42% in 2025-2025 going up from the 28% in 2022-2023 for young men.[2] Moreover, the majority of young men and a supermajority of young women in the U.S. indicated that religion was not important to them. Put another way, the uptick in the religiosity of young men of 14% is dwarfed by the 70% of young women who were not actively religious on a weekly basis. The uptick in Republican-related religiosity among young American men should be viewed in the context of an increasingly secular West.

In fact, the “very religious” self-identification could stem from having the Republican political group-identity, given the strong positive correlation. The question, in other words, involves which domain was primary for the “very religious” respondents in terms of their group-identifications. Each person has several such identifications, one of which is usually primary.

For myself, my primary group identification is cultural; I view myself chiefly as a native Midwesterner. For me to allow this group identification to monopolize my self-identity, hence excluding my political, religious, racial, gender, sexual, etc., group-identities would be highly artificial because in actuality all of them pertain to me. I am conscious of my decision to make one primary. As an aside, a racist could be defined as a person who has decided to allow racial group-identity to monopolize the group-identities that are possible in all other domains, not only pertaining to oneself, but to other people too, even if their primary group-identities are otherwise. Imposing racial group-identities on a person whose primary group-identity is in another domain produces tension, given the dogmatic overreaching, and such imposing may be termed racist.  

Overreaching is evinced in the analysis of the poll by Ryan Burge, a political scientist and Baptist preacher, whose claim that the uptick in religiosity of young Republican men “represents a seismic change in society and the future of the church” is likely overblown, given the fact that majorities of both young men and women were still refusing to say that they were very religious.[3] Burge also overreaches in bringing in race in claiming that young men were more drawn to religion “because it is a space where they feel more accepted in a world where other institutions are ‘less interested in white men compared to women and people of color.”[4] Given the salience of Caucasians still in corporations and Congress, it would be interesting to learn of which “other institutions” Burge had in mind in making his statement. His claim that the domain of religion is “the only place where you don’t have to apologize for being a white man” demonstrates just how artificial (and ludicrous) imposing race in a fundamentally non-racial phenomenon can be.[5]

Completely aside from race, it is possible that the “very religious” respondents in the Gallop poll tended to self-identity as Republicans primarily and as Christians in the religious domain only secondarily even though they viewed themselves as very religious because the latter was infused with political energy and idealism. The salience of religion in the Republican party since Reagan incorporated the social-issue-oriented Moral Majority could explain the paradox. In fact, to the extent that “religion” in the Republican party has actually been more about social issues such as abortion and homosexuality than theology, the respondents may have actually been “very social-issue-oriented” rather than theological. Pew Research Center surveys in 2025 “found about 4 in 10 men under 30 say divorce is morally wrong, compared to only 2 in 10 young women. Even more men under 30, about half, say abortion is morally wrong, compared to only about one-third of women the same age. Young men are also likelier than young women to say homosexuality is morally wrong, although both groups are substantially less likely than older men and women to hold this view.”[6] Higher numbers regardless of age would be more critical of homosexuality were more people aware of the profligate norm that gays in the Castro district of San Francisco were imposing on each other in insisting on rampant sex outside of relationships, including separate emotional/romantic attachments rather than just separate anonymous sex, which boyfriends and husbands are expected to accept. Monogamy and commitment, as well as fidelity, became dirty words in that sub-culture when the “woke” ideology took over sexual “ethics.” It is interesting that that sub-culture went in that direction even as the Republican group was becoming more socially conservative. Seeking meaning, whether in a political or a religious group, can be distinguished antithetically from the lack of emotional connection and the related loneliness that go with a refusal to channel momentary urges in ways that do not eclipse emotional intimacy and trust. It is indeed a tale of two cities.

Regarding the “very religious” young Republican men, I suspect that both social issues and theology were in the mix because of the overtly Christian-leanings, to say the least, that entered the Republican group in 1979. Pope John Paul II’s stance against the U.S.S.R., especially pertaining to his home state of Poland, combined with the pre-existent firm anti-Communist stance of the Republican party, contributed to the tight link between Christianity and the Republican group. In fact, the ideal of a “Christian nation” has not been uncommon in the Republican group since Reagan, who interestingly referred to America as a “city on a hill,” an expression that Augustine used to denote the Heavenly City as against the Earthly City. With the very earthly city of the Castro well-entrenched in San Francisco becoming increasingly primitive instinctually, it is no wonder that civilized Americans would envision a city on a hill above the degenerate, utterly selfish filth of unrestrained instinctual urges. Such an envisioning would not be exclusively religious.

---

1, Deepa Bharath, “What a New Gallup Poll Shows about Young Men’s Religious Revival,” Apnews.com, April 16, 2026.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.

Religion Overreaching: Euthanasia

The Nazi program of inflicting euthanasia on the severely mentally ill in the twentieth century can be distinguished from cases in which suffering people with incurable diseases desire to die voluntarily sooner rather than later. In cases in which such people are mentally ill, the question is more complex, especially if the cause of the suffering is mental. In 2026, the Roman Catholic Church castigated a court ruling allowing the euthanasia of a mentally-ill person whose suffering stemmed in part from severe bodily pain and an incurable diagnosis other than that of the mental illness. Ironically, the Church discounted the element of compassion in putting someone out of one’s misery that would only get worse, and instead focused on “the culture of death” even though Jesus is silent on that issue, as well as homosexuality and abortion, in the Gospels. This is a case, I contend, of religion overstepping onto another domains—ethics and medicine in particular—while shirking its native fauna.  

On March 27, 2026, 25-year-old Noelia Castillo died by euthanasia in the E.U. city of Barcelona. A court had sided with her decision to end her life voluntarily “because she suffered from a serious and incurable condition, with severe and chronic suffering.”[1] By this description, I assume that the condition was not that of mental illness even though the latter played a role in how she came to have the condition of such physical pain. So even though Noelia had “struggled with psychiatric illness since she was a teenager, and tried taking her life twice,” the second time (after she had been sexually assaulted) leaving her unable to use her legs, the severe and chronic suffering can be distinguished from her psychiatric suffering.[2] So even though her judgment may have been clouded by her psychiatric illness, the court could use a reasonable-person basis to assess whether the suffering from the non-psychiatric condition was enough to justify euthanasia. To be sure, if the incurable aspect refers to not being able to use her legs rather than a mortal illness, the court’s ruling could be criticized because future advances in medical science could potentially relieve her suffering and even restore the use of her legs, especially given her young age and the advances that would be possible in her lifetime. On the other hand, the combination of psychiatric and physical pain and suffering could be sufficient to justify Noelia’s early death out of sheer compassion. In this respect, the Church’s reaction can be criticized by drawing on the salient of compassion associated with Jesus in the Gospels.

Luis Arguello, president of the Spanish Bishops’ Conference, said, “A doctor cannot act as the executioner for a death sentence, however legal, empowering or compassionate it may appear.”[3] The hyperbolic language of executioner and death sentence aside, the bishop’s claim that the compassion motivating euthanasia is merely apparent rather than actual can be countered by the fact that compassion does apply to relieving especially severe, unrelenting physical pain that is expected to continue for the rest of a person’s life. That advances in medical science could mean that the continuance-assumption can be questioned does not nullify my claim that compassion to relieve suffering, whether one’s own or that of another person, is authentic rather than merely apparent.

Also problematic, the organization Christian Lawyers put out the following statement: “If deliberately caused death is the solution to problems, then anything goes.”[4] It does not follow, however, that if euthanasia is the solution to some but not any problem, then anything goes ethically. In other words, euthanasia, which follows prescribed guidelines, does not imply nor lead to ethical relativism. The latter holds that if a cultural norm exists in a society, then that is enough to validate the norm ethically.

The reference to relativism, moreover, exemplifies the tendency of religion to overreach into another domain, in this case ethics. At the very least, relating euthanasia to relativism requires some study of ethical theory, which is an academic field distinct from theology. Nor does theology include societal analysis (which in turn is distinct from the field of ethics because norms are not ethical principles). So in making the claim, “we have all failed as a society,” regarding the euthanasia case, Bishop Perez was overreaching from the domain of religion and thus can be reckoned as a dilatant.[5]

---

1. Jesus Maturana and Cristian Caraballo, “Catholic Church Criticises Noelia Castillo’s Death by Euthanasia, Saying Society Failed,” Euronews.com, 27 March, 2026.
2 Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.

The Mephisto Waltz

In a retelling of the proverbial Faustian deal with the devil, The Mephisto Waltz (1971) plays out with the deal paying off, as Duncan Ely is able to live on in the body of Myles Clarkson. It doesn’t hurt that Ely is a master pianist and Clarkson has long, spry fingers (and that he has a beautiful wife, Paula). Even so, both Paula and the Clarkson’s daughter stand in the way of Duncan being able to get back to his own wife, and the film ends with Paula making her own deal with the devil so she can live on even though Duncan (and his wife) have already set about her demise. Because Duncan’s “after-life” transition is successful and even Paula, who has been opposing Duncan’s possession of Myles, ends up turning to the devil, the lesson of the film, Faust (1926) is effectively debunked. Besides The Mephisto Waltz, that God does not smite every case of injustice in the world—the genocide being perpetrated by Israel in the 2020s being a vivid and blatant example—may even further instigate interest in Faustian deals with the devil, even though that entity is known to be deceiver and thus not to be trusted. The allure of selfish gain can be worthwhile nonetheless for some people. For Duncan Ely, being able to go on living and gain even more fame as a performing pianist is worth the gamble, and it pays off. The medium of film is an excellent means of presenting the religious level, which is distinct yet interacts with the ordinary world that anchors the film.

The full essay is at "The Mephisto Waltz."

Dominion: Prequel to the Exorcist

Decades before dying while doing battle with the demon possessing Regan NacNeil in The Exorcist (1973), Rev. Lankester Merrin successfully extracts the same demon from a young man in Kenya. An African chief (or medicine man) tells Merrin at the end of Dominion: The Prequel to the Exorcist (2005) that he has made a rather bad enemy of the demon, which was not done with the priest. We know from The Exorcist that the demon will eventually kill the priest, but that is by no means the final word on a distinctively religious battle because in that domain, the human soul is eternal rather than necessarily tethered to a corporeal body. It is important, moreover, not to reduce religion to one of its aspects, or, even worse, to the stuff of any other domain, including the supernatural. Dominion reduces Christianity to one belief-claim and relies on supernaturalism to validate the religious phenomena in the film.

The full essay is at "Dominion: Prequel to the Exorcist."

Confucius on the Ethics of Religious Knowledge

A contemporary scholar of Chinese philosophy wrote, “myths often contain an element of historical truth, and what passes for historical truth often has mythical elements.”[1] By implication, not everything that seems to be historically valid in a religious story is, for it is fair-game in that genre to assuage and even invent “historical” events to make theological points. Lest it be thought that histories are written objectively, it should not be forgotten that historical accounts are written by human beings, and thus are subject to our limitations, including bias. Nevertheless, religious stories, or myth, and historical accounts are different genres of writing, and have very different purposes and criteria. To conflate the two genres, or, moreover, any other domain with that of religion, is to deny the uniqueness of religion (as well as that of other, even related domains). Religion and ethics, for instance, are two, admittedly very closely related, domains of human experience.

Ethics is the field concerned with what a person should do, whereas religion goes beyond conduct to include, and be based on, the experience of transcendence that goes beyond, or is oriented to, beyondness. Religious mystics, such as Ramakrishna in the 1800s and Gertrude in a medieval monastery, would in all likelihood agree with Pseudo-Dionysius’s claim that religion goes beyond the limits of human cognition, perception, and sensibility (i.e., emotions). More precisely, religion, while being in our world, transcends it and does so inherently. Knowledge of the source, or infinite remainder, of religion inherently eludes us finite, corporeal beings, whereas knowledge currently beyond our grasp in domains such as politics, economics, the weather, and the other sciences can potentially be known by us. This qualitative epistemological difference is just one way of grasping why the domain of religion is unique, and thus warrants its own criteria, rather than any overreaching from historians and scientists. To be sure, the arrow goes both ways; distinctly religious criteria cannot legitimately dominate in the fields of history and natural science. Such overreaching in both directions has been the blight of religion especially in the last millennium at least in Europe.

To be sure, certain other domains are very closely related to that of religion. After all, five of the Ten Commandments contain ethical content, albeit crucially of a divine command rather than a human’s ethical theory. Recognizing that divine commands are not bound in principle to our notions of conduct that is ethical (or unethical), as Kierkegaard makes clear in Fear and Trembling in which Abraham’s attempted religious sacrifice of Isaac trumps the ethical verdict of attempted murder, it is legitimate to include religion in ethical analysis.

For example, whether knowledge is of the transcendent sort or merely potential, it is important not to overreach in what we think we know. This vice may be called epistemological arrogance. In fact, to Confucius, “knowledge (zhi) is to know what one knows and doesn’t know (2.17, 19.5). Such knowledge, in turn, enables one to learn (xue) what one doesn’t know.”[2] The arrogance in thinking one knows more than one does diminishes the knowledge that a person can potentially acquire. Hence, Confucius states in Analects 9.8, “The Master said, ‘Do I possess an all-knowing cognizance? I do not. If a simple fellow asks me a question, my mind at first is a complete blank, and I have to knock at both sides [of the question] until everything has been considered [and some clarity begins to emerge].’”[3] That is, Confucius (Kongzi) “did not think that he must be right; he was not obdurate; he was not self-centered.”[4] Intellectual humility is like a cup viewing itself as empty and thus as able to be filled; additional knowledge must overflow from an already-full cup.

Such humility is especially valuable when it is applied to knowledge in the religious domain, for to lapse there into overreaching as if a person could be omniscient (i.e., all-knowing), is to engage in self-idolatry. This is not so regarding knowledge in other domains. Therefore, the method that Confucius urges for earthly knowledge in those other domains pertains all the more when the human mind enters the domain of religion. Incidentally, to project self-idolatry onto intellectual arrogance in another domain is an example of religious criteria (and meaning) overreaching at the expense of the native criteria (and meaning) of the other domains.

I contend that with respect to religion, given the mind’s proclivity to overreach epistemologically (i.e., thinking one knows more than one does in a certain subject), it is prudent to be  ever vigilant in distinguishing religious belief, which is compatible with faith, from knowledge of divine things, which excludes faith and is ultimately self-contradictory because the essence of divinity is inherently beyond the limits of human cognition, perception, and emotion. Analects 2.17 refers to a statement ostensibly made by Confucius himself: “The Master said, ‘You [Zilu], do you know what I have been trying to teach you? To say that you know something when you know it and to say that you do not know something when you do not know it—this is true knowing[zhi].”[5] To be able to say what one knows and admit what one does not (yet) know is premised on knowing where the line between the two is. This in turn is premised on valuing knowledge. In Analects 19.5, “Zixia said, ‘To be aware each day of what you still don’t know and to remember after a month what you were able to absorb—this is proof of your love for learning.’”[6] A love of learning can be intuited by a person’s carefulness in making clear to others the limits of one’s knowledge.

In the religious domain, all that translates into resisting the temptation to presume to know not only what God is in itself (i.e., the essence of divinity), but also what God wants or wills and furthermore that God’s will must surely be behind some event in the world. To know that God caused an earthquake, for instance, lies beyond our ability to discern, and yet such overreaching has not been uncommon. To know that it is God’s will that a close relative dies at a certain time is similarly presumptuous, epistemologically, whereas to have faith, and thus a belief, that the loved one is in a better place fits with the human situs in the realm of religion. In stark contrast, to declare that the person is in a better place is dogmatic, and may say more about the psychology of the person making the statement than anything religious. Whereas a person enunciating more about economics or politics than the person actually knows is just pedantic, presuming to know that which lies beyond the limits of human cognition, perspective, and emotions in principle is of a sort of arrogance that is foisted by an utter self-contradiction: knowledge of that which is inherently beyond the limits of human knowledge. In trying to be akin to God, a human being flies too high and thus inevitably falls on one’s face. Humanity’s grasp of what divinity actually is may be more misguided than we assume. How, for example, is divine, theological love qualitatively different (i.e., unique) from the garden-variety love evinced typically in our world? It is easy to draw on psychology and metaphysics instead of looking below to a distinctly theological sort of love. Augustine’s notion of caritas love in his Confessions is soaked in emotion, and the Christian notion of divine agape love as self-emptying love is typically thought of metaphysically rather than distinctly theologically.

It is ironic that Confucius’s epistemological ethic can be so useful in how a person can approach religion as such. To be clear, in the Analects, Confucius is discussing knowledge that a person can potentially have. Such knowledge is not of the transcendent; in the religious domain, knowledge extends only so far and then belief must take over. This does not mean that the method proposed by Confucius cannot be used by people in discerning the limits of knowledge in matters of religion. The human susceptibility to over-reach in such matters even though faith is tacitly sacrificed in the process is so commonly exploited that more vigilance in distinguishing what one knows from what one does not know is needed. Divine revelation is by definition pristine, but it should not be forgotten that it must go through our atmosphere—or as through a smoky, stained-glass window—to reach us. Put another way, we are hardly pristine receptors, and yet we presume so to be even as we implicitly import psychology and metaphysics in essentially remaking divinity into something more familiar to the mind. David Hume’s The Natural History of Religion gets at the anthropomorphism that the human mind inevitably hangs on divine simplicity. For example, it is much more difficult for us to grasp the Christian theological notion of the Logos than its incarnation as a god-man because the latter is literally more familiar to us than is God’s creative rationale in Creation. To transcend a familiar mask of eternity—to use Joseph Campbell’s term—and be suspended in the mystery of the transcendent that lies inherently beyond our reach (not to mention our human form) is admittedly scary, but also so necessary to getting past religion in human terms.[7]

---

1. Bryan W. Van Norden, Introduction to Classical Chinese Philosophy (Indianapolis: Hackett Pub., 2011), p. 2.
2. Mary Sim, “Why Confucius’ Ethics is a Virtue Ethics,” The Routledge Companion to Virtue Ethics, ed.s Michael A. Slote and Lorraine Besser-Jones (New York: Routledge, 2015), 63-76, p. 70.
3. Confucius, The Analects, trans. Annping Chin (New York: Penguin Books, 2014), p. 133.
4. Analects 9.4, in Confucius, The Analects, trans. Annping Chin (New York: Penguin Books, 2014), p. 131.
5. Confucius, The Analects, trans. Annping Chin (New York: Penguin Books, 2014), p. 20.
6. Ibid., p. 311.
7. This is essentially the thesis of my treatise, Godliness and Greed, which is published by Lexington Books. In my next book, God’s Gold, which unlike the first is written for a non-academic readership, I extend my thinking to how an anthropomorphic religion can be retained without the pitfalls of rendering the divine in so anthropomorphic terms.

Selfishness and Damnation on the Boston Subway

Imagine a crowded, standing-room-only subway car during rush hour in Boston, Massachusetts. Even though many riders are standing, a seated passenger keeps his backpack on the seat next to his own seat. It would be difficult upon seeing such a blatant display of selfishness not make certain assumptions about the man’s values and character. I did, twice on Boston subway trains, as I stood looking at one young man, and then another on another train about a month later who was doing the same thing. Because many of the train operators in Boston ignore their training by slapping the brake lever backwards all at once rather than gradually just before abruptly stopping at a station-stop, standing can be perilous. Once I found myself running through half of a trolley car to re-establish my balance because the driver had applied the brakes too abruptly.  The inconsiderateness for the riders could easily be inferred, and from that, we could say that the reckless employees suffered from the vice of selfishness. The same can be said of the drivers’ supervisors, for whom the word accountability was not in the English dictionary. With so much selfishness delimiting intending benefits to others that are intended by one’s decisions and actions, moreover, a dysfunctional organization and even an enabling society can be inferred. Some Christian theologians have sought to relate the ethical vice of selfishness to the religious sin of self-love, which as Pierre Nicole made clear in the seventeenth century, is mutually exclusive with Christian love from compassion. Even amid such clear relationships, the ethical and religious or theological domains should not be fused as if the two domains were actually one. To view selfishness self-love as containing both ethical and theological implications and yet hold that the two domains are qualitatively different—each having its own unique aspects—is the goal.

Selfishness is the manifestation of self-love that is oriented teleologically to the person’s exclusive benefit (i.e., private benefit). Although other people may benefit too, that is not within the selfish person’s purview. Typically, selfishness cuts off benefits going to other people and even a society as a whole. The vice is thus at odds with compassion, which fuels benevolence, because even if other people benefit, that byproduct is not motivated by a selfish person. Only such benefits as are in the self-interest, and thus  benefit, of a selfish person fall within one’s intentionality. That is not compassion.

A continuum from the ethical domain to that of religion may seem easily constructed; people of bad character are likely to go to hell rather than heaven. If the kingdom of God preached by Jesus in the Gospels is entered in this life by heartfelt acts of compassion to one’s neighbors and detractors alike, then people who are only concerned about themselves benefitting will not enter that spiritual state. As solid as this argument is, it is also vital not to constrain God’s omniscience (knowledge) and omnipotence (power) to fit within our ethical principles and theories. A figure such as Abraham might take a decision that is the inverse of compassionate—attempted murder of his only son—because God has decreed that Abraham sacrifice Isaac. To be sure, Abraham’s intent to make the sacrifice could hardly be considered selfish, but at the same time it is harmful rather than compassionate. God’s knowledge and power so surpass our own that we should take care in judging a selfish person soteriologically; salvation is up to God, not us.

John Calvin, a Protestant reformer in the sixteenth century, held that by absolute sovereignty, God has predestined an elect who are saved. Although he viewed wealth as a sign of God’s approval of the elect, it was not until the next century that Calvinists considered industriousness to be a Christian virtue.[1] Being rich could be an indication that, whether one is selfish or not, one is already saved among God’s elect. All this contradicts Jesus’s statement in the Gospels to the rich man that unless he gives up his fortune, he would not enter the kingdom of God; it would be easier for a camel to get through the eye of a needle. Furthermore, wealth as a sign of divine favor leaves out the divine favor that could be supposed to be lavished on monks such as Cuthbert and Godric of Finchale, who lived intentionally impoverished lives so to be worthy of being saved. Wealth as a sign of divine favor also flies in the face of the preachments of such religious notables as St. Francis of Assisi and Luther, both of whom can be interpreted as attempting to apply brakes to the emerging and maturating Christian pro-wealth paradigm in their respective times.[2] As a species of selfishness, greed—the desire for one’s own gain—is difficult to reconcile with neighbor-love as compassionate benevolence. A greedy, selfish person who claims to be saved by the blood of Christ on the Cross because Jesus died for mankind as if the person’s debt to God is already paid flies in the face of the claim made both by Paul and Augustine that God is love. To be in union with God thus requires that a person loves, and selflessly (agape) at that. In short, free-will must voluntarily chose compassionate love for a person to be among the elect. In fact, Samuel Hopkins, who was a protégé of the New England theologian and philosopher, Jonathan Edwards, claims in his book on holiness that the essence of the kingdom of God is kindness and acts of compassion oriented to the humanity of people who dislike one or whom one dislikes.[3] Such humane compassion is two degrees of separation from selfishness.

Even so, self-love and selfishness can be distinguished. Not only is the former term theological whereas the latter is of the domain of ethics; self-love, unlike selfishness, can include the intention and effort that benefits be extended to other people without instantiating compassion. In his book on virtue, Edwards himself distinguishes selfishness from “compounded self-love,” which differs from simple self-love because benefits are intentionally extended to other people rather than limited to oneself.[4] Similarly, Pierre Nicole, a seventeenth-century Jansenist Catholic priest and theologian, claims that the inherently sinful self-love can nonetheless be cleverly manifested as courtesy—but not interior kindness!—to other people because more can be gotten from laying out honey than from the stinginess of selfishness. Had the subway passengers moved their respective backpacks so someone standing could sit down to withstand the primitive, inconsiderate operation of the trains, perhaps a person who might have been useful might have sat in the suddenly empty seat. To clear off a seat with the intention of benefitting can be distinguished from having compassion for a passenger trying not to fall over or even be thrown forward in the train-car at the next station-stop. Hopkins, Edwards, and Nicole were all very clear in averring that even if self-love can have intentional beneficial consequences for other people, which are of course in the acting person's self-interest, the root is still a sin, and a sin is not identical to a vice or any unethical decision or action. Sin is utterly incompatible with compassion that resonates either from love directed to God (i.e., caritas) or selfless love (i.e., agape).  Self-interest, which is selfishness oriented to a goal, and is based in ethics rather than theology, is incompatible only with the second type of Christian love, agape. Even so, exercising such (wholly religious) agape love can be very unethical. In the religious (but not ethical) domain, ethical scruples should not get in the way of obeying a divine command.  

In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard distinguishes the universally-accessible moral domain from that of the divine command that only Abraham receives.  What is attempted murder (of Abraham’s son, Isaac) in moral (and legal) terms is a sacrifice in religious terms. Both domains are valid in themselves and their respective meanings, and they relate to each other, as in the story of Abraham, but attempted murder and religious sacrifice are qualitatively different. This point is also clear in the Book of Job, as Job is a righteous man and thus does not deserve to be made to suffer by the devil even as a test sanctioned by the Old Testament deity. Abstractly stated, divine omnipotence (i.e., all-powerful) means that divine command cannot be constrained by human ethical principles. Regarding the five Commandments that have ethical conduct, it is explicitly based on divine command, and thus on divine will, and thus is not a constraint on the deity. This does not mean that the ethical itself is theological in nature.

So, while it is tempting to relegate a selfish person to hell as a sordid reprobate, especially as selfishness is antithetical to benevolentia universalis, which in turn is a manifestation of “God is love” in Christianity, both our own finite nature as judges and the distinction between acting unethically and obeying a divine command, and, moreover, being saved, mitigate against making such a hasty and wholly convenient category mistake that superimposes that of the creature onto the Creator. It could be that the man on a crowded subway train puts his backpack on the seat next to him because suffers from PTSD or is autistic. Even such a simple justification, which separates our ethical verdict from God’s judgment on the man’s selfishness, can easily pass by mere creatures such as homo sapiens.  

---

1. Skip Worden, God’s Gold: Beneath the Shifting Sands of Christian Thought on Profit-Seeking and Wealth. See also the author’s related academic treatise, Godliness and Greed: Shifting Christian Thought on Profit-Seeking and Wealth (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2010). The first text is of the non-fiction genre for the general educated reader, whereas the second text is of the academic genre. Ironically, God’s Gold not only contains additional chapters, but is also an ideational improvement on God’s Gold, especially concerning the concluding chapter of both books. A Christian apologist, for instance, would prefer the conclusion of God’s Gold, which hinges on the Logos in answering a critique of anthropomorphism from David Hume’s Natural History of Religion. Sometimes better ideas reach a general readership rather than cloistered, over-specialized academia.

2. Ibid.

3. Samuel Hopkins, An Enquiry into the Nature of Holiness (New York: William Durell, 1710).

4. Jonathan Edwards, The Nature of True Virtue (Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press, 1960).

The Vatican Tapes

After The Omen (1976), which was released just two years after the sardonic U.S. President, Richard Nixon, had resigned in utter disgrace from the presidency amid much economic and political pessimism in the 1970s generally, moviemakers got busy on stories involving demon-possession. The 2015 film, The Vatican Tapes, begins as an apparent demon-possession case and thus seems not to stand out among other such films, but towards the end of the film, when the demon-possessed young woman suddenly breaches the bounds of the sort of supernatural feats of which demons are capable, the true significance of her case emerges with stunning clarity. For that which possesses and kills the young woman is none other than the Anti-Christ, and that figure is in a wholly different league than demons.

The full essay is at "The Vatican Tapes."

The Physician: Medical Science and God

In the 11^th century, Christians were not welcome in Persia, so in the film, The Physician (2013), Rob Cole, a Christian, pretends to be Jewish in order to travel from Western Europe to study at the medical school of Ibn Sina, a famous physician in Isfahan. He eventually reveals his religion as that of “the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” when he is on trial before the local imam. The Jews there doubtlessly feel used and betrayed. As interesting as interreligious controversy can be, I contend that the nature of Cole’s crime is more significant from the standpoint of religion itself. In short, the film illustrates what bad effects are likely to come from committing a category mistake with respect to religion and another domain. Whether conflating distinct domains or erasing the boundary between them, category mistakes had diminished the credibility of religion as being over-reaching by the time that the film was made. As for the matter of interreligious differences, the sheer pettiness by which the three Abrahamic religions that share the same deity have made mole hills into untraversable mountains is hardly worthy of attention, whereas that which makes religion as a domain of phenomena unique and thus distinct from other, even related domains, is in need of further work. The film could have done more in this regard.

The full essay is at "The Physician." 

The Master: A Religious Cult

In The Master (2012), Lancaster Dodd tells Freddie Quell, the man whom Lancaster wants to cure of alcoholism and mental illness, “I am a writer, a doctor, a nuclear physicist, a theoretical philosopher, but above all I am a man.” Given Lancaster’s presumption of infallibility concerning knowing that every human soul has been reincarnated even for trillions of years, the end of the line would more fittingly be, “I am a man above all (others).” With regard to being a physician, Lancaster comes up short because he underestimates the medical severity of Freddie’s alcoholism and his likely psychotic mental illness. Upon being released from jail, Lancaster should realize that Freddie’s rage and temper-tantrum in his jail cell evince mental illness of such severity that it is lunacy to suppose that the patient can be cured by walking back and forth in a room between a wall and a window and being sure to touch both, and by saying “Doris” over and over again in a dyad with Lancaster’s new son-in-law. In fact, Lancaster actually encourages Freddie’s alcoholism by asking that Freddie continue to make his “potion,” which contains paint-thinner filtered through bread. It is not Lancaster, but his wife, Peggy, who puts a stop to the “booze.” From her sanity, both that of Freddie and Lancaster can be questioned. That Lancaster is the Master of a religious cult, or “movement,” renders his mental state particularly problematic.

The full essay is at "The Master."

My Name is Bernadette

The film, My Name is Bernadette (2011), focuses, almost as an obsession, on the question of whether the girl “actually” saw the Virgin Mary in a series of visions at Lourdes. All too often, miracles are treated as ends in themselves, rather than as pointers to something deeper. Even the girl in the visual and auditory (albeit only to Bernadette) apparition identified itself only in terms of a supernatural miracle, the Virgin Mary’s Immaculate Conception. I contend that Bernadette’s awe-inspiring spirituality visually conveyed on screen, and Monsignor Forcade’s spiritually-insightful advice to Bernadette as to her functions in her upcoming life as a nun is more important than the miracles, even from the standpoint of religion. In other words, the story-world of the film, which is based on the true story of Bernadette at Lourdes, is a good illustration of a what happens when everyone in a large group of people reduces religion to science and even metaphysics and misses the sui generis (i.e., unique) and core elements of religion. Such is the power of group-think that conflation of different, albeit related, domains of human experience can remain hidden in a societal blind-spot. Not even the film makes this blind-spot transparent.

The full essay is at "My Name Is Bernadette."

The Seventh Sign

Carl Schultz’s film, The Seventh Sign (1988), centers on the theological motif of the Second Coming, the end of the world when God’s divine Son, Jesus, returns to judge the living and even the dead. In the movie, Jesus returns as the wrath of the Father, which has already judged humanity as having been too sinful to escape God’s wrath. David Bannon, who is the returned Jesus in the film, is there to break the seven seals of the signs leading up to the end of the world, and to witness the end of humanity. Abby Quinn, the pregnant wife of Russell Quinn, asks David (an interesting name-choice, given that Jesus is of the House of David in the Gospel narratives) whether the chain (of signs) can be broken. How this question plays out in the film’s denouement is interesting from a theological standpoint. Less explicit, but no less theologically interesting, is what role humans can and should have in implementing God’s law. The film both heroizes and castigates our species.

The full essay is at "The Seventh Sign."

Integrating Our Humanity and Divinity

Dayal Gauranga spoke at Harvard’s Bhukti Yoga conference in 2025 on how spirituality can complement psychology in the healing of past traumas. He explicitly related religion/spirituality and psychology; my question is whether he succeeded, and if so, what put him past the finishing line. I contend that even though at times his use of spirituality lapsed into psychology (i.e., conflating the two domains by psychologizing spirituality), at the end of his talk he related spirituality to truth, which is not within the purview of psychology. By truth, I mean religious truth, rather than, for example, 2+2=4.  I contend, moreover, that disentangling religion from other domains by plucking out weeds from other gardens so to be able to uncover and thereby recognize the native fauna in the religious garden, as well as pulling the religious weeds that have been allowed to spread other gardens is much needed, especially in a secular context. It is with this in mind that I turn to analyzing Gauranga’s spiritual-psychological theory of healing oneself of traumatic wounds.

Gauranga began his lecture by discussing two patterns that inhibit spiritual development. One is struggling with everyday human experience because of childhood conditioning, ego, and unresolved wounds.  The second is engaging in spiritual bypassing by using spiritual practice to avoid pain rather than transform it. Transforming hurt into a sense of wholeness requires a person to integrate one’s spiritual dimension with one’s embodied (i.e.,, materialist) daily experience.

The process of overcoming the obstacles begins with identifying unresolved psychological pain, even if it is due to a wound from long ago in childhood. Gauranga’s main point is that spirituality can be used in the healing process; it is not only psychological. What, then, is spirituality? One view is that it is the understanding of, connecting to, and living as our authentic self, which is not material. I believe he had Advaita Vedanta in mind here. A person is not one’ bank balance, one’s insecurities, one’s job title, etc. Rather than leave these things behind, the task is to integrate them with one’s spiritual dimension. In Vedanta meditation, the key lies in getting in touch with one’s self not as ego and definitely not as the id, but, instead, as a one’s seat of consciousness. I contend that the seat goes beyond being conscious of things, including one’s own personality and desires. By a person getting in touch with one’s seat from which one is conscious of even oneself as an embodied creature, Gauranga claims that it is possible to turn inward in compassion to heal the wounded parts of oneself, such that the person can be restored to wholeness, which includes being spiritually connected to other people. Gauranga cleverly brought up the notion of a cybernetic system, such as a thermostat in a house that regulates heating and cooling, that responds to external stimuli and returns to a homeostatic state of equilibrium. If the temperature in a house gets too high, the thermostat is triggered to bring the temperature back down to the temperature-setting. Human beings have such a system internally; we can return from unalignment to spiritual wholeness.

It seems to me that by drawing on the theory of Gregory Bateson in his Steps to an Ecology of Mind, our species can, if it has the will, enable the planet’s carbon dioxide thermostat to function to being the atmosphere and oceans back to equilibrium. Whether that includes our species may depend on how long until, or even if, we will it collectively, as a species, and back up our will with political power. Bateson theorizes the maximizing, schizogenic forces, such as our species is described by Agent Smith in the film, The Matrix, can piece ecologizing forces that are oriented to equilibrium. Perhaps in terms of psychology, the human psyche has both types of forces instinctually. Gauranga’s point can be interpreted as adding that the ecologizing forces that are part of a person’s mind can involve spiritual wholeness, which the schizogenic self-maximizing force of the mind as ego can, unfortunately, knock off kilter, and thus off from equilibrium.

Gauranga applies his notion of spiritual wholeness both to a person and to one’s interpersonal relations. In both respect, compassion plays a key role. It is precisely in being compassionate to one’s wounds from past trauma that one self-heals. I contend that this does no obviate the need for psychoanalysis by a trained psychologist. In fact the defense mechanisms that can even come to be imbedded in one’s personality can become so engrained that therapy is needed for a person to be able to recognize them. A person could then apply compassion to those internal distorted mechanisms too. Once psychologically and spiritually healed, and thus rendered mentally and spiritually whole, a person is freer internally to be compassionate in one’s interpersonal relationships and external spiritual connections.  

In short, we can discover and reconnect to our inherent sense of self, and thus compassionately relate to the parts of us that have been wounded by past traumas. In other words, a person can integrate one’s body, psyche, and spirit and thus be whole. Krishna’s first and final advice to Arjuna in the Bhagavad-gita is to surrender and fear not. From a standpoint of less fear, a person can approach one’s spiritual connections in the world with broader compassion, as in Augustine’s notion of benevolentia universalis.

Recognition of one’s own spirituality and materiality/biology includes reconnecting with one’s body in the present moment, rather than in recalling past trauma. Spirituality does not lie in forgetting that we are embodied, which includes the brain. Then can come recognition of the mentally and spiritually wounded parts of oneself and the related psychologically protective defense mechanisms, relating to those parts of oneself with compassion and curiosity. By this means, a person can release and repair those burdens so to be able to return to the deeper self and free up one’s connection to the sacred. That is, a person’s spirituality can be a means by which recurrent pain from past trauma can be healed. Having sketched Gauranga’s theory of healing, I now turn to the question of whether his theory adequately distinguishes spirituality, and thus religion, from psychology. From the standpoint of the religious “garden,” I want to pluck out weeds from other gardens to be able to find what is distinctly and uniquely religious in the theory.

Inherent spiritual being, which is one’s own self below all the crap, is not reachable by a cognitive process, which, Gauranga claimed, is psychology. This may be a reductionistic claim, however, as psychology involves emotion. The pain from past traumas is itself emotional rather than cognitive. Presumably psychotherapy includes a patient feeling unpleasant emotions rather than merely thinking about or analyzing them. Reducing psychology to cognition is thus problematic. Gauranga’s claim that psychology is limited to the mind is more fitting, if the mind is understood to include the biology of the brain. Cartesian mind-body duality can by the twenty-first century be shown the door thanks to natural science. Gauranga asserted that a person’s authentic self (atman) goes beyond the reach of a person’s mind. Certainly atman lies beyond the stench of ego, but Gauranga was saying something else: using the mind to cognitively know one’s self at its very foundation or ground falls short. To be sure, because the mind (i.e., concentration) is used in meditation, which is oriented in Vedanta Hinduism to realizing one’s ultimate self as identical to brahman, distinguishing psychology from spirituality is not so clear. However, experiencing “pure” consciousness as being itself as a person’s real self can be said to transcend the mind because thoughts are arrested as the person is just aware of one’s being. To be aware does not mean that the mind is aware of anything other than awareness itself. Having focused on a repetitive mantra, prayer, scriptural passage, or divine attribute in a bhukti (i.e., lovingly devotional) way, the human mind can suddenly just stop, and just be aware. A person is then simply part of awareness, which as universalized is brahman. The person is not thinking about lunch, Krishna, Jesus, or even oneself, for thinking itself has stopped. Even the passage of time is not noticed. In this respect, spiritual experience does not reduce to, or even include, psychology because both thoughts and emotions have stopped.

Gauranga is on less firm ground in asserting that compassion towards a person’s own psychological wounds is spiritual in nature. Compassion is a virtue in philosophical ethics. Furthermore, David Hume asserts that sympathy, which can give rise to compassion, is involved in making a moral judgment regarding other people’s motives and acts. Lastly, Freud posits the psychological existence of not only the the id and ego, but also the superego, the latter of which is in a mind saying what the person (or another person) should think, feel or do. Freud’s concept of the superego, which is psychological in classification, is very close to compassion. To wit, I should be compassionate, and you should be compassionate.

Therefore, compassion itself cannot be claimed to be distinctly spiritual even if it is a byproduct of the realization experientially and cognitively that one’s real self is identical to brahman, which is infinite being that is conscious, powerful, and, according to Ramanuja, blissful as well. To be sure, compassion is no stranger to religion, as the personifications as Krishna and Jesus illustrate. Compassion is part of what Gauranga called “spiritual connection.” I’m sure he would agree that such connection is not the same as what is described in social psychology textbooks. In this respect, it is crucial that he brought in the notion of (a) higher being as being foundational to spiritual connection. Whether as one’s real self as being realized as identical to the transcendent, inherently unmanifest brahman, or as a deity such as Krishna, including a transcendent extratextual referent distinguishes spirituality as qualitatively different from psychology, and even as unique, as sui generis.

Interestingly, religions in which religious belief is important have a harder job in claiming that spirituality is distinct from Gauranga’s cognition-delimited notion of psychology. Spirituality can be distinct even from a more expansive definition of psychology. A “straw-man” is not needed for religion to survive the modern onslaught of psychology. Neither must psychology set up a merely “straw” definition of spirituality to resist its encroachments! The saying of politicians that everything is political also gets at the maximizing (schizogenic) nature of human domains. In claiming sovereignty or rights to wholeness, religion too can be understood to schizogenic rather than ecologizing. From the standpoint of other domains, the hyper-extended right of sovereignty that religion claims stops at its borders. This does not invalidate the distinctly religious meaning, which would represent an overreach onto the territory of religion by schizogenic forces in another domain.

The key, I submit, to Gauranga’s claim that spirituality is distinct from psychology lies in the type of referent that anchors a person’s spirituality. In asserting that “any real healing includes the spiritual self as a healing agent” as distinct from the psychological self (i.e., the mind), Gauranga added that “reconnecting to the truth of what we are is spiritual” rather than psychological in nature. Truth. In including that word, Gauranga successfully supported his claim that spirituality is distinct from psychology, for the latter domain does not include making truth claims, just as history too cannot. Faith narratives are not historical accounts, whether in authorial intent or written content, for drawing on historical events (and adapting others rather than merely adopting them) is not the same as writing a historical account.

In being oriented to one’s true self (atman), and as being identical to brahman, or to loving Krishna or Jesus compassionately, especially in extratextual experience that goes beyond thinking over specifical scriptural passages, a person’s yearning for distinctly religious truth is not within the realm of psychology. Crucially, religious truth is based beyond the limits of human cognition, perception, and sensibility (i.e., emotion), according to the sixth-century Christian theologian, Pseudo-Dionysius. In chapter 11 of the Bhagavad-gita, the vision that Krishna provides for Arjuna of Krishna transcends Arjuna’s cognitions of Krishna’s divine attributes. As Gauranga noted in concluding his talk, Krishna’s last advice to Arjuna is not to be afraid. The vision in the Gita overwhelms and perplexes Arjuna’s mind.

Therefore, the incorporation of truth, as in a person’s true self, or as a transcendent being (i.e., a deity) that is believed to be the Supreme Person and thus ultimately real renders spiritual connection distinctly religious and not just the quality of garden-variety compassion. Even revelation must travel into our realm as through a smoky stained-glass window, according to Augustine. Rather than arriving untouched through inert human nature as pristine, Augustine’s view can be put in terms of the recognition that what we know, perceive, and feel regarding religious truth inevitably must pass through our biochemical processes, which include even our use of reason (i.e., ratiocination). Simply put, even though religious truth is eternal, not material, and infallible, no person alive as embodied qualifies (i.e., not counting souls in heaven or liberated individual selves) for these divine attributes. Even so, a human instinctual (even genetic) urge to yearn for a reference-point that is transcendent may exist even though the referent transcends instinct. Rather than bypassing the psychological work that must be done to heal trauma, acting on such an urge by meditation, bhukti, ritual, or prayer can provide a transcendent sense of grounding that can fortify distinctly psychological therapy and self-healing. Spirituality and psychology can work together without falling into each other, or one conquering the other. 

The Holy Grail: Artifact or Superstition?

Relics are nothing new to religion, whose legitimacy used to be synonymous with being ancient, which is one reason why the ancient Romans did not consider the nascent Jesus Movement to be a religion. The cup that Jesus uses in the Last Supper in Gospels is right up there with pieces of the wood cross of the Crucifixion as the most holy of relics in Christianity. “In Europe alone, there are said to be around 200 cups, each thought to be the Holy Grail—the cup used by Jesus Christ at the Last Supper.”[1] They can’t all be THE cup, but I bet if you visited each place, the partisans would insist that their cup is genuine. For example, the website of the cathedral at Valencia, in eastern Spain, proclaims regarding the cup there, “Tradition reveals that it is the same cup that the Lord used at the Last Supper for the Institution of the Eucharist.”[2] Never mind that medieval legend had it that Joseph of Arimathea had brought the Holy Grail near Glastonbury Tor in southern England shortly after Jesus’ death. That would be quite a distance to travel back them to deliver a cup. These two cannot both be right, yet Christians have prayed in both places as if the cup in each place were genuine. That people have gotten carried away with the super relic through history seems clear from “the fact that, over the centuries, legends have arisen of ‘grails’ producing miracles.”[3] That miracles have been said to arise from more than one of the cups ought to be a red flag that something is amiss, for only one cup could possibly be genuine and so miracles could not have come by means of proximity to the other cups. I submit that basic category mistakes regarding genres of meaning (and writing) are a big part of the problem as to why a presumed historical artifact has given rise to puerile superstition in the name of religious truth.

One scholar of religious studies, Joanne Pierce, is realistic in saying, “I honestly do not think that the actual cup from the Last Supper still exists.”[4] In fact, Pierce elaborates that because according to some Gospel accounts, the room was already prepared before Jesus and his disciples arrived, the cup used may not have even belonged to them. I submit that Pierce is conflating historical accounts and faith narratives—two very different, albeit related—genres of writing. That some of the Gospels have the room already prepared is itself an indication that we should not assume that the room actually was prepared beforehand.

Moreover, a faith narrative is not written as a historical account; the concerns of the writers would have been theological rather than to make empirical reports or accounts, especially as the Gospels were written many decades after the Crucifixion. Is it really likely that, for theological purposes, a detail such as how or whether the room was prepared would have been preserved in notes or orally? Pierce gets around this problem by stating that “the idea of the Holy Grail is more symbolic than realistic—in her words, ‘a cultural reality rather than a religious reality.’”[5] We are no longer concerned with the relationship of empirical history and faith narrative; the idea of the cup is what matters, and that isn’t even religious.

I think Pierce is wrong to jettison the religious meaning of the cup, even as an idea, because of the salvific significance at least in Roman Catholicism of the Eucharist in the gradual process of sanctification. Given the theological doctrine of transubstantiation—the real presence of Christ in bread and wine transformed into the body and blood of Christ—in Catholicism, it is interesting that, “(f)or Pierce, a Catholic, the idea of the Holy Grail is more symbolic than realistic.”[6] Zwingli, the Swiss reformer for whom the Eucharist is only symbolic, would be more likely than the Pope to agree.

Essentially, my argument is that faith narratives are neither historical accounts nor just cultural ideas; rather, the distinctive meaning in a faith narrative such as one of the Gospels is religious. It is felt proximity to religious meaning that is important—not whether a given cup was actually used by Jesus in a historical or empirical sense. To conflate the religious and empirical is to engage in superstition, as evinced by the attribution of miracles from Jesus’ historical use of a cup. Put another way, the religious significance of the Last Supper, which is Jesus being willing to follow his Father’s will in sacrificing his life for humanity, does not come down to the trite contention of which cup Jesus actually used. “It was just a cup,” Jesus might say; “You’re missing the point.” In other words, too much attention to the means can obstruct the ends being served by the means. 

Regarding the famous cup, the distinction between artifact and superstition can be transcended, perhaps even in a Hegelian sense of solving dialectics through human history, by focusing instead on distinctly religious meaning. In other words, perhaps superstition results from mistaking historical artifact for religious truth. This is not to say that the latter cannot come through history; only that if or when the transcendent does manifest on the surface of history, a faith narrative still cannot be taken for a historical account. To focus on the historical as if it were the point would be to miss the distinctly religious point, for the validity of religious meaning does not depend on the criteria of any other domain.

---

1 Julia Buckley, “They All Say They’ve Got the Holy Grail. So Who’s Right?” CNN.com, August 17, 2024.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid.
4. Ibid.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.