Religious Inquiriesri.urd.ac.ir/article_45338_1219339a4ebfe73185610d492ee78faf.pdf · Religious Inquiries Volume 3, No. 5, Winter and Spring 2014, 5-20 The ‘Irfan of the Commander

Religious Inquiries

A Biannual Journal of the University of Religions and Denominations

Volume 3, No. 5, Winter and Spring 2014

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Mohsen Javadi

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Hasan Qanbari

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CONTENT

5 The ‘Irfan of the Commander of the Faithful, Imam Ali (a)’ Muhammad Legenhausen

21 Kant’s Philosophy of Religion and the Challenges of Moral

Commitment Ronald M. Green

35 Critical Virtue Ethics Jochen Schmidt

49 Re-Reading Mulla Sadra on the Intersection of Cognition and

Emotion Zeinab Sadat Mirshamsi, Mohsen Javadi

63 The Sealness of the Wilayah of al-Mahdi and the Specification of

His Ancestors according to ibn Arabi and Some Commentators of

Futuhat al-makkiyyah Parvin Kazemzadeh, Maryam Davarnia

83 A Comparative Study of Martin Buber and Rumi on God-Man

Relation Elham Ghazazani, Amir Abbas Alizamani

97 Comparative Evaluation of the Efficacy of Wisdom and Inspiration

in Abu Hatam’s and Zakariyya Razi’s Opinions Nayere Kazemi, Hooran Akbar Zade

109 Farsi Abstracts

Religious Inquiries

Volume 3, No. 5, Winter and Spring 2014, 5-20

The ‘Irfan of the Commander of the Faithful, Imam

‘Alī (a)

Muhammad Legenhausen1

All of the major branches of Islamic mysticism, ‗irfān, refer to Imam ‗Alī

(a) as a major source for their teachings and practices. Hence, we begin

with a review of how the mystics viewed Imam ‗Alī (a). After this we

consider some controversies about the nature of ‗irfān and its relationship

to Sufism, for the terms have been used in different ways. Then we turn to

the sources on the basis of which claims may be defended about the ‗irfān

of Imam ‗Alī (a). The conclusion is that the ‗irfān of Imam ‗Alī (a) may

be characterized by the following features: (1) ‗irfān consists of both

knowledge by presence and conceptual knowledge of God. The

conceptual knowledge may be divided into theoretical and practical

knowledge as reflections upon the experiential knowledge of God and the

way of achieving and deepening it; (2) the way to ‗irfān is the path from

the outward to the inward, from ẓāhir to bāţin; (3) Imam ‗Alī (a) is a fully

realized human being who has achieved this knowledge at its most

profound level, and who serves as a guide in this quest for those who seek

God; (4) the knowledge possessed by the Imam makes him a place for the

manifestation of the divine Names and Attributes; (5) the way requires

God-wariness (taqwā), renunciation of the world, setting one‘s sights on

the ultimate goal, worship, obedience, the acquisition of virtue, and self-

knowledge; through the remembrance (dhikr) and contemplation (fikr) of

God one polishes the heart and sets out on the inner journey; (6) the way

is perilous. Misunderstandings occur when one learns of truths beyond

one‘s capacity; (7) different people are capable of various degrees of

knowledge.

Keywords: ‗irfān, Sufism, Imam ‗Alī (a), spiritual path, theoretical

mysticism, practical mysticism, remembrance of God, contemplation of

God.

1. Professor, Imam Khomeini Educational and Research Institute, Iran

([email protected])

6 / Religious Inquiries 5

Introduction In order to understand the „irfān of Imam ‗Alī (a), we have to know what „irfān is, and how it is related to Imam ‗Alī (a). I assume that there is no need to introduce Imam ‗Alī (a), although a few brief words about him may help to highlight the aspects of his personality that are relevant to the discussion of „irfān. „Irfān is knowledge, but it is used in the sense of a special esoteric knowledge (ma„rifah) of God and the way toward him, in some ways akin to the Greek concept of gnosis. The knowledge sought by those who follow the way of „irfān is ultimately knowledge of God. The term „irfān is also used for the path that leads to this knowledge, as well as the theoretical speculation on theological topics based on the knowledge gained by those who have advanced on the path. Sometimes the term Sufism (ta awwuf) is used in a manner synonymous to „irfān.

There are many different strands of thought in Islam about the personality of Imam ‗Alī (a), and about „irfān. I will allude to some of the controversies, but by no means all of them, to the extent necessary for a general overview. Although these topics have frequently been the cause of divisiveness among Muslims, I believe that they may also serve to bring Muslims of different schools of thought together; and one of the aims of my discussion is to explore how. However, the account I offer is not a neutral one. The views presented reflect a specific tradition of thought that is at once Shi‗ite, philosophical, and „irfānī, although I will begin by considering some examples of how Imam ‗Alī (a) was viewed by Sufis who, with regard to jurisprudence, were Sunni.

Imam ‘Alī Regardless whether they are Sunni or Shi‗ite, Muslims revere and love Imam ‗Alī as the cousin and son-in-law of the Prophet Mu ammad (s). Sunnis regard him as the fourth of the rightly guided caliphs (al-khulafā‟ al-rāshidūn); the Shi‗ah consider him the first of the immaculate Imams (al-a‟immah al-ṭāhirīn); and the Sufis of all the major orders trace their chains of initiation to him. According to the 5

th/11

th century Sufi author of the first Persian text on Sufism, ‗Alī ibn

‗Uthmān Hujwīrī:

His renown and rank in this Path (of Sufism) were very high. He

explained the principles (u ūl) of Divine truth with exceeding subtlety,

so that Junayd said: ―Alī is our Shaykh as regards the principles and as

regards the endurance of affliction,‖ i.e. in the theory and practice of

Sufism; for Sufis call the theory of this Path ―principles‖ (u ūl), and

its practice consists entirely in the endurance of affliction…. This

question is connected with the severance of the heart from all things

The ‘Irfan of the Commander of the Faithful, Imam ‘Alī (a) / 7

save God, who keeps His servants in whatever state He willeth…. ‗Alī

is a model for the Sufis in respect to the truths of outward expressions

and the subtleties of inward meanings, the stripping of one‘s self of all

property either of this world or of the next, and consideration of the

Divine providence. (Hujwīrī 1911, 74)

Later in this text, when Hujwīrī seeks to explain knowledge of God (ma„rifat llāh, which Nicholson translates as gnosis), he again mentions Imam ‗Alī:

When the Commander of the Faithful, ‗Alī, was asked concerning

gnosis, he said: ―I know God by God, and I know that which is not

God by the light of God‖ (Hujwīrī 1911, 269).

Imam ‗Alī is also lavishly praised by the great 6th/12

th century Sufi

poet ‗Aṭṭār, who, after praising the virtues of the first three caliphs, says:

Were there an Imam from East to West it would be the Commander of

the Faithful Ḥaidar.2 With the thrust of his lance he conquered this

present world; the tale of the three loaves passed beyond the other

world. He was initiated in the mysteries of giving; and seventeen

verses of the Qur‘ān are devoted to the three loaves.3 Those three

round loaves were like the discs of the moon and sun, and therefore

like the moon and the sun he entertains the two worlds at his table for

all eternity. If thou be continually showered with arrows it is sufficient

to know that ‗the love of ‗Alī is a shield.‘ The Prophet said to him: ‗O

light of my eyes, we were both created from one light.‘ Since ‗Alī is

of one light with the Prophet they are as one person with no trace of

duality. As gate to the city of knowledge his is with good reason the

gatekeeper of Paradise.4 So absolutely was he given over to poverty

2. I.e. the Lion, one of the Titles of ‗Alī. [Boyle‘s note.]

3. The story is told in Bai āwī‘s commentary on Sūra XXXVI. 8-10: ‗It is related that Hasan and

Hosein, Mohammed‘s grandchildren, on a certain time being both sick, the prophet among

others, visited them, and they wished Ali to make some vow to God for the recovery of his

sons: whereupon Ali, and Fātema, and Fidda, their maid-servant, vowed a fast of three days in

case they did well; as it happened they did. This vow was performed with so great strictness,

that the first day, having no provisions in the house, Ali was obliged to borrow three measures

of barley of one Simeon, a Jew, of Khaibar, one measure of which Fātema ground the same

day, and baked five cakes of the meal, and they were set before them to break their fast with

after sunset: but a poor man coming to them, they gave all their bread to him, and passed the

night without tasting anything except water. The next day Fātema made another measure into

bread, for the same purpose; but an orphan begging some food, they chose to let him have it,

and passed that night as the first; and the third day they likewise gave their whole provision to

a famished captive. Upon this occasion Gabriel descended with the chapter before us, and told

Mohammed that God congratulated him on the virtues of his family.‘ See Sale, pp. 432-3,

note x. [Boyle‘s note.]

4. A reference to the words of the Prophet: ‗I am the city of knowledge, and ‗Alī is its gate.‘ See

Mathnavī VII. 216. [Boyle‘s note.]


that he was irrevocably divorced from gold and silver. Though silver

and gold were highly valued, they were as a calf to the people of ‗Alī.5

How should a calf ever have dared to match itself against a lion such

as he? It is related that he had a coat of armour of which the front and

the back were simply a window. If his back was as exposed as his face

it was because he depended upon the Prophet as his armour. He said

once: ‗Though I should be slain, none shall see my back on the battle-

field.‘ If thou become the dust beneath his feet, this is an excellent

place of refuge, for he is both the ‗Father of the Handsom One‘6 and

the ‗Father of Dust‘.7 He said: ‗If by God‘s command I were set up in

a pulpit and given the office of judge, I should always judge between

the peoples of the world in accordance with the Four Books.‘8

Whatever he said he uttered out of the sea of certainty. One day he

opened his mouth and said: ‗―If the covering were uncovered‖ assisted

me, otherwise how could I worship Him without seeing Him?‘ Hurrah

for that eye, that knowledge and those words! Hurrah for the Sun of

the Law, that swelling sea! The breath of the Lion of God penetrated

to China; because of his knowledge the musk-deer produced the musk

in its navel. Therefore it is that they say: ‗If thou art just and pious, go

from Yathrib to China in they search for knowledge.‘ Leo is the navel

of the house of the sun, hence the pure musk in the breath of the

musk-deer. But I am wrong. I speak not of the musk of Cathay, but of

that produced by the Lion of God. Were his knowledge to take the

form of a sea, the Black Sea would be but a single drop in it. He could

not endure to be in debt; therefore he hired himself to a Jew. Someone

said to him: ‗Why hast thou done this?‘ He was angry and wielding

his tongue like a sword he answered: ‗I had rather remove rocks from

mountain-tops than be in the debt of men. They say to me: ―It is

shameful to work for one‘s lining.‖ But I say: ―it is shameful to stoop

so low as to beg.‖‘ (‗Aṭṭār 1976, 25-27)

Some of the most famous Sufi poetry in praise of Imam ‗Alī, however, is by Mawlavī Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī. At the end of the first daftar of the Mathnawī, over the course of almost three hundred couplets, Rūmī repeatedly returns to the virtues of Imam ‗Alī. There is too much to be directly quoted here, so I‘ll just mention some of the major themes. The section on ‗Alī begins with the words:

عمل اخالص آموز علي از دغل از َّر مطه دان را حق شير From ‗Alī learn purity (or sincerity) of action

5. A reference to the Golden Calf (Koran, xx. 90), and also to the exclamation of ‗Alī upon

beholding the riches of the public treasury at Basra: ‗O yellow metal, O white metal, seduce

others, not me.‘ See Mas‗ūdī, IV. 336. [Boyle‘s note.]

6. Abu‘l-Ḥasan, i.e. Father of Ḥasan. [Boyle‘s note.]

7. Abū al-Turāb, the Father of Dust, a title allegedly given to ‗Alī by the Prophet.

8. The four books are the Torah, the Psalms, the Gospel, and the Qur‘an.


Know that the Lion of Truth was purified of deceit. (Mathnawī,

I:3719)

Rūmī has ‗Alī (a) describe his servitude to God as so complete that he was free from the demands of the passions: ―I have removed the baggage of self out of the way; I have deemed what is other than Ḥaqq to be nothing‖ (Mathnawī, I:3789). He was thus able to make himself into a complete instrument of God (Mathnawī, I:3788).

Imam ‗Alī (a) was not only recognized by Sufis in poetry and in their chains of authorization (silsilah), he was also recognized as a model of virtue by the brotherhoods associated with various crafts that emphasized futuwwat (chivalry). The term futuwwat derives from fatā, a young man, and was associated with selflessness, courage, generosity, and honor. Of ‗Alī it is narrated that the angels cried:

الفتي اال علي ال سيف اال ذوالفقارThere is no youth (hero) but ‗Alī; there is no sword but Dhū al-

Faqār.

One who seeks to emulate ‗Alī with regard to futuwwat should manifest valor and self-sacrifice in the path of God and His friends. He should consider his wealth, reputation, and even his very life as insignificant. For the Sufis or „urafā‟, the two edges of the sword of ‗Alī are dhikr and fikr, remembrance and contemplation of God.

‘Irfān Although „irfān is sometimes translated as gnosis, I would caution against confusion with ideas associated with early Christian Gnosticism. Christian Gnosticism is believed to have its origins in the second century. While those who are called Gnostics did not constitute a cohesive sect, scholars use the term for those who believed that matter is evil and opposed to spirit, that the Creator of the material world is an evil demiurge, and that Christ (a) came to give the elect the gnosis needed to escape the bondage of material existence. Sometimes the term is used with a broader, more inclusive meaning, but to avoid misunderstandings, it is better to avoid it in discussions of Islam.

Among Muslims, the question is often raised of the relationship between „irfān and Sufism. In an article on this topic,

9 Ayatollah

9. See Misbah Yazdi (2006).


Misbah Yazdi directly addresses the question of whether „irfān or ta awwuf are to be regarded as heretical innovations, permissible innovations, or rather as the very kernel of Islam. The view he defends in the article is that „irfān or ta awwuf is

the kernel and spirit of it [Islam] which comes from the Qur'an and

prophetic sunnah, just as the other parts of Islam. It is not that it was

adapted from other schools of thought and trends, and the aspects

common to gnosis in Islam and other religions is no reason to hold

that Islamic gnosis was derived from them, just as the similarities

between the religious law (sharī„ah) of Islam and the heavenly

religious laws of the previous religions does not mean that the former

was derived from the latter. We approve of the last response to the

question, and we add that the assertion of the originality of Islamic

gnosis is not to condone whatever has been called gnosis or sufism in

Islam. (Misbah Yazdi 2006)

We might elaborate this idea somewhat differently: The ideas and practices that have come to be associated with Sufism (or „irfān) over the course of the centuries are rich and varied. Among them, there are some that should be rejected as heretical, some that may be considered as permissible innovations, in accordance with Qur‘an 57:27 ―And as for monasticism, they invented it themselves; we did not prescribe it for them, except for seeking the pleasure of Allah.‖ And, finally, some of these ideas and practices have been present in Islam from its origins and constitute its kernel and spirit. Likewise, with regard to the original elements of „irfān in Islam, some will be developed for the first time by Muslims; some will be found in common with other religions; and some might even be said to be reaffirmed by Islam while also found in Jewish or Christian traditions. For example, the idea of complete obedience to God was taught by Judaism and Christianity and reaffirmed by Islam, and this complete obedience is one of the elements of practical „irfān.

„Irfān means knowledge, and knowledge can be of various types. The Muslim philosophers have divided knowledge into al-„ilm al-huḍūrī (knowledge by presence) and al-„ilm al-ḥu ūlī (acquired knowledge). Knowledge by presence is what is directly known through one‘s experience of the object while al-„ilm al-ḥu ūlī is representational or conceptual knowledge. There are philosophical debates among the Muslim philosophers about how exactly to understand the difference between these two sorts of knowledge; for example, Ibn Sīnā and Suhrawardī had different views about what could be the object of knowledge by presence. The difference is often illustrated by the difference between knowing that sugar is sweet and knowledge through tasting the sweetness of the sugar. We have


knowledge by presence when we taste the sugar. In tasting we know the sweetness. Even if one had never tasted sugar, it could still be known from reports that sugar is sweet, but this would only be a theoretical or conceptual knowledge.

Given the difference between knowledge by presence and conceptual knowledge, we may ask: which of these sorts of knowledge is „irfān? The answer is: both! The „ārif (literally, knower) is one who achieves direct presentational knowledge of God. The literature through which the „ārif attempts to communicate to others the path to such knowledge and its aim conveys conceptual knowledge. The term „irfān is used both for the immediate knowledge by presence of God, and for the conceptual knowledge pertaining to what is uncovered by the „ārif. The term „irfān is thus used ambiguously for the direct experiential knowledge of the „urafā, and for the theories they developed about how to acquire this knowledge and its theological significance.

Wisdom (ḥikmat) is customarily divided into theoretical wisdom (al-ḥikmat al-naẓariyya) and practical wisdom (al-ḥikmat al-„amaliyya). Sometimes the term ḥikmat is also used for philosophy. Mullā adrā‘s philosophical view is called al-ḥikmat al-muta„āliyah, transcendental wisdom. In this view, elements of philosophy and „irfān have been brought into harmony. Like ḥikmat, „irfān is also customarily divided into theoretical „irfān and practical „irfān. Sometimes the term „irfān is used for theoretical „irfān, and Sufism, or ta awwuf, is used for practical „irfān. In Qom, if one says that one is studying „irfān with a professor, it is generally assumed that what is meant is theoretical „irfān, usually meaning the Sufi theory developed by Ibn ‗Arabī and those who subsequently developed his ideas. Although Ibn ‗Arabī‘s views may constitute the most famous form of Sufi theory, there are many others. All of these views together are examined and debated by the students of al-„irfān al-naẓarī.

Al-„Irfān al-„amalī, or practical Sufism, is often called sayr wa sulūk, spiritual wayfaring. It is also called faqr or poverty. What is meant here is not being without sufficient money, but realizing one‘s complete neediness before God. One who travels the path toward God is sometimes called a faqīr, a poor person, or a sālik, a wayfarer. The way that is followed is called the ṭarīqat, and this term is also used for the various Sufi orders. As a term of honor, one who has advanced on the spiritual path is called an „ārif, but authors who have written authoritatively on „irfān are also called „urafā‟. Today, the terms Sufi, faqīr, and, less frequently, darvīsh are usually reserved for those who have been initiated into any of the various Sufi orders, while sālik is


applied more generally.

„Irfān has various stages ranging from the elementary to the most profound. Practical „irfān or ta awwuf is the way by which a person moves from the superficial to the profound, from the exoteric to the esoteric, from the exterior to the interior, from ẓāhir to bāṭin. Sufis have compared this movement to the polishing of a mirror. The heart is like a mirror and when it becomes purified of all pollutions and obstructions, it reflects the divine light.

10 So, the pure soul sees God.

Hence, when ‗Alī (a) was asked: ―O Commander of the Faithful! Do you see the Lord when you devote yourself to worship?‖ He replied, ―Beware! I would not worship a God that I could not see.‖ He was asked how he could see God, and he replied: ―Beware! Eyes cannot see him with a glance; it is rather the hearts that see Him through the realities of faith.‖

11

One whose heart is free of all pollution so that it perfectly reflects divinity acts completely as the instrument of God, so that he becomes a locus of the manifestation of the divine attributes. So, in reading about the life of Imam ‗Alī (a) we find his knowledge a reflection of God‘s knowledge, his self-control a reflection of God‘s power, his mercy toward his opponents a reflection of God‘s mercy on sinners. This point is explained well by a contemporary Muslim author:

According to Islamic mysticism, one's knowledge of God as the most

beautiful and perfect being and the source of all good things that one

has and successively one‘s love for God who is love and mercy gets

so strong and encompassing that it will occupy all one‘s heart. At the

same time, knowledge of one's weakness and deficiencies in front of

God gets so intensive and deep that finally he will feel emptiness and

nothingness. As such a person loses his sense of I-ness and becomes

selfless, he will be identifiable with every type of goodness. From

nothingness, one reaches the position of everythingness. He will feel

no limitation or restriction. (Heydarpoor 1380/2001)

Controversies Among the Shi‗ah there has been an unfortunate history of hostility between some of the scholars of jurisprudence and some of the Sufis

10. See Schimmel (1994, 45, n. 81) and Arberry (1966, 113), where ‗Aṭṭār reports that Bāyazīd

Basṭāmī used this image. Imam ‗Alī is also reported to have used this image in his Khuṭbah

al-bayān found in Bursī‘s Mashāriq anwār, although there is controversy about the

authenticity of this sermon. For a translation of the sermon and discussion of the controversy

see Shah-Kazemi (2006, 187, 206-7).

11. This narration is found in Kulaynī‘s U ūl al-kāfī and in Shaykh adūq‘s al-Tawḥīd. See

Amir-Moezzi (1994, 47).


since the time of the Safavids, that is, at least since the seventeenth century. There was also political motivation for the hostility. The Safavid dynasty itself had begun as a Sufi order, and once it had come into power, it looked upon the other orders as potential threats. For their part, some dervishes had become infamous for pretending that they had become so spiritually advanced that they no longer needed to abide by the precepts of the Law or sharī„at. This led many of the jurists to view all Sufis with suspicion. Most Sufis, however, have followed the maxim of Ḥaydar Amulī that there can be no ṭarīqat without sharī„at. Among the „ulamā‟, spiritual wayfaring is usually found among those who are not attached to a specific initiatic Sufi order, but who follow instructions that are similar to those given in the orders for contemplation and the remembrance of God. Imam Khomeini and ‗Allāmah Ṭabāṭabā‘ī were both revered as „urafā‟ by some, but condemned as Sufis by others, although their renown has muted the condemnations greatly.

One of the sources of this controversy stems from the fact mentioned earlier about knowledge having various levels. Those who are more advanced on the path will have knowledge that cannot be properly understood by those less advanced. This provides a dodge for those who have strayed from the path—they will offer the pretext that they are misunderstood and that their accusers are superficial or at least have not arrived at the necessary depth. Reason should serve as a guide here. Spiritual advancement should not be taken as an excuse for moral failings or twaddle.

The importance of the use of reason is emphasized by Imam ‗Alī in the first sermon of Nahj al-balāghah, where he states that one of the purposes of the mission of the prophets has been to show them what is hidden in the intellects. Ayatollah Javādī Āmulī explains this by saying that human reason is like a mine into which one must dig in order to extract its treasures, and that one of the purposes of the prophetic mission has been to show us where to dig (Āmulī 1386/2007, 77). In another sermon from Nahj al-balāghah, Imam ‗Alī says: ―The intellects have not been informed of the extent of His attributes, but He has not concealed from them the knowledge they need of Him‖ (Nahj al-balāghah, Sermon 49; Āmulī 1386/2007, 211). Reason is a guide, but it has various levels. Sometimes different names are given to the different levels of the intellect,

12 and the lower

12. The term „aql is used for the faculty of discursive reason (Plato‘s dianoia) as well as for the

faculty of intellectual intuition (nous). Sometimes these two aspects of „aql are distinguished

and sometimes different terms are used for them.


levels are mocked by Sufis like Rūmī. The deeper levels of reason will not undermine what is soundly established at the less penetrating levels, even if what is deeper cannot be understood at lesser levels. So, to use Rūmī‘s analogy, if one uses a stick to discern that there is an obstacle before one, turning on the light will not make the obstacle disappear. To attempt to use the stick to discern the color of the obstacle, however, would be a mistake, and to speak of colors to one whose faculty of perception never surpassed the stick would be pointless, and analogies, such as ―red is like heat; blue is like coolness‖ could be misleading. Hence, there is a need to withhold and divulge knowledge in accordance with rational capacities.

The Commander of the Faithful (a) said: ―I have plunged into a secret

knowledge; if I revealed it, it would disturb you with a disturbance

like that of a long rope hanging in a deep well.‖ And he (a) said, while

pointing to his chest: ―Here there is much knowledge. If only I could

meet one who were able to bear it!‖

And Sayyid al-‗Ābidīn (a) said: ―If Abū Dharr knew what was in the

heart of Salmān, he would kill him.‖ And he [Imām ‗Alī (a)] said:

I hide the substance of my knowledge

So the ignorant do not see the Truth and go astray.

And in this regard Abū l-Ḥasan [Imām ‗Alī] was prior

To Ḥusayn, and to the trustee prior to him, Ḥasan.

If I were to publicize the substance of my knowledge

It would be said that I was of those who worship idols,

And the Muslims would consider it lawful to spill my blood,

They see that what I take to be evil they consider to be good.

(Kāshānī 1386/2007, §2)13

There are also serious controversies specifically over the „irfān of Imam ‗Alī (a). First, there are differences about the walāyah of Imam ‗Alī (a).

14 At one extreme, there are those who deify the Imam; this

and other heretical expressions of belief were explicitly condemned by the Imams themselves as guluww (extremism).

15 At the other extreme,

there are those who consider the walāyah as a relatively ordinary form of divine friendship, and who either deny the Imamate altogether or consider it to be little more than a designation for a social or spiritual status of rather limited authority.

13. All references to Kāshānī are to the section in which the passage occurs. Kalimāt-e

maknūnah is divided into one hundred sections or kalimāt (words). The translations are mine.

14. In early Shi‗ism walāyah is the special and close friendship of the Imam with God and the

Prophet (s), and at the same time it signifies that the Imam is the chief (mawlā) of the

believers. Secondly, it signifies the love of the Shi‗ah for the Imam. See Amir-Moezzi (1994,

159).

15. See Amir-Moezzi (1994, 125-31).


It is reported that the Commander of the Faithful (a) said, ―Consider me inferior to lordship, then say whatever you are able of my virtues, and the sea will not dry up and the secret of the unseen is unknown and the word of Allah is not described‖ (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §59).

Among Sufis who followed Sunni madhāhib with regard to the exoteric aspects of religion, a similar controversy developed with regard to the status of the quṭb, and a doctrine of the al-insān al-kāmil (perfected human being) was elaborated, most notably by Ibn ‗Arabī.

16

There are a number of other controversies regarding the „irfān of Imam ‗Alī (a), about the nature of his knowledge and how it was obtained and transmitted, and to whom. These questions pertain to the status of the Imam, and also to historical matters. In addition, there are controversies about what later developments are and are not consistent with the „irfān taught by Imam ‗Alī; but a detailed discussion of these controversies would only distract from the texts upon which any notion of the „irfān of Imam ‗Alī (a) must be founded.

The ‘Irfān of Imam ‘Alī (a) There are many sources by which one may become acquainted with the „irfān of Imam ‗Alī (a). For a review of the earliest narrations and their transmission, Modarressi‘s work is an indispensable guide to serious study. In English, there are narrations that Modarressi refers to as esoteric attributed to Imam ‗Alī in Nahj al-balāgha, in the collection of prayers called al-Ṣaḥīfah al-„ lawiyyah, in Amir-Moezzi‘s The Divine Guide in Early Shi„ism, and in other standard collections of Shi‗ite narrations that are gradually finding their way into English in various compilations of selections from Shaykh adūq, Kulaynī, Majlisī, and other compilers of narrations. An admirable work introducing the spirituality of Imam ‗Alī (a) that includes many of the important esoteric traditions has been written by Reza Shah-Kazemi. I have relied in what follows on my own unpublished translation of Fay Kāshānī‘s Kalimāt-e maknūnah. One should be cautious about attributing narrations. Historians point out that there are reasons to be suspicious about the narrations collected in even the most well known collections. The selection of narrations offered below does not aim at historical accuracy, but merely to an acquaintance with the sorts of esoteric narrations commonly attributed to Imam ‗Alī (a) on the basis of which some very general points may be observed about what we may call his „irfān.

16. Further research is needed on the interrelations between Shi‗i and Sufi concepts of walāyah.


„Irfān in the sense of knowledge by presence of God cannot be transmitted by words. Words can only help to show the way by giving clues about what to look for, and instructions to sharpen awareness. Often metaphors are used. Because of the ambiguity inherent in metaphors, a certain talent or training is required to understand properly what is taught by them.

It is reported that with regard to those who have wisdom, Imam ‗Alī (a) said:

Knowledge of the realities of affairs pounces upon them, and they

touch the spirit of certainty. They find easy what the pleasure seekers

find hard. They become familiar with that of which the ignorant are

terrified. They have dealings with the world by means of bodies

whose spirits are attached to a higher place. They are the stewards of

Allah on earth who invite to His religion. Oh! Oh! If only I could see

them! (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §98)

The same narration is found in slightly different wording addressed to Kumayl in Nahj al-balāghah. Imam ‗Alī (a) tells Kumayl that the earth is never devoid of those who openly or secretly stand up for God with authority. It is knowledge („ilm) that brings them to true insight (ḥaqīqah al-ba īrah) until they associate with the spirit of certainty (rūḥ al-yaqīn). ―They are of this world corporeally, while their spirits belong to a superior realm‖ (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §98; Nahj al-balāghah, ikmat 147).

An example of how the Commander of the Faithful (a) provided knowledge of God through dialogue and the use of metaphor is given in the following report:

[H]e was asked about the face of the Lord, the Exalted, then he called

for fire and wood, and when it was burning he said, ―Where is the face

of the fire?‖ The questioner said, ―Its face is on every side.‖ ‗Alī (a)

said, ―Thusly is this fire arranged and crafted, yet its face is not

known, and its Creator is not even like this, ―And Allah‘s is the East

and the West, therefore, wherever you turn, there you find the face of

Allah‖ (2:115); nothing is hidden from our Lord.‖ ( adūq 1416/1995,

182; Kāshānī 1386/2007, §14)

One of the most beautiful of the narrations that displays the „irfān of Imam ‗Alī is the following conversation alleged to have taken place between him and his devoted disciple Kumayl. It is reported that Kumayl asked Imam ‗Alī (a) about the truth (ḥaqīqah).

Then [Imam ‗Alī (a)] said, ―What‘s it to you, the Truth?‖ Then

Kumayl said, ―Am I not one of your confidants?‖ He (a) said, ―Yes,

perhaps that which overflows from me may trickle upon you.‖ Then

Kumayl said, ―Would someone like you disappoint one who came to


you with a question?!‖ Then the Commander of the Faithful (a) said,

―The Truth is the disclosure of the glories of Majesty without means

of allusion.‖

Kumayl: Explain more to me about this.

Imām ‗Alī (a): The elimination of the imaginary with the sober

consciousness of the known.

Kumayl: Explain more to me about this.

Imām ‗Alī (a): Rending the veil for the conquest of the mystery.

Kumayl: Explain more to me.

Imām ‗Alī (a): The attractiveness of Oneness due to the Attribute of

tawḥīd [Divine Unity].


Imām ‗Alī (a): A Light which is luminous from the dawn of eternity

and shines on the temples of tawḥīd which are its effects.


Imàm ‗Alī (a): Put out the lamp, for morning has broken. (Kāshānī

1386/2007, §11)

There are a number of points to ponder in this narration, and there have been a number of commentaries written on it. Here, in connection with the issue of secrecy we might notice that the conversation with Kumayl was private and the Imam considered Kumayl to have reached a capacity for understanding greater than most of his followers so that he would allow some of what overflowed from him to slake Kumayl‘s thirst for knowledge. So, the narration should not be considered a full report of everything that was said in the conversation; rather, it is a schematic outline of the guidance of a disciple in the form of dialogue.

Veils of doubt and uncertainty obscure the ordinary human understanding of divinity, and so we seek the guidance of the Imams, even if we fall short of the capacity of a Kumayl. The Imams are free from such doubts, as it is reported in a narration that the Commander of the Faithful (a) said, ―If the veil were removed, my certainty would not be increased‖ (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §59).

Because of his esoteric knowledge, the Imam is best able to interpret the verses of His book. In al-Tawḥīd, it is reported that interpreting Qur‘an 101:6, 8 (―Then as for him whose scales are heavy/And as for him whose scales are light‖), the Commander of the Faithful (a) said, ―The good deeds are what is heavy in the scale, and the evil is what is light in the scale‖ (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §72).

In the book Baṣā‘ir al-darajāt it is reported that al-Aṣbagh ibn Nubātah said, ―I was sitting with the Commander of the Faithful (a) when a man came and said to him, ‗O Commander of the Faithful! What does this [āyah] mean: ―And on the heights shall be men who


know all by their marks‖ [Qur‘an 7:46]?‘ ‗Alī (a) said to him, ‗We are the heights, and we know our helpers by their marks, and we are the heights such that Allah is not known except through knowledge of us, and we are the heights such that we stand there on the day of resurrection between the garden and the fire. No one enters the garden unless he knows us and we know him, and no one enters the fire unless he denies us and we deny him, and this is because if Allah, the blessed and exalted, wanted, He could make Himself known to people, so that they would know Him and come to Him through His gate; however, He made us His gates, His path, His way and the gate of entry to Him‘‖ (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §81).

As for the practical way by which „irfān is achieved, Fay Kāshānī records the following:

The Commander of the Faithful (a) is said to have spoken these

words: ―Verily, among the most beloved servants of Allah is the

servant whom Allah has assisted against himself, so that he becomes

aware of sorrow and puts on the garment of fear. Then the lamp of

guidance is ignited in his heart.… He removes the shirt of lust, and

empties himself of every endeavor except for one endeavor to which

he devotes himself exclusively. Then he takes leave of blindness and

dealings with the folk of desire, and he becomes a key to the doors of

guidance and a lock against the doors of wickedness. He has seen the

way (ţarīqah) and he fares his path. He knows the lighthouse, he cuts

off the flood and he clings to the firmest rope and the strongest

mountain. He has certainty, as of the shining of the sun.‖

In another report the Commander of the Faithful (a) said, ―He enlivens his heart and kills his self, until its magnificence becomes fine and its coarseness becomes subtle, a flash full of lightning flashes for him, and the way is illuminated for him and it draws him along the path, it repels him from other doors to the door of health, the abiding realm, his feet are made firm by corporeal calm in a place of security and comfort, by the employment of his heart and its pleasing his Lord.‖ He (a) also said, ―Knowledge is not in the heavens so that it should descend unto you, nor is it below the earth so that it should be brought out of it for you, rather knowledge is a propensity in your hearts.‖ Train yourselves by the manners of the spiritual people and it will appear to you. Something like this is found in the words of Jesus, peace be upon our Prophet and his folk and on him. (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §99)

It is reported that the Commander of the Faithful (a) said, ―Our ḥadīth is hard and makes for hardship, is tough and makes for trouble. So, give the people a little, and increase it for whoever understands, but stop for whoever denies it. Only three can bear it: the cherubim, a


commissioned prophet, and a believer whose heart has been tried by Allah for faith‖ (Kāshānī 1386/2007, §97).

Conclusion In conclusion, even with regard to this very brief introduction, it is possible to list the following features as being characteristic of the „irfān of the Commander of the Faithful (a):

1. „Irfān consists of both knowledge by presence and conceptual knowledge of God. The conceptual knowledge may be divided into theoretical and practical knowledge as reflections upon the experiential knowledge of God and the way of achieving and deepening it.

2. The way to „irfān is the path from the outward to the inward, from ẓāhir to bāţin.

3. Imam ‗Alī (a) is a fully realized human being who has achieved this knowledge at its most profound level, and who serves as a guide in this quest for those who seek God.

4. The knowledge possessed by the Imam makes him a place for the manifestation of the divine Names and Attributes.

5. The way requires God-wariness (taqwā), renunciation of the world, setting one‘s sights on the ultimate goal, worship, obedience, the acquisition of virtue, and self-knowledge. Through the remembrance (dhikr) and contemplation (fikr) of God one polishes the heart and sets out on the inner journey.

6. The way is perilous. Misunderstandings occur when one learns of truths beyond one‘s capacity.

7. Different people are capable of various degrees of knowledge.

Bibliography

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by D. Streight. Albany: State University of New York Press.

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Imam „ lī. London: I. B. Tauris.

Religious Inquiries


Kant’s Philosophy of Religion and the Challenges of

Moral Commitment1

Ronald M. Green2

Kant believes that the concepts of a just and compassionate God and the

life beyond death spring from our rational need to unite happiness with

virtue. But since Kant had banished happiness from any place in moral

reasoning, his philosophy of religion have been deemed as not merely

discontinuous with his ethics but radically opposed to it. This article tries

to argue against this apparent inconsistency and show that Kant‘s

philosophy of religion is in fact based firmly on his ethical reasoning.

Keywords: Philosophy of religion, moral commitment, happiness, virtue,

ethical reasoning.

The work of Immanuel Kant follows an arc from his theoretical philosophy to his ethics and finally to his philosophy of religion. That arc is indicated by Kant‘s three famous questions for philosophy: ―What can I know?‖ What ought I to do?‖ and ―What may I hope?‖ (Kant 1787/1929, 635 [A805; B833]).

Kant‘s sequence of inquiry suggests that each phase of his thinking was built on the one that preceded it. Thus, the theoretical philosophy sought to understand the relationship between sense experience and human reasoning, and culminated in the discovery of the a priori principles of human cognition. Working from the assumption that human conduct, too, requires an a priori organization, Kant sought the principles governing practical reason and found one in the categorical imperative.

When we turn to Kant‘s philosophy of religion, however, it is not 1. This paper was presented at the 3rd international conference on contemporary philosophy of

religion with focus on religion, ethics and culture, Tehran 2015.

2. Emeritus Professor of Religion, University of Dartmouth, Department of Religion. Email:

[email protected]


immediately clear how his thinking in this area arises from or builds on either the theoretical or practical philosophy. Kant‘s deals with religion primarily in the second half or ―Dialectic‖ of the Critique of Practical Reason and in the Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason. In these works, Kant argues that practical reason leads us to postulate the existence of a just and compassionate God and the reality of life beyond death. Both concepts, Kant argues, spring from our rational need to unite happiness with virtue. But since Kant had banished happiness from any place in moral reasoning, his philosophy of religion seems not merely discontinuous with his ethics but radically opposed to it.

In what follows, I intend to argue that this is not at all true. Kant‘s philosophy of religion is based firmly on his ethical reasoning. Kant‘s penetrating understanding of moral reason led him to perceive a serious problem at the heart of rational moral justification. This problem, Kant concluded, could only be resolved by introducing transcendent religious concepts, for which his theoretical philosophy by challenging both religious certainty and empirical dogmatism, had prepared the way. As Kant famously put it in the Critique of Pure Reason, ―I had to deny knowledge in order to make room for faith‖ (Kant 1787/1929, 29 [Bxxx]).

To better understand the logic of Kant‘s arguments, we must take a journey into contemporary moral philosophy. I am a student of John Rawls, the great twentieth century American moral philosopher. Although Rawls focused primarily on political philosophy, his most important work, A Theory of Justice, offers a method of moral reasoning that, as Rawls himself acknowledges, closely approximates and even illuminates Kant‘s ethics.

To create a just society, according to Rawls, we must imagine the basic principles of that society as being agreed to—literally voted on—by all participants in a purely hypothetical choice situation which he calls ―the original position of equality.‖ In the original position, says Rawls, all individual are permitted to pursue the satisfaction of their desires—their happiness. But, to render the resulting principles fair and not influenced by the accidents of good or bad fortune, all participants in the ―original position‖ must choose those principles from behind ―a veil of ignorance‖ that deprives them of all knowledge of the particular circumstances of their lives: their sex, race, ethnicity, economic position, family background, educational attainments and so on.

Choice under these circumstances leads to a largely egalitarian social order in which basic equal rights and liberties are held by

Kant’s Philosophy of Religion and the Challenges of Moral Commitment / 23

everyone, and in which economic differences are permitted only if, in the longer term, they benefit the least off members of society.

I won't further develop Rawls‘s political views and their implications for moral reasoning. For our purposes what is important are the ways in which Rawls‘s thinking illuminates Kant‘s ethics, a theme about which Rawls has written (Rawls 1971, section 40).

1 In

brief, both Rawls‘s ―original position‖ and his concept of the ―veil ignorance‖ are echoed in Kant‘s categorical imperative. That principle states: ―Act only in accordance with that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it become a universal law‖ (Kant 1785/1996, 73 [4:421]). As the very wording indicates, implied here is an imagined legislative conception very similar to that of Rawls. In choosing to act, each of us must assess our implicit policy (our maxim) in terms of its likelihood of acceptance by all other rational agents as a law governing everyone‘s conduct.

2

It is true that the kind of rational impartiality and objectivity built into Rawls‘s original position by the veil of ignorance is not immediately indicated here. It is suggested by many of Kant‘s other ideas, including the formulation of the categorical imperative that requires us to respect human and rational nature as an end in itself. But above all it is contained in Kant‘s insistence that our particular needs and desires (our personal conceptions of happiness) must not be the governing considerations in our thinking. Kant‘s criticism of making happiness the ―determining ground‖ (Bestimmungsgrund) of our willing is not directed at happiness itself. Indeed, Kant states at the very beginning of the second Critique that ―to be happy is necessarily the demand of every rational but finite being and therefore an unavoidable determining ground of its faculty of desire‖ (Kant 1788/1996, 159 [5:25]). But Kant‘s great insight, no less than Rawls, is that everyone‘s enduring well-being and happiness is predicated on our willingness to put selfish pursuits aside. Within a moral community, no one can make their own personal happiness the supreme consideration governing their willing. That is a prescription for anarchy. For the common good, everyone must subordinate their pursuit of personal happiness to those rules they could advocate under conditions of impartiality.

At this point, however, a profound question and problem of moral reasoning arises. That question is ―Why should I be moral?‖ Why in formulating the rules that govern my life, should I put aside all my 1. See also Taylor (2011).

2. For a fuller discussion of this, see Green (1991, 163-79).


self-knowledge, including the knowledge of my strengths and assets, and reduce myself to a shared human condition? Even before Rawls made clear the impartiality requirement in moral reasoning, this ―Why Should I be moral?‖ question has drawn the interest of contemporary rationalist moral philosophers—and has elicited various efforts to answer it.

One entire line of thinking holds that the question itself makes no sense because our very understanding of morality answers it. It is the very nature of morality to trump self-interest. This position is well stated by the philosopher Kurt Baier:

Moralities are systems of principles whose acceptance by everyone as

overruling the dictates of self-interest is in the interest of everyone

alike . . . .The answer to our question ―Why should I be moral?‖ is

therefore as follows. We should be moral because being moral is

following rules designed to overrule self-interest whenever it is in the

interest of everyone alike that everyone should set aside his interest.

(Baier 1958, 314)

Baier here offers what amounts to a general rational justification of the institution of morality and its subordination of self-interest to the interests of everyone. And he is right that it is in everyone‘s best interest, taken as a whole, for there to be the institution of morality and for everyone to do their part in sustaining it. But we are not now looking at this matter from the standpoint of ―everyone‖ taken as whole. We are looking at it from our own particular standpoint as someone whose interests are threatened by moral obedience.

3

To put this another way, Baier‘s answers—and the answers of all who point here to the general usefulness of morality—involves a form of circular reasoning. It is clear that if we look at matters impartially, we would all advocate subordinating self-interest to our collective interests. But when I am in a specific situation where my self-interest is at risk, and I ask, ―Why should be moral?‖ it will not do to tell me that I should look at the matter impartially because it is that very impartial standpoint that I am calling into question.

The question ―Why should I be moral?‖ thus finds us in an unusual and unique situation of rational indetermination. Ordinarily, when I am pulled in different directions by two pressing desires or goals, it is rational for me to try to put aside the immediate attraction of each one, and evaluate the two desires or goals impartially and objectively. This is the essence of reasoning. But in the acute conflict situation when

3. This criticism of Baier’s argument is offered by Mavrodes (1986).


moral reasoning vies with rational self-interest our very means of ordering the dispute breaks down. For as Baier‘s inadequate answer shows, resort to impartiality here always favors obeying morality, and it is that very obedience that is under question.

There have been many other attempts to answer the question ―Why should I be moral?‖ A leading one today, bolstered by the authority of science, is that morality is built into our DNA as a result of our evolution in collaborative groups. Simply put, those of us who did not feel and heed the tug of duty were eventually excluded from group protections and failed to survive. However, while such answers may offer an explanation of why we experience feelings of moral obligation, they will not answer the justificatory question of why it is rational for me to privilege such obligation. After all, there are many built-in evolutionary impulses such as my attraction to high calorie foods that I rationally decide to resist when it is not in my best interests to act on them. Why should this not apply as well to the impulse to morality?

Thus we can say that contemporary moral theory has exposed a profound problem for moral reasoning. While it has made the logic of morality clearer than ever before, it has also heightened the challenge of justifying an individual‘s moral obedience.

This brings us back to Kant, who I believe, perceived this problem at the heart of moral reasoning more clearly than any philosopher before him. As soon as he had completed his analysis of the logic of practical reason in the first book or ―Analytic‖ of Critique of Practical Reason, Kant turned in the second book or ―Dialectic‖ to the concept of the highest good. He defines this as involving a state of the world in which virtue and happiness are possessed by each person and in which ―happiness [is] distributed in exact proportion to morality (as the worth of a person and his worthiness to be happy)‖ (Kant 1788/1996, 229 [5:110]. Where the highest good is realized, each person holds moral obedience as his or her top priority, but is also able to experience happiness in direct proportion to that commitment.

We may ask why Kant, after having put happiness aside as an object of moral reason not only reintroduces it here, but would have it in exact proportion to virtue, with there not being a single instance of virtue going without its reward.

The answer, I believe, has to do with the problem of individual moral justification. We have seen that no indisputable rational answer can be given to the individual who, when self-interest is at risk, asks, ―Why should I be moral.‖ This puts each moral agent in a quandary.


He or she may be deeply inclined to doing what moral reason bids, but whichever way he or she proceeds, reason in the form of morality or prudential reason issues a commanding ―No.‖ If the individual chooses to act immorally, one‘s rational conscience will offer its unavoidable condemnation. But even in acting morally, self-interest in the form of rational prudence will raise its objection: ―Aren‘t you being foolish to sacrifice yourself and those you love in the name of impartial morality?‖ This quandary can lead to moral paralysis, or worse, choice in a direction that results in inevitable self-blame and remorse.

None of this would be true, of course, if morality and personal happiness could never diverge, if every moral act, however seemingly self-sacrificial, led to a proportionate measure of personal well being. Note, too, that the correspondence must be exact. It is not enough here to argue, as a Baier might do, that morality is generally conducive to everyone‘s well being, because only the absolute confidence that one‘s own well being will not be sacrificed can prevent a conflict between moral and prudential reason. But this exact correspondence between virtue and happiness is what the highest good means, and Kant has introduced it, I believe, precisely to address the question and problem we have identified.

Now, however, the response to the question of moral justification is raised to a still higher level. If the state of affairs signaled by the concept of the highest good is attainable, our problem is resolved. But is the highest good possible? Is it possible for moral conduct in the world to reach a state where there is not a single instance in which moral agents will see a discrepancy between their moral choices and the happiness they seek and deserve? Significantly, Kant‘s argument now turns to this question.

Before doing so, however, Kant is compelled to address an answer to the question of the possibility of the highest good, which he judges to be misleading and inadequate. This is the answer offered by the Greek schools of philosophy, notably the Stoic and Epicurean schools. Despite their differences, both schools saw an intrinsic linkage between virtue and happiness. In Kant‘s terms, both saw the virtue and happiness as analytically related, with the concept of virtue necessarily implying proportionate happiness. They did so by focusing on the ―self-contentment‖ (Selbstzufriedenheit) or ―peace of mind‖ (Seelenruhe) that they believed necessarily accompanied all moral willing. When a person resists impulsive and selfish desires and does the right thing, both schools taught, he or she experiences a state of calm well being—contentment—which is virtue‘s own reward. Thus,


morality may sometimes appear to require the sacrifice of one‘s happiness in the relinquishment of immediate satisfactions, but it more than pays back these sacrifices with a form of well-being that is higher, purer, and more enduring.

But Kant will have none of this. In a telling paragraph at this point in the second Critique he characterizes this whole argument as involving a kind of optical illusion, which confuses happiness, which is the object of our natural impulses and desires, with the pleasure we obtain from the exercise of reason whenever it disciplines those same impulses and desires. But it is happiness at which our reasoned willing aims, and it cannot be replaced by a state of mind merely associated with its pursuit.

In addition to this, in a passage at this juncture in the Critique Kant points out the circularity involved in taking the contentment associated with moral action as morality‘s reward:

If a human being is virtuous he will certainly not enjoy life without

being conscious of his uprightness in every action . . . but in order to

make him virtuous in the first place, and so before he he esteems the

moral worth of his existence so highly, can one commend to him the

peace of mind [Seelenruhe] that will arise from the consciousness of

an uprighteness for which he as yet has no sense? (Kant 1788/1996,

233 [5:116])

Here Kant is criticizing essentially the same kind of circular reasoning that we find in many contemporary efforts to answer the question ―Why should I be moral?‖ In all these cases the individual is urged to answer this question by taking an impartial standpoint—here it is the standpoint of our approving moral conscience—the adoption of which is the very thing being questioned.

The failure of such analytic answers to our question leads Kant to assert that the union of virtue and happiness is not definitional in this way, but synthetic: it involves a real causal relation. In our possible experience, virtue must actually be rewarded with proportionate happiness.

But how is this possible? This returns us to the question of the possibility of the highest good, and it brings us directly to the center of Kant‘s philosophy of religion. At this point in the second Critique, Kant introduces two ―postulates‖ of practical reason. These are beliefs whose possibility must be affirmed if we wish to provide coherence to the whole structure of practical reason. The first of these is the postulate of the immortality of the soul, which Kant believes is needed to ensure eventual attainment of the degree of virtue associated with


the highest good. The second is the postulate of the existence of God, understood as the supreme cause of nature who is able to proportion happiness to individuals in keeping with the worth of their moral disposition.

I will not go into these postulates at length. My focus is on the moral challenges that underlie Kant‘s philosophy of religion rather than the outlines of his religious beliefs. The first postulate, in any case, appears to have had a rather short lived presence in Kant‘s thinking since it is replaced by a focus on divine grace in the Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason after Kant had discovered the problem of radical evil. The second postulate is the familiar idea of a righteous, omnipotent, and omniscient God who can bend nature, which seems radically indifferent to morality, to God‘s moral will.

Kant‘s introduction of the second postulate as an aspect of practical reason is sometimes called his ―moral proof of the existence of God,‖ but nothing could be further from the truth. Not only is this not a proof, because Kant‘s epistemology rules out either theoretical or experiential demonstrations of truths beyond our world of sense experience, but also, and more directly, because the beliefs associated with these postulates in themselves are in no way rationally required. Near the end of the Critique of Practical Reason, Kant describes the highest good and the transcendent beliefs associated with it as ―a voluntary determination of our judgment‖ arising from our moral disposition. He adds, ―It can therefore often waver even in the well-disposed but can never fall into unbelief‖ (Kant 1788/1996, 257 [5:146].

What Kant is telling us, I think—and what the whole argument in the ―Dialectic‖ of the second Critique is trying to help us understand—is that human practical reason is essentially and unavoidably in conflict with itself. The commands of prudential reason—the form of reason that aims at securing our happiness—and the commands of moral reason—the reason that governs everyone‟s pursuit of happiness—appear inevitably to clash. If we wish, we can choose to live with this. We can freely heed just one side of reason, prudence or morality, and live with condemnation from the other side. But, we have another choice. Although we can never opt for prudence without incurring moral self-blame, we can choose to heed the voice of conscience and adopt those transcendent religious beliefs whose possible reality silences all complaints from the side of prudential reason.

We can see therefore that Kant is not proving anything to anyone who rejects belief in God or a commitment to morality, nor is he


saying that we are rationally required to be moral and accept the religious postulates. Rather, he is developing the underlying rational assumptions of those who have already chosen to commit to morality and who seek to rationally understand and justify that commitment to themselves. The religious beliefs identified by Kant are best thought of as the conceptual underpinnings of a free commitment to both morality and rationality.

Kant is keenly aware that belief in the truth of the postulates takes us beyond the accustomed sphere of our cognition, which relies on phenomenal experience to gain knowledge of the world. Indeed, in the first Critique he had demolished transcendental religious proofs that involved flights of thought into realms beyond our possible experience. Thus, in the closing pages of the second Critique he addresses a final major question by asking whether it is rationally allowable to entertain beliefs beyond the reach of theoretical knowledge. Can we rationally accept the beliefs associated with a moral faith even when these beliefs receive no support from our experiential knowledge?

Answering this question, Kant points out that every function of reason has an ―interest.‖ The interest of theoretical reason—or as he calls it here, ―speculative reason‖— consists in restricting ―speculative mischief‖ and ―rejecting as empty subtle reasoning everything that cannot accredit its objective reality by manifest examples to be shown in experience‖ (Kant 1788/1996, 237 [5:120]). But, says Kant, practical reason, too, has an interest. This involves ―the determination of the will with respect to the final and complete end‖ (Kant 1788/1996, 237 [5:120]). This final and complete end, we know, is the concept of the highest good, which entails holding to the possible truth of the transcendent religious postulates.

Can speculative reason then prohibit the holding of beliefs that go beyond its warrant? ―No,‖ Kant firmly replies. If what was involved here were mere private wishes and beliefs, speculative flights would not be allowed. But in cases where the very viability of practical reason is at stake, practical reason must take priority, since, in Kant‘s words, ―all interest is ultimately practical and even that of speculative reason is only conditional and is complete in practical use alone‖ (Kant 1788/1996, 238 [5:121]).

What Kant is correctly telling us here, I think, is that our very lives as member of communities of rational beings rest on our respect for the moral law. While it is important for our existence that we preserve the ordered pursuit of knowledge, including sound scientific and philosophical inquiry, even these activities depend on respect for


morality. Indeed, a philosophy or a science unfettered by moral restraint would be worse than no such knowledge at all. So if certain religious beliefs going beyond the reach of scientific or empirical proof or disproof (but not contradicting certain knowledge) are needed to support the moral life, then these beliefs are rationally allowable, and speculative reason has the duty of trying to knit them up with everything else it knows.

This concludes my exposition of the main outlines of Kant‘s religious arguments in the second Critique. I could stop here since I believe I have explained how these arguments rest on a keen understanding of the challenges posed by commitment to reasoned morality, insights that Kant came to only after developing a full understanding of morality‘s rational basis. But I want to go a bit further now and show how these insights, once again in conjunction with a penetrating understanding of the nature of moral reasoning, led Kant to adopt several other beliefs from our biblically-derived religious traditions, notably a belief in the radical imperfection of human moral willing and our need for completing the moral project with the support of divine grace. The issues here are so complex, that I can only sketch some of Kant‘s chief arguments.

I believe that when Kant undertook the project of his critical philosophy late in life, he did not see all the conclusions to which his work would lead. This is especially true where the practical philosophy is concerned. Thus, I suspect that when he wrote the Foundations of the Metaphysics of Morals, where almost no mention is made of the religious underpinnings of morality, he did not yet fully understand the logic of the religious positions he only sensed lay ahead. Even more so, when finishing the Critique of Practical Reason, I believe he did not yet see how his arguments there would undermine our ability to achieve the moral worthiness required by the concept of the highest good, and would lead to his rediscovery of the problem of human sin in the Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason.

This latter problem has its start in the insight that human beings are rationally free either to accept or reject obedience to the moral law. I say ―rationally free‖ because, as the argument I have outlined reveals, our freedom to be immoral extends to the exercise of reason itself. It is not just that instinct and desire sometimes overpower reason, as the Greek moral philosophers believed. Rather, reason itself succumbs to selfishness because reason cannot unequivocally justify its moral commands. As we have seen, in instances of difficult moral choice reason‘s two employments, prudence and morality, can conflict and there is no resolution of the dispute by appeal to a third or higher


exercise of reason that does not involve circularity. We can be moral and rational, but as Kant‘s arguments show, doing so requires resort to religious beliefs that we are not rationally required to hold. Thus, reason itself is implicated in wrongdoing. We are free—radically free as rational beings—to accept or reject morality, to heed the voice of conscience or to ignore it and selfishly pursue our personal happiness.

There is no hint of these insights in the ―Dialectic‖ of the second Critique. There Kant sees the challenge before the moral individual as one of choosing morality and the religious beliefs needed to support it. Any moral failures along the way are made up for in the unending opportunity for renewed virtue afforded by the postulate of immortality. Sin never enters into the picture. But five years later, with the 1793 publication of the Religion, Kant‘s insights have deepened. Now he sees that the degree of human moral freedom that he had discovered in the second Critique opens the way to perpetual human moral transgressions.

Several acute moral insights drive Kant to this conclusion. One is the recognition, just mentioned, that when caught between obeying morality or selfishly pursuing our vital personal interests, we are free—and not just free in the sense that we can impulsively act irrationally, but that we are rationally free to move in either direction. The second insight is the observation that moral reason cannot permit even a single instance of defection from obedience to the moral law. In other words, the categorical imperative is universal not just in its extension in space—we must always take into account the interests of all other moral agents—but in time as well. If we are to regard ourselves as morally worthy, every act of our willing—in our past, present, and future—must evidence our giving priority to duty over self-interest.

This seems odd. Why must I be absolutely good, and why must I commit myself to the unerring choice of duty over self-interest? Isn‘t there an acceptable middle ground somewhere between outright selfishness and total commitment to duty, a partial or conditional acceptance of duty? For example, can‘t I will to obey the categorical imperative in most cases, except when the most urgent personal needs intrude? On these rare occasions can‘t I give myself license to defect from duty? And in doing so, am I not a morally better person than one who never or rarely takes duty into account?

Kant‘s answer to these questions, developed in the opening pages of the first book of Religion, is a firm ―no.‖ There is no mid-position between absolute obedience to duty and the outright rejection of duty. Kant explains this in the following words:


The moral law in the judgment of reason, is itself an incentive . . . and

whoever makes it his maxim is morally good. Now, if the law fails

nevertheless to determine somebody‘s free power of choice with

respect to an action relating to it, an incentive opposed to it must have

influence on the power of choice of the human being in question; and

since, by hypothesis, this can only happen because this human being

incorporates the incentive (and consequently also the deviation from

the moral law) into his maxim (in which case he is an evil human

being), it follows that his disposition as regards the moral law is never

indifferent (never neither good nor bad). (Kant 1793/1996, 73 [6:24])

What Kant is saying here, I believe, is that any conditional or qualified commitment to the moral law is really no commitment at all, because its ultimate determining ground, the tie-breaker in all cases of conflict, is self-interest. It is true that people who make a conditional commitment to morality may vary in terms of the threshold they set for the point at which self-interest takes priority over duty. But all fail to absolutely prioritize duty above self-interest, and in this respect, all are equally unworthy.

This derivation of the unyielding priority of the moral law—Kant‘s so-called moral rigorism— leads him directly to the discovery of universal human sinfulness. For even a single free past immoral choice—and who can say that they have never once freely chosen wrongly—betrays a will not firmly oriented to moral obedience. Looking forward, who can say that their moral dedication is so firm that they will never fail to prioritize morality? From these insights, Kant is led to agree with the biblical conclusion that no morally honest human being can attest to his or her own self-worth. All have fallen short and all must confess the possibility that at its root their will may be morally deficient. Here we see the discovery of the doctrine of radical evil that marks the whole first book of the Religion.

With this discovery, Kant‘s philosophy of religion rooted in the concept of the highest good faces a new challenge. In the second Critique, the highest good was imperiled by the possible disconnection of virtue from worldly happiness. But now, it is the integrity of virtue itself that is in question. For if all human beings fall fatally short of virtue how can the human project—or each human individual—achieve the goal of the highest good, and be anything but a moral failure? Above all, how can we rationally commit and recommit to moral striving in the face of the despair that accompanies such moral self-condemnation?

Kant‘s answer to these questions involves a concept of divine grace. He introduces this in the Religion and returns to it five years


later in his 1798 treatise The Conflict of the Faculties. This concept had never before been suggested in Kant‘s writings, and for good reason, for as Kant perceives, the idea of a morally supportive divine grace seems to challenge the very autonomy—free and willed choice—on which morality depends. If my willing is renewed or sustained by God, how can I take credit for my moral accomplishments? How can grace ease my negative self-estimate if it is not me who wills but God?

I am not going to closely examine Kant‘s answers to these questions. These answers are so insightful and have generated so much additional commentary in the secondary literature that doing so would require me to deliver another address. Suffice it to say here that in resolving the moral problem of grace, Kant reapplies the basic approach he had developed in the first Critique. There he had shown that the apparent contradiction between our certainty of causal determinism and our experience of human moral freedom can be resolved by an admission that we are incapable of understanding ultimate reality—things in themselves—and that these limits to our cognition also forbid us from dogmatically denying that moral freedom is possible. Similarly, now with regard to grace, he affirms that the limits of our knowledge prevent us from understanding how our moral freedom, in the form of a renewed striving for moral goodness in the wake our own failures, can be compatible with divine assistance, but that the same limits also prevent us from denying that grace and moral freedom can cohere. What is important, Kant concludes, is that we renew and continue our moral striving. A rationally permissible practical faith in God‘s gracious goodness makes this rationally possible.

On this note, I will conclude. I have elucidated a dizzying maze of concepts, and I clearly cannot defend every move that Kant makes or my interpretations of them. What I have tried to convey is that the whole edifice of Kant‘s philosophy of religion rests on the base of his ethics and the startling new problems and challenges which that ethics revealed. More than two hundred years later, Kant‘s understanding of ethics and its challenges continues to merit our keen attention.

Bibliography

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Green, Ronald M. 1991. ―The First Formulation of the Categorical Imperative as

Literally a ‗Legislative‘ Metaphor.‖ History of Philosophy Quarterly 8(2):

163-179.

Kant, Immanuel. 1785/1996. ―Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals.‖ In


Immanuel Kant Practical Philosophy, translated and edited by Mary J.

Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

—————. 1787/1929. Critique of Pure Reason. Translated by Norman Kemp

Smith. New York, Toronto: Macmillan and St. Martin‘s Press.

—————.1788/1996. ―Critique of Practical Reason.‖ In Immanuel Kant Practical

Philosophy, translated and edited by Mary J. Gregor. Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press.

—————.1793/1996. ―Religion within the Boundaries of Mere Reason.‖ In

Religion and Rational Theology, translated by George di Giovanni.

Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

Mavrodes, George I. 1986. ―Religion and the Queerness of Morality.‖ In Rationality,

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Rawls, John. 1971. ―The Kantian Interpretation.‖ In A Theory of Justice. Cambridge,

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Taylor, Robert. 2011. Reconstructing Rawls: The Kantian Foundations of Justice as

Fairness. Pennsylvania State University Press.

Religious Inquiries


Critical Virtue Ethics

Jochen Schmidt1

Since the publication of Anscombe‘s famous paper ―Modern Moral

Philosophy‖ (1958), virtue ethics has become a matter of discussion

among scholars. At least four charges hav

Documents

Religious Inquiriesri.urd.ac.ir/article_45338_1219339a4ebfe73185610d492ee78faf.pdf · Religious Inquiries Volume 3, No. 5, Winter and Spring 2014, 5-20 The ‘Irfan of the Commander