Towards the end of Way to Wisdom, after noting how specialization has fragmented modern thought, Karl Jaspers writes that

One might wish for a philosophy that would encompass and assimilate the whole tradition, that would be equal to the intellectual situation of our time, that would express the contents common to all of us, and this both in sublime intellectual constructions and in simple propositions capable of finding resonance in every man.

What is the correct way to interpret terms when they are used to signify divine attributes? In The Guide of the Perplexed Maimonides addresses this perennial problem. I shall discuss his solution, and on the basis of that discussion I shall attempt to shed light on the question of the relationship between Maimonides' solution and that of St Thomas Aquinas, Maimonides' most illustrious critic. I wish to argue that on this most important of issues the difference between these two universal figures is a good deal less than might readily be supposed. But first it should be said that Maimonides did not make things easy for those of later generations who have sought his help. Part of our difficulty with the Guide is rooted in the pastoral concern which Maimonides had for the strength of faith of those in his care. He recognized that certain of his doctrines lent themselves to misinterpretations which could lead to loss of faith. And we should scarcely expect the greatest leader of twelfth-century Jewry to ignore such a risk. His solution was to write the Guide on two levels, for two classes of people, the philosophically sophisticated and the multitude. Evidently a book which is both esoteric and exoteric leaves room for dispute about the author's intentions. And disputes have duly taken place. But there is a consensus on one critically important matter, namely, the purpose of the Guide. It was written in order to provide a philosophical interpretation of the Bible for conscientiously observant Jews who have at the same time been successful in their philosophical studies. Those studies might set the faith of such Jews at risk, and Maimonides’ intention is to protect their faith. In accepting this as his intention I am taking him at his word.

Philosophers have tended to discuss theistic proofs (and theistic disproofs) largely in abstraction from their specific roles within the religious traditions in which those proofs were cultivated and in which, until modern times, they flourished. As a result, the traditional theistic proofs of the West are generally presented in the philosophical literature as no more than (failed) attempts to demonstrate or within tolerable limits to establish the probability of the existence of at least one god. Whatever the history of philosophy may suggest, the history of religions shows that theistic proofs have been developed from a variety of motives and have been employed to a variety of ends, only one of which is to persuade someone not already so inclined to believe that god/s exist. Indeed, this latter purpose is fairly subsidiary in the history of religions. A survey of the place and roles of theistic proofs and disproofs within a range of religious traditions, Eastern as well as Western, suggests that in the main they were used to serve intra-traditional ends. Their principal function seems to have been more nearly explanatory than justificatory. Even when they aimed them outside the tradition and used them to apologetic ends, purveyors of the proofs tended to assume prior belief in god/s on the part of their intended audience.

Twenty years ago I attempted to clarify thinking about Judaism in proposing a more refined terminology which, if properly used, would eliminate the all too frequent fallacies of equivocation by which discussion is bedevilled (‘Defining Judaism:Some Ground-Clearing’, Jewish Journal of Sociology, VII, 2, 1965, pp. 153–75). It is not my purpose here simply to exhume that article: on the other hand, I do not feel that I can usefully begin again ab initio, since the situation has not been radically transformed as it had been in the thirty years preceding 1965. The two decades since and including the Six Days War have witnessed much entrenchment of position, intensification of doctrinaire assertion, and heightening of enthusiasm, but little inclination (until the Lebanon War began to stimulate it in Israel) towards questioning what have become popularly accepted axioms:and it is still the case that anyone who dares to question the assumption that Israeli national sovereignty now is, and for all time will remain, a sine qua non for the survival of Judaism will not get much of a hearing. What I intend here is to reconsider my earlier findings from the angles of belief, authority, and peoplehood, particularly since I feel that the last-mentioned had perhaps been allowed inadequate weight in my previous endeavour. I consequently repeat here, for convenience of reference, the terminological distinctions proposed in that article, together with the tentative working definition of Judaism with which it concluded. I doubt its usefulness, save from a negative standpoint, i.e. what it excludes. But if we are to consider peoplehood, we need to know who, and what, is a Jew: and the only uniquely valid definition of a Jew that satisfies me is a transmitter of Judaism. The question seems to me otherwise meaningless without some terms of reference, e.g. who is a Jew for purposes of joining synagogue X, or speaking for Anglo-Jewry or world Jewry at forum Y, or qualifying for Israeli citizenship under the law of return, etc. Here, then, is my tentative formula:

Philosophers often distinguish in some way between two (or more) senses of life's meaning. Paul Edwards terms these a ‘cosmic’ and ‘terrestrial’ sense. The cosmic sense is that of an overall purpose of which our lives are a part and in terms of which our lives must be understood and our purposes and interests arranged. This overall purpose is often identified with God's divine scheme, but the two need not necessarily be equated. The terrestrial sense of meaning is the meaning people find (subjectively) in their own lives apart from the place of their lives in any ultimate end or context.

The main lines of this exploration are quite simply drawn. That the God whom Jews, Christians, and Muslims worship outstrips our capacities for characterization, and hence must be unknowable, will be presumed as uncontested. The reason that God is unknowable stems from our shared confession that ‘the Holy One, blessed be He’, and ‘the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth’, and certainly ‘Allah, the merciful One’ is one; and just why God's oneness entails God's being unknowable deserves discussion, though that will occur as we move along. The issue facing us is the one which preoccupied al-Ghazali: how does a seeker respond to that unknowability?

The root meaning of the Arabic word for ‘student’ (tawlib) means ‘seeker’, and that attitude of ‘seeking the face of God’, along with the indescribability of the face, will be presumed throughout our discussion. That's why we are struck with the clumsy term ‘unknowable’ rather than its more euphonious Greek form ‘agnostic’. For Western agnostics are such largely because they cannot find God sufficiently compelling, while they ‘would not have the impudence to claim to be atheists’ – as one contemporary seeker puts it. So theologians feel it necessary to enclose the term in quotation marks when discussing, say, Aquinas' ‘agnosticism’ regarding divinity. Yet a genuine unknowing does lie at the heart of the inquiry of the Jew, Christian or Muslim seeking after God; indeed, it is the unknowing which distinguishes a search for God from lusting after idols. So let us follow al-Ghazali in an effort to discover the lineaments of both search and seeker after an unknowable God.

Is God's foreknowledge compatible with human freedom? One of the most attractive attempts to reconcile the two is the Ockhamistic view, which subscribes not only to human freedom and divine omniscience, but retains our most fundamental intuitions concerning God and time: that the past is immutable, that God exists and acts in time, and that there is no backward causation. In order to achieve all that, Ockhamists (I) distinguish ‘hard facts’ about the past which cannot possibly be altered from ‘soft facts’ about the past which are alterable, and (2) argue that God's prior beliefs about human actions are soft facts about the past.

Knowledge is desirable both for its own sake (because it is something most of us, from curiosity, want) and because without it we will not be able to take the right means to whatever ends we happen to have. Much knowledge is interesting to oneself and others as well as useful, and a man without it will be an impoverished bore, as well as being unsuccessful in his enterprises.

What has become known as the ‘faith/history’ problem for historical religions like Christianity centres on the attempt to combine the ontological decisiveness, for faith, of an historical event characterized as an actual Incarnation of God with the epistemological indifference, or irrelevance, of historical information about that event which is decisive for faith. Without the former there is nothing to be related to or personally appropriated; without the latter faith is rendered vulnerable to the vagaries of historical research. Soren Kierkegaard's Climacus writings – the Philosophical Fragments and the Concluding Unscientific Postscript – provide a classic formulation of the inherent tension. Twentieth-century variations on the same theme are found in the writings of Paul Tillich and Rudolf Bultmann, among others. In what follows I want to highlight an element in Kierkegaard's Climacus account which crucially distinguishes his attempt to deal with the faith/history relation from other attempts to deal with it, and thus offers what I suggest is a novel approach to overcoming the tension. This element – effectively a kind of a priori or conceptual proof – has been neglected, and whatever one's final judgement on its contribution to the problem as a whole, a consideration of it and its implications is, at the very least, integral to a full understanding of the thought-experiment in the Fragments. Moreover, in the process, useful light can be shed indirectly on twentieth-century attempts to deal with the faith/history problem.

The following is the text of a memorial lecture given in London, at the Royal Asiatic Society, on Thursday 10 November 1983, as part of the celebrations held to mark the centenary of Louis Massignon (1883–1962), the most famous French Islamic specialist of the century, and a leading Catholic intellectual.

The main body of Meynell's book The Intelligible Universe divides into two parts of roughly equal length. It is argued in the first that the universe manifests the property of ‘intelligibility’, and in the second that this could not be so unless there were ‘something analogous to human intelligence in the constitution of the world’ (p. 68). The concern of this article is limited to the argument of the first part. It will be maintained that it consists of three intertwined arguments which, when disentangled, turn out not to be mutually supportive, as Meynell intends, but logically incompatible, and that neither singly nor in synthesis do they yield a notion of universal intelligibility which could provide the basis of an argument for the existence of God.

The purpose of this article is to develop a solution to the problem of evil within the context of a ‘revisionist' concept of God. The traditional approach to the problem of evil has been to assume one particular model of God, and then to ascertain how evil can be reconciled with that model. I hope to demonstrate that this is a mistake. What needs to be done, rather, is to acknowledge the existence of evil, and to ask whether this problem is generated by a faulty model of God. What I shall contend is that it is the traditional concept of God which generates this area of philosophical and theological perplexity, not the nature and function of evil. In particular, I shall attempt to show that the problem admits of a much more acceptable solution if the Christian believer abandons the notion of God as ‘a person’ or a disembodied agent, and conceives of God in a less overtly ‘personalistic’ manner.

Traditional discussions of miracles focus primarily on the issue of whether miracle reports are credible, either in fact or in principle, and whether they could be used as the foundation for theistic belief. Some commentators (such as Hume and Mackie decide that such reports are not credible; others decide that they are, or at least that they can be (Swinburne, Davies). All parties to this dispute presuppose that there is a coherent concept of miracle about whose application we might sensibly dispute. A good example of this assumption explicitly stated is found in a recent book by Davies. Davies implicitly takes over Hume's definition of a miracle as ‘a transgression of a law of nature by a particular volition of the Deity’, and, after making clear that he is using ‘impossible’ in the sense of ‘logically impossible’, he comments

…it is hard to see that miracles are impossible when considered as violations of the laws of nature…it is hard to see that there is any contradiction involved in saying that they [miracles] have happened. Where would the contradiction lie?

Traditional Western conceptions of immortality characteristically presume that we come into existence at a particular time (birth or conception), live out our earthly span and then die. According to some, our death may then be followed by a deathless post-mortem existence. In other words, it is assumed that (i) we are born only once and die only once; and (ii) that – at least on some accounts – we are future-sempiternal creatures. The Western secular tradition affirms at least (i); the Western religious tradition – Christianity, Judaism, Islam – generally affirms both (i) and (ii). The Indian tradition, however, typically denies both (i) and (ii). That is, it maintains both that we all have pre-existed beginninglessly, and that we have lived many times before and must live many times again in this world. The Indian picture, then, is that we have died and been reborn innumerable times previous to this life and (failing our undertaking some spiritual discipline) we will be reborn many times in the future. This is sometimes called the Indian belief in reincarnation. The difficulty with this usage is that the term ‘reincarnation’ suggests a belief in an immortal soul that transmigrates or reincarnates. However Buddhism, while affirming rebirth, specifically denies the existence of an eternal soul. Thus the term ‘rebirth’ is preferable for referring to the generally espoused Indian doctrine.

In First Principles, Spencer attempted to construct a metaphysical system which synthesized all available knowledge into a single world-view. One major aspect of his task was to integrate Religion and Science. However, there is no single metaphysical system or structure unifying Spencer's thought, and my aim in this article is to identify the various different models of reality which he confuses. Spencer inherited these different, over-arching conceptions from his own European philosophical tradition, and with them came certain inherent metaphysical problems which he wished to solve.

In recent years there has been a tendency in some quarters to see an affinity between the views of Kierkegaard and Wittgenstein on the subject of religious belief. It seems to me that this is a mistake, that Kierkegaard's views were fundamentally at odds with Wittgenstein's. That this fact is not generally recognized is, I suspect, owing to the obscurity of Kierkegaard's most fundamental assumptions. My aim here is to make those assumptions explicit and to show how they differ from Wittgenstein's.

One of the most extensive yet least conclusive methodological debates within religious studies revolves around the question of what, precisely, the phenomenology of religion is and what contribution it can make to the study of religion. I do not intend to answer this important question here. To do so satisfactorily would require a range of historical, philosophical and methodological inquiry which would go quite beyond the bounds of a single article. My intention in this paper is, by comparison, unambitious. It is to take one view of what phenomenology of religion is and to consider an area outside that usually explored by students of religion which can, nonetheless, shed some light on how religions might be studied in a way which is in accordance with the phenomenology of religion so understood. What follows will offer an answer to the question of what contribution one particular understanding of phenomenology might make to the study of religion, but no attempt will be made to establish whether or not this particular understanding ought to be regarded as normative.

There are three well-developed sorts of answer to the question ‘What kind of meaning is possessed by religious beliefs?’ The first sort regards religious beliefs as truth claims of the kind encountered in the natural and social sciences and in everyday life. Religious beliefs are claims about how things stand in some part of the world. They are to be counted as true or false depending on whether those claims correspond with how things in fact stand. On this reading, religious beliefs are at least in principle verifiable or falsifiable through experiences of appropriate types. There are of course different notions of ‘experiences of the appropriate type’. A Russian cosmonaut returned from space saying that there was no God. He regarded religious beliefs as falsified by the observations he made when he went into the sky and looked around. Others (for instance, John Hick in his concept of eschatological verification) think of religious beliefs as testable, not through ordinary sense experience, but through rather similar kinds of experiences (if any) after death. In either of these versions, the sort of meaning possessed by religious beliefs and the sort of truth or falsehood of which they are susceptible are not radically different from the sorts of meaning and truth typical of claims about empirical facts.

How is Christian theology, as the self-understanding of the Christian life, to understand the world religions? How is it to understand them in relation to itself? In recent years Professor John Hick has proposed a pluralist paradigm of the world religions which would, if acceptable, answer these sort of questions. In this article we are going to consider the acceptability of Hick's paradigm to Christian theology. The question we want to put to it is simple: Will it do as a model for how Christian theology may begin to think its relation to the world religions?

Our discussion is in three parts. In the first part we present Hick's paradigm in, what we take to be, it's strongest form, defending it against certain criticisms. In the second part we consider its phenomenological foundations and the possibility of its judicious evaluation. Finally, in the third part, we offer a critique and come to a conclusion about it's acceptability to Christian theology. However, our answer is only a small contribution to a much larger task: ‘the theological understanding of non-Christian religions’.

The Essay in Aid of a Grammar of Assent is now generally recognized as the culmination of John Henry Newman's longstanding preoccupation with what might be called the ‘Catholic problem of faith’. In numerous places Newman noted that prior to writing this work he had made sporadic and fruitless attempts to deal with the problem. In the widely cited insight of 1866 he received new ideas about the concepts involved in the problem and work on the Grammar ensued.