By ‘the logic of religious language’ I understand both a problem: What is the correct account of the logic of religious language? and a theme, a recurrent theme in the modern philosophical discussion of religion, which raises a related but distinguishable question: Is the approach to religion of linguistic analysis an adequate approach? Can we do justice to the logic of religious language by attending to the recognition and analysis of different linguistic forms?

The particular sense or use of the word ‘faith’ that I am seeking to understand is that which occurs when the religious man, and more specifically the Christian believer, speaks of ‘knowing God’ and goes on to explain that this is a knowing of God by faith. Or again, when asked how he professes to know that God, as spoken about in Christianity, is real, his answer is ‘by faith’. Our question is: what does ‘faith’ mean in these contexts? And what I should like to be able to do is to make a descriptive (or if you like phenomenological) analysis that could be acceptable to both believers and non-believers. A Christian and an atheist or agnostic should equally be able to say, Yes, that is what, phenomenologically, faith is – though they would of course then go on to say radically different things about its value.

Pupils' notes of some lectures on religious belief which Wittgenstein gave in 1938 have recently been published, and what I have to say is set against the background of these lectures. My title may suggest that there is a distinctive and precise account of religious belief which can be extracted from them and stated clearly for consideration. But I do not think that this is so. It is evident from these lectures that, in the subject of religious belief, Wittgenstein's prodigious capacity for puzzlement, in which Moore recognised the marks of genius, found full scope. But, at many points, it is not clear to me, at any rate, just how he is resolving – or would resolve – the puzzlement. So I am most certainly not setting myself up to explain ‘what Wittgenstein really meant’. However, like everything which we have from him, these lectures are fascinating, suggestive, provocative. And, at some hazard, I am going to offer a few observations on one or two of the points which he was, or appears to have been, making.

That a theologian has been asked to contribute a lecture to this series on the philosophy of religion is, I assume, not an invitation to him to play amateur philosopher, but to offer, for what it is worth, what he can. I have conceived it my responsibility, therefore, both to those to whom I owe the honour of the invitation to be here, and to the furtherance of honest discussion between philosophers and theologians, to take as my task a clarification of what theology is, what a theologian is up to when he is doing theology.

I am concerned with the subject as an ethico-religious problem. Is suicide all right or isn't it; and if it isn't, why not?

The question should not be assumed to be susceptible of an answer in the way the question whether arsenic is poisonous is susceptible of an answer (which would be the answer to the question). Moreover in the case of arsenic the question what it is, and the question whether it is poisonous, are separable questions: you can know that arsenic is poisonous without having analysed its nature. But to know or believe that suicide is objectionable is to have analysed its nature or construed its significance in one way rather than another.

In his autobiography, Mr Leonard Woolf very forcibly protests Lord Keynes's familiar account of the kind of influence G. E. Moore had exerted over those who were later to become members of the Bloomsbury Group. You will remember that Keynes, writing in 1938 about his early beliefs as an undergraduate at Cambridge, maintained of himself and his companions: ‘We accepted Moore's religion … and discarded his morals … meaning by “religion” one's attitude towards oneself and the ultimate and by “morals” one's attitude towards the outside world and the intermediate.

At the outset, I would like to thank the Royal Institute of Philosophy for inviting me to add my contribution to the general theme of the present session. Mr Vesey suggested that I speak on the notion of guilt from the twofold perspective of Ethics and of the Philosophy of Religion. I was very happy to accept his proposal, for it gave me the opportunity to gather together my own reflections on this difficult topic, which up to now have been somewhat scattered. My principal task will be to determine the distinction between ethical discourse and religious discourse on the question of guilt. These will be the two main divisions of my analysis.

In the preface to his Philosophy of Right Hegel maintains that a philosophy is its own time apprehended in thought. It is not the philosopher's business to create an imaginary world of his own. His task is to understand the present and actual as subsuming the past in itself, as the culmination (up to date) of a process of development.

I Shall begin by making a brief comparison between Spinoza and Tillich and then, in the second half of my paper, ask a few questions, and discuss some details, with regard to the nature of the type of thinking they exhibit which, in the broadest sense of the word, is metaphysical. My interest is not purely historical, although I believe that historical comparisons can throw light on what very many of our contemporaries have in mind. In fact, this is in part my justification for this paper, and it is perhaps as well, at the outset, to make clear the point of view from which I propose to look into the matter.

In several great religions God is thought of as an agent or active individual exalted in principle above other agents, the supreme creative and controlling power. But, however exalted, the deity is still, in spite of what Tillich and others say, an individual being, somehow analogous to a human person. Indeed, man is said to be created in the divine image. Without this analogy religion loses an essential trait. Not only in faiths derived from Judaism, but also in Zoroastrianism, and even in much Hinduism and some Buddhism, the analogy plays a central role.

The elusive self! Let me first indicate how I understand these terms. For those who posit, as I do, a self that is more than its passing states, and which may not be reduced at all to observable phenomena, the problem arises at once of how such a self is to be described and identified. It cannot be identified in terms of any pattern of experience or of any relation to a physically identifiable body. How then can it be known at all? It is known, I maintain, solely in the way each one, in the first instance, knows himself to be the unique being he is.

Since my childhood I have given up several conceptions of God. Each time there was quite a wrench, for, in my own limited way, I had been walking with my ‘living’ God. In my philosophical and theological studies, I have been impressed by the fact that one deep-souled thinker found the living God of another ‘dead’. And then I realised that a God is ‘living’ or ‘dead’ insofar as ‘He’ answers questions that are vital to the given believer.

In this paper I would like to consider Hell as a concept around which there cluster various different difficulties, and to see how and on what conditions some of these difficulties could be overcome, the whole paper illustrating, albeit by reference to a particular topic, and so with obvious restrictions, the character of theological argument, the nature of theological assertions, and the kind of empirical grounding that must be given to them.

My title is in a way misleading, for I want to show that there is a number of concepts of heaven. I want to explore these in the first part of this lecture. In the second part I shall comment on most ofthem, to see which, ifany, seem to be viable.

I Fear you will be disappointed in what I have to say. For I am going to talk about those who, though they have said ‘There is a way to eternal life’, have then gone on to explain that what they mean does not imply that there is a way to a life that endures for ever or even a life after death. It is plain that those who do this take from the words ‘There is a way to eternal life’ a part of their meaning which has been and still is to very many people of very great importance. Nevertheless between those who when they speak of a way to eternal life are thinking of a life after death which endures for ever, and those who when they speak of eternal life give to their words a meaning which carries no implication as to whether there is a life after death, there is a link, in that both are seeking a remedy against a sort of despair which comes not merely from the thought of death but from a disappointment with life together with the thought that it ends in death.