Chapter VII

Kant’s System of Religious Perspectives

 

 

      ... to have religion is a duty of man to himself. [Kt6:444]

 

1. The Four Stages of Religion in General

       As a result of the highly abstract character of much of Kant’s theology, both in its positive and negative aspects [cf. IV.2-4 and AIV.1-3], there is a general consen­sus among those who have any opinion on the matter that ‘Kant’s God is, most aggressively, the God of the philosophers.’[1] It is a mis­take, however, to infer from Kant’s Critical theology (especially from the philo­soph­ical concept of God developed in the three Critiques) that his God is nothing but an abstract philosophical concept. On the contrary, Kant’s purpose in developing his Critical theology was to a large extent to defend the legitimacy of his fervent belief in the God of his youth, and to separate the genuine ele­ments of his par­ents’ Pietist tradition from the unnecessary trappings that tended to obscure its true value [see e.g., Kt8:132n(123n)]. Webb fully appre­ciates this point: ‘Not only did Kant ... al­ways believe in the existence of God as a real Being ...; but also ..., he en­vis­aged the God, in whom he never ceased to believe, after the fashion of the the­ism current in his youth.’[2] Thus it is wrong to interpret Kant’s personal lack of participation in organized religion as a denial of the value of religion in general, or of Chris­tianity in particular. To do so would be as inap­propriate as to interpret his avoidance of the services of doctors and lawyers as an outright rejection of medicine and govern­ment. Instead, all of these can be explained in terms of his tendency to carry individ­ualism to an extreme: ‘Every man his own doctor, every man his own lawyer, every man his own priest,—that was the ideal of Kant’.[3]

       Kant’s theology is bound to give the impression of total abstraction to those who fail to recognize that its main purpose is ‘to form the basis of reli­gion’ [Kt1:656]. This might seem at first sight to pose an insur­mountable problem, however, in light of his conviction that all attempts to prove the exis­tence of God theoreti­cally ‘are alto­gether fruitless and by their very nature null and void’ and ‘do not lead to any theology whatsoever’ [664]. Neverthe­less, as we saw in IV.2-4, Kant avoids this problem by arguing that ‘the mere pos­si­bil­ity of such a being [viz., God] is sufficient to pro­duce religion in man’ [Kt26: 998(27)]. For ‘in religion ... no assertorial knowledge is required (even of God’s existence)’; the only requirement is ‘an assertorial faith’ [Kt8:153-4n(142n)]. As long as we keep in mind the primacy of practical reason, the limitations of theoretical reason will not be a valid ex­cuse for living as though God does not exist, because a practical faith in God carries us ‘farther into the heart of reality than the purely speculative or scien­tific reason could ever take us’ [We26:69]. Although Kant’s concern for the au­tonomy of morality leads him to emphasize that ‘morality does not need religion at all ... either to know what duty is or to impel the performance of duty’,[4] he would also admit that ‘without faith in God’, as Webb puts it, the moral law ‘must seem to be ... a voice crying in the wilderness of an alien world, its pres­ence wherein must remain an inexplicable and baffling mystery’ [We26:86; see e.g., Kt4:129-30; Kt7:474]. The main aim of Kant’s Critical theology, therefore, is to provide the basis for a philosophically sound account of religion.

       In this chapter, we shall begin our discussion of Kant’s Critical religion proper—i.e., as the topic of Part Three, rather than the topic of this entire second volume of Kant’s System of Perspectives. My goal will be to demon­strate how a recognition of the theocentric and perspectival character of Kant’s Critical philosophy [see Part One], together with an appreciation of Kant’s true attitude towards God and theology [see Part Two], can shed new light on the implica­tions of his critique of religion, as it is laid out primarily in his two books on religion, Religion within the Bounds of Bare Reason [Kt8] and The Conflict of the Faculties [Kt65], but also in scat­tered comments throughout his lectures [especially Kt26 and Kt35] and other writ­ings. I shall begin in this section by continuing Chapter VI’s discussion of the place of religion in Kant’s Sys­tem, focusing in particular on the structure of Kt8 and on the interplay be­tween pure (or ‘transcendental’) and empirical reli­gion. The remainder of this chapter will then examine in detail the systematic contents (i.e., what Kant could have called the ‘transcendental elements’) of religion, as set forth in Kt8. (These sections will apply to Kant’s system of religious perspectives the same architectonic mapping principles outlined in KSP1:III.3 and VII.1 for systemt and systemp: each stage will be analyzed in terms of a three-step, synthetic ar­gument, with the four stages related to each other as a 2LAR.[5] I shall therefore adopt the convention of referring to the religious system as ‘systemr’.) Follow­ing the synopsis of Kant’s argument given in VI.3, I shall present in VII.2 a detailed account of Kant’s treatment of the nature of and conflict be­tween good and evil. His views on the church and its service of God will be the subject of VII.3. Finally, I shall conclude in VII.4 with a summary of this architec­tonic, perspectival interpretation of systemr.

       By focusing in this chapter on outlining the transcendental elements of systemr, we shall be limiting our attention to the first of the two ‘experiments’ Kant refers to in the Preface to the second edition of Kt8 [see VI.3]. These two experiments actually corre­spond directly to the nature of pure and empirical re­ligion, respectively. The first experiment, Kant says in Kt8:12(11), concerns the ‘narrower’ sphere identified as ‘the pure religion of reason’, and aims at constructing a ‘pure ra­tional system of religion.’ The second, by contrast, con­cerns ‘the wider sphere of faith’, and aims at assessing one particular empirical religion by ‘start[ing] from some alleged revelation or other and ... examin[ing]

in a fragmentary manner this revela­tion, as an historical system, in the light of moral concepts’. Kant sug­gests the image of ‘concentric circles’ as a good model for picturing the rela­tionship between these two experi­ments. Following this suggestion gives us the map in Figure VII.1. After completing our exami­nation of the first experiment here in Chapter VII, we shall turn in Chapter VIII to the second, in which Kant tests the appli­cability of his theo­ry by using it to assess the rationality of the Christian

 

 

 

 

Figure VII.1: Kant’s Two Experiments in Kt8

religion. Part Three will then conclude with a chapter adopting the Perspective of the biblical theologian in order to provide a Christian response to Kant’s views on reli­gion in gen­eral and on Christianity in particular.

       The outline of Kt8, as shown in Table VII.1, is simpler than that of most other books in Kant’s System of Perspectives [cf. KSP1:III.2], with only nine different divisions (not counting the untitled introductions, the ‘General Obser­vations’ appended to each Book, and the numbered paragraphs within a few of the subsections). Its most important feature for our purposes is the initial two­fold division of Books Two through Four. In each case the first section/divi­sion/part relates more closely to the first experiment, while the main task of the second section/division/part is to perform the second experiment. Book One was initially published on its own as a journal article, so its format does not match that of the other Books; discussion of the two experiments is mixed throughout all four of the numbered sections.

       Another architectonically significant feature of Table VII.1 is its division of the main text into four ‘Books’. As we have seen, the first book deals with ‘the

 

Table VII.1: Analysis of the Table of Contents to Kt8

 

indwelling’ of ‘rad­i­cal evil in human nature’ [Kt8:19(15)]; the sec­ond, with ‘the conflict of the good with the evil principle for sovereignty over man’ [57(50)]; the third, with ‘the victory of the good over the evil principle’ [9 (85)]; and the fourth, with ‘service and pseudo-service under the sovereignty of the good principle’ [151(139)]. Regarding these as four stages in a systematic critique of religion enables us to correlate each with one of Kant’s four perspectives[6] and map them onto the quadrants of a circle, as shown in

 

Figure VII.2:

The Four Stages in Kant’s System of Religion

Figure VII.2. The two 1LARs that combine to make up this 2LAR are dis­tinctions between (1) the relatively passive (-) functions of ‘indwelling’ or ‘victory’[7] and the more active (+) func­tions of ‘conflict’ or ‘service’, for the first term, and (2) the focus of Kant’s attention on either the individual (-) or social (+) requirements of religion, for the second term. The next two sections of this chapter are related according to the latter distinction,[8] while the twofold subdivision of each of those two sections is based on the former dis­tinction.

       With this in mind, we can now summarize (partially in anticipation) the basic perspectival or­ganization of systemr in a tabular form similar to the one used in KSP1:VII.1 for systemt, and in KSP1:VIII.1 for systemp [see Table VII.2]. Of all the books in Kant’s entire System, none fits more naturally into the four­fold pattern of Kant’s architectonic than Kt8, with its neat division into four ‘Books’. Labeling the four perspectives in systemr is somewhat more tenuous than for systemt, where Kant repeatedly uses the terms ‘transcen­den­tal’, ‘logical’, ‘empirical’, and ‘hypothetical’ in the corresponding sections of Kt1. In Kt8, by contrast, these terms rarely occur anywhere, so it would be difficult to assign perspectives based on word usage [cf. Table VI.1 of KSP1]. Instead, I shall try to demonstrate that, in spite of Kant’s lack of concern for using the same terminology, there is ample evidence that he adopts the same four

 

Table VII.2: Basic Perspectival Relations in Systemr

  

perspectives in Kt8 as he did in Kt1 and Kt4. The ‘gaps’ listed in brackets in the third column of Table VII.2 are elements reason compels us to include in systemr, yet (as we shall see) they surpass reason’s ability to explain.[9] Their explanation—and therefore the viability of systemr—requires some definite (material) input from an historical tradition. The key element bare reason can fully explain in each stage is specified in the same column, above each ‘gap’.

       Before beginning our analysis of systemr, it is important to note that Kant appends a ‘General Observation’ to each book in Kt8. The first of these (originally published separately along with Book One) sketches the solution to the problem of evil-heartedness that is then developed in more detail in Book Two. Near the end of the first General Observation, though, Kant introduces four by-products, or ‘parerga to religion within the limits of pure religion’ [Kt8:52(47)]. These ‘morally transcendent ideas’ [52(47)] tend to arise in his­torical religions, because of their empirical character, but can ac­tually be coun­terproductive to the purposes of pure religion if emphasized too strongly. He proceeds to discuss the first of these parerga, rather briefly, and then devotes the bulk of the other three General Observations to the task of discussing the other three in turn. Because Kant himself separates his main discussion of these topics from the rest of his text, I too shall make such a distinction: the four par­erga will be examined in detail in Appendix VII. At this point, it will suffice merely to give a brief, systematic description of each.

       In the order of the four books to which they correspond, the four ‘morally tran­scendent ideas’ Kant sees arising out of religion are: (1) ‘workings of grace’, or ‘imagined inward experience’, leading to ‘fanaticism’; (2) ‘miracles’, or ‘alleged external experience’, leading to ‘superstition’; (3) ‘mysteries’, or ‘a supposed enlightening of the understanding with regard to the supernatural’, leading to ‘illumination’; and (4) ‘means of grace’, or ‘hazardous attempts to op­erate upon the supernatural’, leading to ‘thaumaturgy’ [Kt8:53(48)]. These distinctions can be mapped according to the same 2LAR pattern as the four books them­selves:

 

 

Figure VII.3: The Four Parerga to Universal Religion

 

The two 1LARs that com­pose this 2LAR distinguish between internal (-) and external (+) and between ex­pe­ri­enc­ing God’s pres­ence (-) and understanding God’s nature (+). (‘Internal under­stand­­ing’ here means rational knowledge of a mystery; ‘external under­standing’ means using such knowledge ‘to bring about ... an ef­fect’ on God [194(182)].)

       That Kt8 is organized according to such architec­tonic patterns[10] comes as no surprise, if, as I suggest in KSP1:96, this book constitutes part of Kant’s philosophical System. To view it as such—i.e., as an al­ternative, or comple­ment, to Kt7 [see notes III.11 and VI.14]—involves the as­sumption that its standpoint is judicial rather than practical (as Kant’s emphasis on morality seems at first to indicate [see VI.1-2]). As such, Kant’s critique of religion should turn out to be a philo­sophical account of the necessary conditions for religious experience—i.e., for making re­ligious judgments (just as Kt7 is all about the experi­ences of beauty and purposiveness that arise out of our aesthetic and teleologi­cal judgments). The extent to which this is the case will be discussed in Chapter VIII,[11] and the role of religious expe­rience as such (i.e., apart from its formal manifestation in specific or­ganized religious traditions) will be the main topic of Part Four. Our task in this chapter, however, is the more limited one of describing and interpreting the systematic ele­ments of pure religion, as set forth in Kt8.

 

2. The Conditions of Religion in the Moral Individual (-)

    A. Radical Evil (--)

       Kant begins Book One of Kt8 by examining the issue of whether human beings are good or evil by nature.[12] First he samples the views of those who ar­gue that human nature develops from good to bad, and of those who argue for the more optimistic, bad-to-good development. Then he briefly considers two ways of settling for ‘a middle ground’, whereby ‘man as a species is neither good nor bad, or ... [alternatively, is] partly good, partly bad’ [20(16)]. From the empirical perspective of our actual behavior, one or the other of the latter solutions might seem plausible.[13] Kant clarifies, how­ever, that the question he is interested in is not empirical but transcendental: it concerns not ‘actions that are evil (contrary to law)’ or good, but rather the maxims that are used as the basis for such actions [20(16)]. These maxims must have some ‘ultimate ground’ that is ‘inscrutable to us’, and so ‘cannot be a fact revealed in experi­ence’ [21-2(17)]. This ground, or ‘disposition’,[14] is ‘innate’ (‘antecedent to every use of freedom in experience’), so it must be ‘either morally good or morally evil’ [22(17)] and not a mixture of the two.

       Resolving the problem of whether human nature is essentially good or evil is Kant’s way of ‘distinguishing man from other possible rational beings’ [Kt8: 21(17)]. Before beginning to elaborate his solution, Kant makes one further clari­fication: his use of the generic term ‘man’ refers to ‘the entire race’, not to ‘the single individual’;[15] this means the question of whether or not there might be some exception(s) is a matter that ‘can only be proved [by evidence from] an­thropological research’ [25(21)]. (This will prove to be a crucial point when we consider Kant’s view of Jesus in VIII.2.B.) Kant’s full solution to the problem of mankind’s innate moral character occupies the entirety of Book One, and defines the basic elements in stage one of systemr.

       A proper understanding of Kant’s solution requires a clear awareness of his subtle distinction between a ‘disposition’ (the timeless ground of a person’s maxims at any given point of time) and a ‘predisposition’ (the timeless ground of a person’s maxims at the very outset of life, before any moral actions have been performed). For, after introducing the main problem of Book One and establishing that the good or evil disposition is the true topic under considera­tion, Kant ends up devoting the first numbered subsection to the discussion not of our disposition but of three aspects of our predisposition. The latter therefore marks the actual starting-point of systemr, with the positing of an ‘original predis­posi­tion to good in human nature’ [Kt8:26(21)].

       Kant finds evidence for this good predisposi­tion in the three basic voli­tional aspects of human nature: our animality, humanity, and personality. The fact that we are animals means we are ‘living’ beings, who engage in physi­cal forms of self-love; the fact that we are humans means we are ‘rational’ be­ings, who possess ‘a self-love which is physical and yet compares’; and the fact that we are persons means we are ‘accountable’ beings, who have ‘the ca­pacity for respect for the moral law’.[16] That Kant includes self-love as a natural source of the first two components of our good predisposition indicates that Treloar is mistaken to say [Tr89:345] ‘the evil act creates a state of self-love.’ The reverse is actually the case: our natural tendency towards self-love exists for a good purpose, yet makes us susceptible to committing evil acts. Thus, although various forms of vice can be ‘grafted’ onto our animality and humanity, Kant argues that all three aspects testify to the good purpose human nature has. ‘All of these predisposi­tions are not only good in negative fashion (in that they do not contradict the moral law); they are also predispositions toward good (they enjoin the ob­servance of the [moral] law). They are original, for they are bound up with the possibility of human nature’ [28(23)]. As ‘constituent elements’ in human nature, they are ‘necessary’.

       Towards the end of Book One, Kant explains that the predisposition to good means a person’s ‘original’ situation (i.e., before any actions are per­formed in time, at the very outset of systemr) is characterized by ‘a state of in­nocence’ [Kt8:41(36)]. This pro­vides a person with the potential to do good, not only in the first temporal act, but in any and every moral act throughout life: ‘every [evil] action must be regarded as though the individual had fallen directly from a state of innocence.’ As long as the action is freely per­formed, ‘it can and must always be judged as an original use of his will.’ We can therefore sum­marize the first step (using the apparatus intro­duced in KSP1:VII.1) as follows:

 

 

The --- component is especially appropriate because this part of Kant’s theory has no positive content; it merely establishes human nature’s pure poten­tial, be­fore anything actual happens. Its function is much the same as the transcen­dental object in step one of systemt and the good will in step one of systemp.

       The second and third steps in systemr are introduced and defended together in §§II-IV of Book One. The topics of these sections are (respectively) the nature, influence, and origin of what Kant calls ‘the propensity to evil in human nature’ [Kt8:28(23)]. First he distinguishes between our ‘propensity’ [Hang] and our ‘predisposition’ [Anlage]: whereas the latter is a necessary part of what it means to be human and consists in the potential to obey the moral law, the former is a self-imposed tendency to disobey the moral law. Hence, the human propensity, as ‘the subjective ground of the possibility of an inclination’, is evil and yet ‘belong[s] universally to mankind (... as part of the character of the race)’.[17] Though we cannot be praised for our pre­disposition to good, we can be blamed for our propensity to evil, even though it is in a sense ‘natural’, because the evil propensity is ‘brought by man upon him­self’.[18] In other words, our good predisposition is an analytic con­stituent of what it means to posit the subject ‘man’, whereas our evil propensity is a predi­cate that is synthetically added to that concept: ‘the proposition, Man is evil ... by nature, means ... that evil can be predicated of man as a species; not that such a quality can be inferred from the concept of his species’ [32(27)].

       The bulk of §II is devoted to a description of the ‘three distinct de­grees’ of this ‘capacity for evil’ in human nature [Kt8:29(24); s.a. 37(32-3)]. Although Kant does not explicitly draw attention to the parallels, these degrees are directly related (as corruptions) to the three aspects of human nature introduced in

 

Figure VII.4: The Three Aspects of Human Nature

as Corrupted by the Evil Propensity

 

connection with the good predisposition [see Fig. VII.4], as well as to the faculties that operate in the first three stages of systemt. The cor­ruption of our animality (the exclusively physical side of our self-love, stemming from our sensibility) plagues us with ‘frailty’ (i.e., difficulty in resisting temptation), so that we sometimes follow our inclinations even when they op­pose a good maxim we have previously set for ourselves. The corruption of our humanity (the side of our self-love that is also rational, stemming from our understand­ing) causes us to act with ‘impurity’ (i.e., doing good for the wrong reasons), so that we sometimes perform objectively good actions only because they also satisfy our inclina­tions. And the corruption of our per­sonality (the properly moral side of our nature, stemming from our judgment) fills us with ‘wicked­ness’ (i.e., the will to do evil), so that our will ‘reverses the ethical order [of priority] among the incentives of a free will’.[19] The first two forms of corruption can and do oc­cur even within a person who has a good disposition (or ‘heart’); but the third is a cor­ruption of the moral disposition itself, so that ‘the man is hence desig­nated as evil.’[20]

       Kant’s goal is to prove that in some sense, ‘the propensity to evil in man­kind is universal’ [Kt8:30(25)], ‘that it is woven into human nature.’ Be­fore doing so, he clarifies that the evil in each degree of our evil propensity lies ‘solely in what ... touches the ultimate ground of the adoption or the observance of our maxims [i.e., what touches the disposition], and not in what touches sensibility’.[21] In order to make this point, he finds it necessary to distinguish between two fundamentally different sorts of ‘act’: the ‘formal’ act ‘whereby the supreme maxim ... is adopted by the will’ [31(26)]; and the ‘material’ act ‘whereby the actions themselves ... are performed in accordance with the maxim.’ The former is timeless (elsewhere called ‘noumenal’), while the latter occurs in time (and is ‘phenomenal’).[22] The act of adopting an evil ‘supreme maxim’ therefore functions in much the same way as the pure intuitions of time and space do in systemt: just as the latter are actively imposed on the sensible data by a faculty that is essentially passive (sensibility being the faculty of ‘receptivity’ [see KSP1:VII.2.A]), so also the former must be actively chosen even though we are essentially passive recipients of the ‘indwelling’ of radical evil. As such, it constitutes the second (formal) step in stage one of systemr. The hypothesis being put forward for proof is that this noumenal act produces an evil propensity in all members of the human race.

       The coexistence of the good predisposition and the evil propensity in human nature is, as we shall see, the tension out of which religion arises. So Kant’s proof that mankind’s propensity really is universally evil is of crucial importance. He develops this proof in §III of Book One [Kt8:32(27-8)], point­ing out first that the act that produces the evil propensity must be, paradoxically, both ‘contingent’ (so that each individual person remains responsible for evil [s.a. 41(38)]) and yet ‘universal’ (so that the need for religion applies to everyone). This is possible only if we regard the act postulated in step two as ‘radical’, meaning that it corrupts ‘the ultimate subjective ground of all maxims’ (i.e., the disposition) [32(27-8); s.a. note VII.24]. That human evil is radical is a fact Kant thinks ‘need not be formally proved in view of the multitude of crying examples which experience of the actions of men puts before our eyes’ [32-3(28)]. Nevertheless, after calling attention to ‘a long melancholy litany      of indictments against humanity’ [33(28)] that can serve as an empirical ‘confirmation’ [39n(34n)], he does attempt to provide such a proof, in order to show that our evil character ‘must be apprehended a priori through the concept of evil, so far as evil is possible under laws of freedom’ [35(31)].

       Unfortunately, Kant’s formal ‘proof’ of the universality of the evil propensity turns out to be little more than a restatement of his account of what it means to be evil.[23] As Figure VII.4 shows, human nature is such that all per­sons possess both moral in­centives (based on respect for the moral law, aimed at virtue) and amoral incen­tives (based on self-love, aimed at happiness). Either self-love or the moral law must be adopted ‘as the supreme condition of the satisfaction of the [other]’ [36(31-2)]. Human evil therefore normally consists not in basing one’s maxim solely on an incentive of self-love, but rather on the subtle ‘subordina­tion’ of the moral incentive to the amoral incentive. That is, the moral character of a person’s disposition (or ‘heart’) depends entirely on ‘which of the two incen­tives he makes the condition of the other.’ For this rea­son, Kant explains, a person need not be wicked in order to be regarded as having ‘an evil heart’: ‘Such a heart may coexist with a will which in general is good’, but is plagued by either ‘frailty’ or ‘impurity’ [37(32); s.a. 29(24)]. This ‘a priori proof’ really amounts to an important, though subtle, supplement to (or realization of) step two: the propensity to evil is now regarded (posited, really) as necessarily ‘radical’ and as establishing the material limit­ing condition for the realization of uni­versal reli­gion (thus completing stage one of sys­temr) in the form of an evil heart.

       A better a priori proof can be constructed more directly out of Kant’s definition of evil, as follows. All human beings start out with a predisposition to good (as previously proved). If this predisposition were the only basic element of human nature, then nobody could be praised for obeying the moral law, since there would not be any other real option. The will would not be truly free. According to Kant, evil ‘is original, or prior to all the good a man may do’; every human person’s moral development ‘started from evil’ [Kt8:72(66)]. This is true not merely be­cause radical evil dwells in us, but be­cause each individual inevitably succumbs to its tempting in­flu­ence, ‘for otherwise the beginning of evil would not have its source in free­dom’ [41(37)]. The will becomes free only when a person chooses to step outside of this basic (good) predisposition, and explore the other (evil) side of the boundary. Every human person’s first moral act (i.e., the first free act he or she can be held accountable for) must therefore be an evil act. There must be a ground for such a choice in human nature; this ground is the evil propensity.

       Kant’s a priori proof (even in its reconstructed form) leaves open the question of where this mysterious ‘radical evil’ comes from, so Kant makes this the main topic of §IV of Book One.[24] He devotes most of his attention to the task of assessing the biblical account of evil’s origin [see below, VIII.2.A]. In the course of doing so, he explains that to seek for the ‘origin’ of evil is to look for the ‘first cause’ of a given effect, and that, be­cause the propensity to evil is rooted in our rational disposi­tion, not in any tem­poral action(s) as such, this cause will turn out to be ‘an origin in reason’, not ‘an origin in time’ [Kt8: 39(34)]. ‘To seek the temporal origin of free acts as such ... is thus a contra­dic­tion.’[25] Kant’s point is that we must not downplay the extent of our responsi­bil­ity for evil by blaming it on the details of our temporal situation. To say evil is radical is to say our responsibility for it originates with our own free, rational (hence, noumenal) choice. Beyond this, Kant confesses that any more detailed account of evil’s origin would need to appeal to something temporal. In other words, as far as systemr is concerned,

 

the rational origin ... of the propensity to evil, remains inscrutable to us ... Evil could have sprung only from the morally-evil ...; and yet the original predisposi­tion ... is a predisposition to good; there is then for us no conceivable ground from which the moral evil in us could originally have come ... [43(38)].

 

Here Kant is admitting that bare reason cannot elucidate everything that calls for explanation in its account of what makes human beings need religion. In so doing, he opens up the first of four important ‘spaces’ (one in each stage of systemr) that a true religion must fill with historical, tradi­tion-bound content.

       This now puts us in a position to summarize Kant’s argument in §§II-IV of Book One in terms of the second and third steps of systemr. The systematic content of his presentation is, admittedly, not as clear as we might hope. Nev­er­theless, if we look back over the basic arguments presented in these sections, we can formulate out of them two steps that are directly parallel to the corre­sponding steps of systemt and systemp. Step two in systemt, the formal (--+) condition, is where the pure intuitions of space and time convert the undeter­mined transcendental object into a manifold of appearances; in systemp, this is where practical freedom converts the will into a manifold of desires. In both cases these elements serve to define the basic transcendental limits that must be placed on any material that enters the system. Step two of systemr should there­fore be identified as that whereby the mystery of radical evil somehow pro­duces in all human beings a propensity to evil:

 

 

Radical evil is a mystery not unlike the mysteries of pure intuition and freedom, both of which Kant regards as basic facts of human nature that must simply be acknowledged, and cannot be proved or explained by reason. Radical evil con­verts our potential for good into virtually the opposite: the propensity to evil, which serves as the ‘raw material’ for any religion, in much the same way appearances do for empirical knowledge, or desires for moral action.

       Step three, as the synthesis of the first two (represented, as usual, by the  --x component), can be expressed in terms of equally direct parallels. In systemt the goal of stage one (intuitive sensibility) is realized when the function of sensa­tion produces sensations out of appearances. In systemp stage one’s (free will’s) goal is realized when a person sets up a maxim by choosing an end. Step three of the first (material) stage in systemr (radical evil) follows the latter quite closely: the choice of an evil maxim as supreme realizes the human propensity for evil by producing an evil heart:

 

 

Just as empirical knowledge cannot be obtained without being based on sensi­ble intuition, and moral actions cannot be performed without a person freely choosing a maxim of one sort or another, so the need for religion would never even arise were it not for the fact that human beings choose, at the very outset of their moral development, a maxim that corrupts their disposition and spoils their potential to adhere perfectly to the moral law (i.e., to realize the ideals set forth in systemp).

       Throughout Kt8 Kant repeatedly emphasizes that the only way to release oneself from the blame imputed because of one’s evil heart is to become a morally good person. He alludes to the possibility of divine assistance, but consistently presents it as something we must not count on as an ex­cuse for not having a change of heart.[26] For the ‘indwelling’ of evil in an (originally good) heart is what first gives rise to our sense of duty;[27] yet ‘grace stands in direct contradic­tion’ to the ‘absolute necessity’ required by ‘the idea of duty’ [Kt8: 23n(19n)]. Even an outwardly good life, without a change of heart, is not sufficient to meet the de­mands of the moral law: ‘The empirical character is then good, but the intelli­gible character [i.e., the disposi­tion] is still evil’ [37(32)]. What is required is a radical conversion of one’s disposition. Such a conver­sion must be possible, since ‘the moral law com­mands that we ought now to be better men’ (and ‘ought’ implies ‘can’[28]); yet Kant admits that the re­quirement to adopt such an unchangeable ‘new ground (the new heart)’ con­tradicts ‘the postulate of the in­nate corruption of man’ [50-1(46); s.a. 66-7(60)], at least as far as ‘our insight into [its] possibility ... is concerned.’ For evil is ‘inex­tirpable by human powers’.[29] To establish how conversion never­the­less comes about is the purpose of the sec­ond stage in systemr. The only hope provided in stage one is to recall that the innocence of the first step (-) is con­tained in the synthesis of the third step (x), just as much as is radical evil (+), so that even in a person with an evil heart, ‘a seed of goodness still remains’ [45(41)]. ‘For man, there­fore, who despite a cor­rupted heart yet possesses a good will, there remains hope of a return to the good from which he has strayed.’[30]

 

    B. Conversion to the Good (+-)

       The change in perspective between the first and second books of Kt8 is most evident in Kant’s attitude towards redemption. In Book One, as we have seen, the role of any supernatural influence in conversion is down­played. Its purpose, as the material stage in systemr, is to establish the limita­tions evil imposes on any human attempt to realize the good predisposi­tion. This tran­scendental perspective is replaced in Book Two by something along the lines of a logical perspective—that is, by a set of formal conditions which, when applied to the limitations of the first stage, enable us to understand how the de­sired result (a good heart, leading to salvation) is possible. Each of the three steps in stage two will therefore have +- as the first two terms in the expression that symbolizes its function.

       The cornerstone of the new perspective in stage two is the ‘ideal of moral perfection’ that exists in every human person as an ‘archetype’ and ‘can give us power.’[31] Be­cause radical evil makes us unworthy even to pos­sess such an ‘ideal of a humanity pleasing to God’, it is ‘appropriate to say that this arche­type came down to us from heaven and has assumed our humanity’ [Kt8:61 (54-5)]. For the purposes of pure reli­gion, no prior empirical instantiation of this archetype is required:

 

From the practical standpoint this idea is completely real in its own right, for it re­sides in our morally-legislative reason.... We need ... no empirical example to make the idea of a person morally well-pleasing to God our archetype; this idea as an archetype is already present in our reason. [62(55-6)]

 

Given the evil heart that arises out of stage one, there is no purely rational ex­planation for the presence of this archetype of a perfect person within us, other than to as­sume it is an in­scrutable gift from some higher moral power.[32] For al­though the archetype, as ‘a perfectly valid ideal for all men, at all times and in all worlds’, is universal, our attainment of it ‘will ever remain a righteousness not our own’ [66(59)]. With­out this gift as a starting point (-), conversion would be impossible. Hence this fourth step can be summarized as:

 

 

As the very word ‘archetype’ implies, however, this ‘divine man within us’ does serve as the ideal model ‘for the complete determi­nation of the copy’—i.e., as the ‘standard for our actions’—once we adopt the judicial standpoint of univer­sal religion [Kt1:597; cf. VI.2, above].

       On its own the positing of the archetype of a perfect person does not over­come an evil heart. ‘For only a faith in the practical validity of that idea which lies in our reason [i.e., in the archetype] has moral worth’ [Kt8:63(56)]. Bor­rowing a biblical phrase for the description of this archetype, Kant goes so far as to say: ‘Man may ... hope to become acceptable to God (and so be saved) through a practical faith in this Son of God’ [62(55)]. This practical faith en­ables a person actively to turn away from the evil heart within and obey the moral law. It does not depend on our awareness of any specific empirical examples because:

 

each man ought really to furnish an example of this idea in his own person; to this end does the archetype reside always in the reason: and this, just because no exam­ple in outer experience is adequate to it; for outer experience does not dis­close the inner nature of the disposition but merely allows of an inference about it though not one of strict certainty. [63(56-7)]

 

Practical faith, therefore, is more than just a declaration of repentance [see e.g., Wa72:148]; it gives rise to moral maxims as a sign of one’s repentance. Thus, Kant says ‘the first really good act that a man can perform is to forsake the evil ... in his perverted maxim’ [Kt8:58n(51n)]. The positive rejection of evil (+) in this fifth step of systemr can therefore be expressed in the following way:

 

 

       Once we have glimpsed the archetype of perfection and incorporated it into a good maxim, a ‘conversion’, or change of heart, is all that is necessary before we enter ‘upon the road of endless progress to­wards holiness’ [Kt8:46-7(42)]. For we have now recognized the corrupting influence of radical evil within us. Thus Kant says: ‘Every man must guard against moral self-conceit, against be­lieving himself morally good and having a favourable opinion of himself. This feeling of moral self-sufficiency is self-de­ception; it is an incurable hallucina­tion’ [Kt35:(246); s.a. Kt8:68(62)]. It is ‘incurable’, that is, if one believes the appearance of virtue in one’s empiri­cal character, which can be ‘won little by little’, is sufficient, without ‘a change of heart’ [47(42)]. For ‘the moral out­come of the combat’ between good and evil that leads to conversion ‘is really not the conquering of the evil principle ... but merely the breaking of its power to hold, against their will, those who have so long been its subjects’ [82-3(77); s.a. 93(85)]. This moral breakthrough requires ‘virtue in its intelli­gible character’, which

 

cannot be brought about through gradual reformation so long as the basis of the maxims remains im­pure, but must be effected through a revolution in the man’s disposition ... He can become a new man only by a kind of rebirth, as it were a new creation ..., and a change of heart.

 

... That is, if a man reverses, by a single unchangeable decision, that highest ground of his maxims whereby he was an evil man ..., he is, so far as his principle and cast of mind are concerned, a subject suscep­tible of goodness ... For Him who penetrates to the intelligible ground of the heart ..., i.e., for God, this amounts to his being actually a good man (pleasing to Him) ... [47-8(43); s.a. Wa72:147-8].

 

Like the fall it re­verses, such an immediate conversion from evil to good is inexplicable from the standpoint of pure rational religion, except to say that it seems to require some form of divine assis­tance [see We26:111,120].

       The attitude of humility inherent in this account of the change of heart is to be maintained even after conversion, for the sixth step requires us to seek to make ourselves wor­thy of God’s assistance by actively resolving to do our duty. By this Kant does not mean to suggest (a view too often imputed to him) that we are actually ca­pable of making ourselves acceptable to God; on the con­trary, he is saying we have the responsibility to make ourselves worthy of be­ing made by God to be acceptable to him. For our obedience to God (via the moral law) ‘must be the effect of our own action and not ... of a foreign influ­ence in the presence of which we are passive’ [Kt8:108]. ‘Granted that some supernatural cooperation may be necessary to his becoming good ..., man must first make himself wor­thy to receive it, and must lay hold of this aid’ [44(40); s.a. 45(40-1)]. Yet in this context, ‘worthiness always has a merely negative meaning ..., that is, the moral recep­tivity for such goodness’ [146n(137n)]. So our active attempt to obey God is our way of demonstrating our passive accep­tance of God’s accep­tance. And without such a demonstration, our acceptance of God’s acceptance would mean nothing at all. It would be ‘empty’, like a concept without an in­tuition in sys­temt; likewise, moral activity without an awareness of its religious implications would be ‘blind’, like an intuition with­out a concept [see Kt1:75].

       ‘We have been converted’, Kant declares in Kt35:(245), ‘if, no matter how long we may live, we firmly determine to live in virtue.’ This change of heart, which restores in us a good disposition, or a ‘good heart’, should not be viewed as a recovery of what was lost—‘respect for the moral law we have never been able to lose’—but as ‘the establishment of the purity of this law as the supreme ground of all our maxims’ [Kt8:46(42)]. It will inevitably be accompanied by considerable pain, inasmuch as it involves the reawakening and/or intensification of our conscience [73(67)]. This pain can be regarded as a kind of punishment for the past evil we have perpetrated [see AVI.2]. As the syn­thetic (x) condition of the second (formal) stage of systemr, we can therefore summarize this sixth step as:

 

 

       Since ‘conforming our course of life to the holiness of the law, is impos­sible of execution in any given time’, Kant suggests that God will judge our ‘moral constitution’ not by our actions but by our disposition [Kt8:66(60)]. That is, the ‘endless progress of our goodness towards con­formity to the law ... [will be] judged by Him who knows the heart, through a purely intellectual intuition [see V.1], as a completed whole, because of the dis­position, super­sensible in its nature, from which this progress itself is derived.’[33] This Divine Perspective, however, cannot be adopted by human beings, so no amount of introspection can provide a person with ‘assurance concerning such a revolu­tion ...; for the deeps of the heart are in­scrutable to [us]’ [51(46); s.a. 67-8(61), 190-1(179)]. We must always ‘guard against a relapse’ [77(71); s.a. 97(88)]. This is because our ‘empirical self-knowledge ... yields no immediate insight into the disposition but merely permits of an estimate based upon our actions’ [75-6(70); s.a. Wa72:148]. Only an awareness of our moral progress justifies us in hop­ing for supernatural assistance (in the form of being judged by our disposition rather than by our actual deeds). Kant hastens to add, however, that, although theoret­ical certainty concerning the nature of our disposition ‘is neither possible to man, nor ... morally beneficial’, the presence of a good disposition ‘creates in us, though only indirectly, a confi­dence in its own permanence and stability’ [Kt8:71(65); s.a. 76(70) and AVI.3, below].

       Well over half of Section One in Book Two of Kt8 presents Kant’s solu­tions to three ‘difficulties’ that arise out of his view of the role of conver­sion in pure religion. These difficulties loosely cor­respond to the traditional Christian doctrines of sanctification, assurance of salvation at the final judgment, and atonement, respectively. They do not function directly as ele­ments in sys­temr, but serve instead to clarify the implications of each of the three steps in stage two; I therefore examine them separately in AVI.2-3. Likewise, Section Two of Book Two, which is devoted entirely to Kant’s second experiment (that of as­sessing the extent to which the historical tradition of Christianity is compatible with sys­temr), will be discussed in VIII.2.B. For our present purposes, we shall turn our attention to Kant’s systematic treatment of how we are to deal with and finally overcome the influence evil still has over us, even after we experience a change of heart. That is the topic of stage three in sys­temr.

 

3. The Conditions of Religion in the Moral Community (+)

    A. The Founding of a Church (-+)

       Although the change of heart required by stage two of sys­temr serves as an effective solution to the problem of personal evil within an individual’s life history, it does not do away entirely with the potentially destructive influence of evil. For the very notion of virtue ‘presupposes the presence of an enemy’ [Kt8:57(50)]) . As the titles of Books Two and Three suggest, having a good heart prepares a person to do combat with evil, but the question still remains how ‘the victory of the good over the evil principle’ [93(85), e.a.] is to be won. One of the deepest insights contained in systemr comes to the fore at this point: a philosophically sound approach to religion must not deny or ignore or explain away the reality of evil, nor should a religious person expect that being religious will provide a ‘quick fix’ to the problem; the struggle with evil has a purpose that is integral to the religious life. As we enter stage three of Kant’s religious system, we must therefore keep in mind that, although we are now investigating what happens to a person after conversion, the grace and faith of stage two do not erase the effects of evil, but transform it. For the religious person has now taken up a life-long challenge of self-improvement, intent on learning just what it means to be human in the face of the daily struggle between the competing forces of good and evil.

       This continuing influence of evil, Kant points out in the introduction to Book Three, comes primarily through human relationships: a ‘morally well-disposed man’ is continually ‘exposed ... to the assaults of the evil principle’

 

not because of his own gross nature, so far as he is here a separate individual, but because of mankind to whom he is related and bound.... Envy, the lust for power, greed, and the malignant inclinations bound up with these, besiege his nature ... as soon as he is among men. [93-4(85)]

 

This passage marks a crucial change in perspective: whereas Books One and Two treated religion as a phenomenon influencing ‘man’ as an individual representative of the human race, Books Three and Four will examine the social elements of religion [see notes VII.7-8]. (The logical apparatus represents this shift as a change from - to + in the second term of each component.)

       The only way to counteract the potentially destructive influence of society, Kant argues, is to form ‘a union of men under moral laws’, which he calls ‘an ethical commonwealth’ [Kt8:94(86)]. Without uniting in this way, an individual (whether good-hearted or evil-hearted) remains in ‘the ethi­cal state of nature ... in which the good principle ... is continually attacked by the evil which is found in him and also in everyone else’ [96-7(88)]. This con­cern for establishing a context for the expression of the good heart in the real world of experience in­dicates that Kant is adopting, here in stage three, an empirical religious per­spective.[34] Thus the function of each step of this stage will be symbolized with an expression be­ginning with the two terms -+ [cf. Fig. VII.2].

       Just as the seventh step in systemt provides a schema, or sensible concept, in the context of which empiri­cal knowledge can be realized, so also the sev­enth step here in systemr provides a ‘schema ... of an invisible king­dom of God on earth’ [Kt8:131(122)] in the form of a visible, ethical com­monwealth, through which the victory of the good principle can be realized. That is,

 

... the sovereignty of the good principle is attainable ... only through the estab­lishment and spread of a society in accordance with, and for the sake of, the laws of virtue, a society whose task and duty it is rationally to impress these laws in all their scope upon the entire human race. [94(86)]

 

Kant is careful to add that, although the idea of such a commonwealth ‘possesses a thoroughly well-grounded objective reality in human reason ..., subjectively, we can never hope that man’s good will will lead mankind to de­cide to work with unanimity towards this goal.’[35] Else­where he tends to be less pessimistic, as when he says ‘we do not know whether, as such, it lies in our power or not’ [98(89)]. But in either case this first step in the empir­ical stage of systemt establishes the material (-) goal that everyone with a good heart (yet still   in the state of nature) has a duty to strive for. It can be summarized in this way:

 

   

 

       Kant contrasts ‘an ethical com­monwealth’, based on laws of virtue, with ‘a political commonwealth’, based on ‘laws of coercion’ [Kt8:94-5(86-7)]. The two may well exist simultane­ously, but they must remain distinct. For ‘the very concept of [‘an ethical commonwealth’] involves freedom from coercion.’[36] Since moral and legal duties have a common root in practical reason, the consti­tution of an ethical commonwealth ‘shall contain nothing which contra­dicts the duty of its mem­bers as citizens of the state—although when the ethical pledge is of the genuine sort the political limitation need cause no anxiety’ [96(88)]. Re­ligion and poli­tics, then, should not be intermixed, but the laws they en­force should be com­patible. (Kant’s political theory will be discussed thorough­ly in KSP4. For a briefer treatment of its relation to religion, see Pa94b.)

       The next step rests on what can be called Kant’s ‘religious argument’ for the existence of God (though, of course, such an argument should not be re­garded as a theoretically valid proof). By explicating a few of Kant’s underly­ing assumptions, we can express his brief argument more formally[37] as follows:

 

  1.   The highest good: The true end of human life on earth is to realize the highest good, by seeking to be worthy of happiness through obedience to the moral law. Working towards this goal is a human duty.

  2.   Radical evil: Human beings on their own seem to be incapable of achieving the highest good, because of the radical corruption in the heart of each individual. At best, all we can say is that ‘we do not know whether ... it lies in our power or not.’

  3.   Ethical commonwealth: No organization based on externally legislated rules (i.e., no ‘political commonwealth’) can achieve this goal, because the moral law can be legislated only internally—i.e., through an ‘ethical commonwealth’.

  4.   ‘Ought’ implies ‘can’: Anything reason calls us to do (i.e., any human duty) must be possible; if it seems impossible, we are justified in making assumptions that will enable us to conceive of its possibility.[38]

  5.   Divine assistance: The only way[39] to conceive of a human organization that could succeed in becoming an ethical commonwealth (i.e., in promoting the highest good as ‘a social goal’) is to presuppose the assistance of ‘a higher moral Being through whose universal dispensation the forces of separate individuals, insufficient in themselves, are united for a common end.’ This Being legislates the moral law inter­nally to all individuals, thus insuring the harmony of their diverse actions.

  6.   God exists. In order to work towards the fulfillment of the highest good, we must therefore presuppose that God exists as a gracious moral lawgiver, and that to obey the moral law is to please God. That is, the ethical commonwealth can succeed only if it takes a religious form.

 

Kant’s version of this argument occupies little more than a few sentences. Never­­the­less, it marks an important turning-point in his discussion. For without it, his view of religion would be thoroughly anthropocentric (as it is typically assumed to be [see I.3]); but with it, the equally theocentric emphasis of his view of religion becomes apparent.

       The title of §III, the section immediately following the paragraph that de­velops the foregoing argument, is itself a concise restatement of the argument’s conclusion: ‘The Concept of an Ethical Commonwealth is [i.e., must be viewed as] the Concept of a People of God under Ethical Laws’ [Kt8:98(90]. Kant’s main aim in this section is to explain what the notion of a ‘highest lawgiver of an ethical commonwealth’ must involve. Such a being must be someone

 

with respect to whom all true duties ... must be represented as at the same time his commands; he must therefore also be ‘one who knows the heart’ [see Luke 16:15; Acts 1:24; 15:8] ... Hence an ethical commonwealth can be thought of only as a people under divine commands, i.e., as a people of God [see 1 Pet. 2:10], and in­deed under laws of virtue. [99(90-1)]

 

This emphasis on the need for God to govern the ethical commonwealth could give the impression that human beings are not responsible for its founding and successful implementation. To guard against this misunderstanding, Kant de­votes §IV to the task of explaining how ‘Human Organization’ (as the title, once again, puts it) must also play a role in all true religion in order for ‘The Idea of a People of God [to] be Realized’ [Kt8:100(91)]. Human organization on its own could never be sufficient, he reminds us [100(92)], for ‘[h]ow indeed can one expect something perfectly straight to be framed out of such crooked wood?’ He continues: ‘To found a moral peo­ple of God is ... a task whose consummation can be looked for not from men but only from God Himself’; because we do not know exactly how God will choose to do this, however, each good-hearted person ‘must ... proceed as though every­thing depended upon him’.[40]

       Resolving this paradox between human responsibility and divine assis­tance is Kant’s main aim in §IV. As the title itself suggests, the material of an ethi­cal commonwealth in the form of a people of God ‘can be realized (through human organization) only in the form of a church’.[41] Kant re­solves the paradox by distinguishing between the ‘church invisible’ and the ‘visible church’:

 

An ethical commonwealth under divine moral legislation is a church which, so far as it is not an object of possible experience [cf. the ‘negative noumenon’ in step nine of systemt], is called the church invisible (... the archetype of what is to be es­tablished by men). The visible church is the actual union of men into a whole which ... ex­hibits the (moral) kingdom of God on earth so far as it can be brought to pass by men. [101(92)]

 

       Kant then describes a set of archetypal principles of the invisible church, which any visible church must adopt in order to be ‘true’ (i.e., in order to make God’s kingdom real on earth). These principles follow the same 2LAR pattern as Kant’s famous table of categories, just as the principles in step eight of systemt [see KSP1, Fig. III.4]. They are: (1) its quantity is ‘Universality, and hence its nu­merical oneness ... with respect to its fundamen­tal intention’; (2) its ‘quality’ is ‘purity, union under no motivating forces other than moral ones’; (3) its ‘relation’, both ‘of its members to one another, and ... of the church to political power’, is determined by ‘the principle of freedom’; and (4) its ‘modality’ is ‘the unchangeableness of its constitution’, i.e., of cer­tain ‘settled principles’ that are ‘laid down, as it were, out of a book of laws, for guid­ance’.[42] The form of the true (universal) church, then, can be mapped onto the cross as shown in Figure VII.5. The two 1LARs that give rise to this 2LAR can be identified as distinguishing between characteristics con­cerned with laws

 

Figure VII.5:

The Archetypal Characteristics of the Invisible Church

 

(+) or freedom (-) on the one hand, and between their external (+) or internal (-) manifestations on the other.

       Taken together, §§II-IV describe the eighth and ninth steps in systemr. Just as step eight of systemt introduces the principles of pure understanding as the key element in stage three that makes empirical knowledge possible, so also step eight in systemr introduces the principles of divine government that make a true church possible. These principles provide the form (+) enabling us to re­gard an ethical common­wealth as a People of God (i.e., an invisible church). The argument of this step can therefore be ex­pressed as:

 

 

       The third step in stage three, as usual, synthesizes (x) or real­izes, the two pre­ceding steps. Step nine, then, requires some form of human organization—i.e., a ‘public covenant’ [Kt8:105(96)] working in harmony with the archetypal prin­ciples of the invisible church to establish a true visible church. As this hap­pens more and more, God’s kingdom is gradually manifested on earth. In sum:

 

 

The kingdom of God does for mankind here in systemr what moral action (i.e., virtue) does for individuals in step nine of systemp.[43] The empirical perspec­tive of systemr thus concludes in step nine by making ‘empirical faith’, also known as ‘historical ecclesiastical faith’, a necessary element of genuine religion.[44]

       In the remainder of Book Three (i.e., §§V-VII of Division One, and all of Division Two) Kant discusses a variety of issues relating to how the elements established here in stage three are to be applied in a real, historical religion.[45] We shall examine these issues in detail in VIII.3.A. For now it will suffice to point out that the perspecti­val difference between the first two stages and the last two stages is brought out forcefully by Kant in Kt8:104-5(95-6), where he gives two distinct answers to the question ‘How does God wish to be honored?’ For the first two stages, wherein this question is ‘answered in a way universally valid for each man, re­garded merely as man [i.e., as a solitary individual], ... the legislation of His will ought to be solely moral; for statutory legislation (which presupposes a revelation) can be regarded merely as contingent ...’. But in the third and fourth stages,

 

when we regard ourselves as obliged to behave not merely as men but also as citi­zens in a divine state on earth ... under the name of a church, then the question ... appears to be unanswerable by reason alone and to require statutory legislation of which we become cognizant only through revelation, i.e., an historical faith ...

 

As we saw in step eight, this dependence on God and on a divine revela­tion plays ‘a significant role’, but not merely ‘in the distant past’, as McCarthy claims [Mc86:100]; for it is actually an element in systemr. Nevertheless, from the philosopher’s (Coperni­can) Perspective as such, this requirement remains empty:[46] like radical evil and the assistance-giving archetype in the first two stages, the details of the di­vine organiza­tion of the church must be ‘filled in’ by some historical tradition. It would be ‘presumptuous’, therefore, to regard our dependence on revelation as an excuse ‘to take the laws constituting the basis and form of any church as divine statutory laws ... in order to save ourselves the trouble of still further improving the church’s form’: rather, ‘it is the divine will that we should our­selves carry into effect’ the church’s form by learning from past mistakes [105(96)]. The members of a church must humbly accept this task as ‘entirely committed to them alone’. Kant is not denying that God will guide human or­ganizers in this task. On the contrary, he warns that ‘it would be as great self-con­ceit to deny peremptorily that the way in which a church is organized may per­haps be a special divine arrangement, if, so far as we can see, it is com­pletely harmo­nious with the moral religion’ [105(96)].

       As hinted by the fourth characteristic for the organization of any true church (i.e., its unchangeable modality), Kant emphasizes the importance of a church treating a scripture as ‘an object of esteem’, and as more important than tradi­tion [Kt8:107(97)]. Along these lines he says [107(98)]:

 

A holy book arouses the greatest respect even among those (indeed, most of all among those) who do not read it ... [Yet] it has never been possible to destroy a faith grounded in scripture ..., whereas the faith established upon tradition ... has promptly met its downfall when the state was overthrown. How fortunate, when such a book, fallen into men’s hands, contains, along with its statutes, or laws of faith, the purest moral doctrine of religion in its completeness ... [B]ecause of the difficulty of rendering intelli­gible according to natural laws the origin of such en­lightenment of the human race as proceeds from it, such a book can command an esteem like that ac­corded to revelation.

 

       Kant’s discussion of the proper method of interpreting scripture will be dis­cussed in VIII.3.A. Here it is sufficient to clarify the perspec­tive from which he believes a revealed scripture must be viewed. He explains in Kt8:109(100) that ‘a church dispenses with the most important mark of truth, namely, a right­ful claim to universality, when it bases itself upon a revealed faith.... Yet be­cause of the natural need and desire of all men for something sensibly tenable ..., some historical ecclesiastical faith or other ... must be uti­lized.’ In other words, the revealed scriptures used by ‘such an em­pirical faith’ [110(100)] should never be viewed as an end in themselves, but only as a means to the end of establishing a truly religious faith, even though (the histori­cal record [e.g., the Bible] ... may itself be a miracle (a supersensible revela­tion)’ [85(79)]. The simultaneous need for both universality (--) and un­change­ableness (++) [see Fig. VII.5], despite their direct opposition, is conveyed in Kt8:112(103):

 

The authority of Scripture, as the most worthy instrument, and at present the only instrument in the most enlightened portion of the world, for the union of all men into one church, constitutes the ecclesiastical faith, which, ... cannot be neglected, because no doctrine based on reason alone seems to the people qualified to serve as an unchangeable norm.

 

Hare rightly notes that Kant is ‘an agnostic about supernatural revelation’, but only ‘in the narrow sense that ... the claim to have received supernatural revelation cannot be known to be true, in Kant’s restricted sense of “knowl­edge.”... It no more follows that we should not believe in supernatural revelation than that we should not believe in God.’[47]

       As long as ‘an historical faith ..., having become ecclesiastical, enhances the principle of a continual ap­proach to pure religious faith, ... [it] can at any time be called the true church’ [Kt8:115(106); s.a. 153(140)]. Kant looks for­ward to a gradual development from an emphasis on ecclesiastical faith to a recognition of the primacy of religious faith [121-2(112-3)]:

 

... religion will gradually be freed from all empir­ical determining grounds and from all statutes which rest on history and which through the agency of ecclesiastical faith provisionally unite men for the re­quirements of the good; and thus at last the pure religion of reason will rule over all, ‘so that God may be all in all’ [1 Cor. 15:28].... All this is not to be expected from an external revolution ... The basis for the transition to that new order of affairs must lie in the principle that the pure religion of reason is a continually occurring divine (though not empirical) revelation for all men.

 

Kant describes his eschatological hope in the eventual ‘sovereignty of pure religious faith’ as ‘the coming of the kingdom of God’ [115(105); cf. AVI.3]. Steps eight and nine of systemr require both that ‘God himself must be the founder of His kingdom’ and yet that human beings be ‘the creators of the or­ganiza­tion’ [152 (140)]. Thus, the culmination of this process is ‘a beautiful ideal ... which we cannot conceive as a culmination in experience, but can merely antic­ipate, i.e., prepare for, in continual progress and approximation toward the highest good possible on earth ...’[48] This is the task—the proper use of revelation as a practi­cal tool for bringing us closer to the kingdom of God—that Kant sets for the true (visible) church here in the third stage of systemr. The fourth stage will show us how best to fulfill such a task.

 

    B. Service of God (++)

       The fourth stage in systemr establishes the conditions under which the church, as given in step nine, can serve God, despite the limitations of earthly existence. Here the ultimate goal of religion—viz., to make humanity well-pleasing to God—is realized in much the same way as rational inference realizes the ultimate goal of systemt [see KSP1:VII.3.B]. Accordingly, we can regard Book Four of Kt8 as developing the implications of the hypothetical perspective of systemr, so that ++ will be the first two terms in the expression symbolizing the function of each of the three steps therein. And just as Kant presents both a proper (hypothetical) and an improper (speculative) perspective in stage four of sys­temt, so also here in stage four of systemr he deals with both ‘the service of God’ and ‘the pseudo-service of God’.[49] In what follows we shall there­fore examine both ways of completing sys­temr.

       Kant begins his account of the true service of God with a description of what religion essentially is. Since the definitions set out in this passage apply throughout systemr, and serve as the backbone of his entire approach, I outlined his views in VI.2-3. His reason for saving this apparently in­troduc­tory material until the beginning of Book Four, rather than supplying it at the outset of Kt8, is that religion as such first becomes a reality at the end of stage three. The radical evil in human nature, the change of heart in an individual, and the bonding to­gether of such individ­uals as members of a church, all prepare the way for the expression of true reli­gion in stage four; on their own the earlier stages would not suffice to compose a religious standpoint. The visible church, as a vehicle for universal religion, provides the context wherein truly religious people (i.e., those who have ex­perienced a con­ver­sion to a good heart) can serve God; but the service itself comes here in stage four. Thus, after neatly summarizing the main points of the first three stages in Kt8:162(151), Kant says ‘to become con­vinced of all this is part of religion.’

       The tenth step—like the ‘unconditioned’ object in step ten of systemt—pre­sents the ‘idea of the whole’, towards which all previous steps have led; for systemr it is the determination to regard ‘all du­ties as divine commands’, and in so doing to realize the purpose of the church as an arena for authentic religious practice [Kt8:153(142)]. No revelation is presupposed in this first manifesta­tion of re­ligion, so it is at this point a natural religion. Since Kant’s definition of religion has already been fully discussed [see VI.2], it will suffice here merely to summarize this material (-) step in the fourth stage as:

 

 

That the definition of religion constituting this tenth step is based directly on the

 

Figure VII.6:

Origin of Kant’s Definition of Religion in Stage Three

 

three steps of stage three is evident from Figure VII.6, where the opposition between duties and divine commands is transcended by the true church, thus giving rise to the form of religion Kant calls ‘a pure ra­tional faith’ [162(151)].

       As we saw in VI.2, religion in Kant’s view can be ‘objectively a natural religion, though subjectively one that has been re­vealed’ [Kt8:156(144)]. Where­as step ten (as the material step in stage four) views reli­gion in the former way, step eleven (as the formal step) views it in the latter way. In accordance with his choice of a second ‘experiment’ at the outset of Kt8 [see VII.1], Kant chooses Christianity ‘as the medium for the elucidation of our idea of revealed religion’ [Kt8:156(144)], and ‘the New Testament, ... as the source of the Christian doctrine’ [157(145)]. Most of the details of this part of his argument will therefore be examined in the corresponding section of the next chapter [VIII.3.B] rather than here. For the purposes of his first experiment, it is suf­ficient to point out that the concept of revelation ‘is a pure concept of reason’ [156(144)], just as are the ‘ideas’ in step eleven of systemt. By hypothetically imposing the concept of revelation onto a set of scriptures, an empirical religion (e.g., Christianity) can be re­garded not just ‘as a faith freely assented to by ev­eryone’ (i.e., ‘a pure rational faith’), but also ‘as a faith which is commanded’ (i.e., ‘ a revealed faith’).[50] Kant argues in Kt8:163(151-2) that both of these are necessary, for pure religion (being on its own confined within the limits of practical reason) is naked, and must be clothed with revelation:

 

... where the Christian teaching is built not upon bare concepts of reason [i.e., not on these alone] but upon facts, it is no longer called merely the Christian religion, but the Christian faith ... In the Christian church neither of these can be separated from the other as adequate in itself; the [‘moral faith’] is indispensable to the [‘historical faith’] because the Christian faith is a religious faith, and the [latter] is indispensable to the [former] because it is a learned faith.

 

       Revelation, along with (secondarily) the scholarly learning needed to pre­serve and interpret the his­torical record, is the form (+) that clothes the material (-) of natural religion. This will be as true for any historical faith that deserves to be called a ‘religion’ as it is for Christianity. This eleventh step, then, is:

 

 

This step requires that ‘the revealed doctrine ... must be cherished and cultivat­ed as merely a means, but a most precious means, of making this doctrine [of ‘natural religion’] comprehensible, even to the ignorant’ [Kt8:165(152-3)].

       The twelfth and final step of systemr synthesizes (x) natural and revealed religion in their proper order, so that ‘the object and end of all religion (which ... is con­duct pleasing to God)’ [Kt65:56] can be realized through ‘the true ser­vice of the church under the dominion of the good principle’ [Kt8:165(153)]. This in­volves on the one hand regarding all human duties as di­vine commands, and on the other regarding the statutory laws of the true church, which is itself ‘steadily approximating to pure rational faith’, as also divinely revealed [153 (140)]. The former represents the direct (material) service of God, while the latter repre­sents the indirect (formal) service of God:

 

... when [people] fulfil their duties to man (themselves and others) they are, by these very acts, performing God’s commands and are therefore in all their actions and ab­stentions ... perpetually in the service of God, and ... it is absolutely im­pos­sible to serve God more directly in any other way (since they can affect and have influence upon earthly beings alone, and not upon God). [103(94)]

 

The indirect service of God, ordained by statutory divine laws, should serve as a motivating force to encourage and clarify the ‘disposition of virtue ... which of itself is well-pleasing to God’ [173(161)]. Kant elaborates on the proper way of uniting these two forms of service when he explains that ‘actions which have no moral value in themselves will have to be accepted as well-pleasing to Him only so far as they serve as a means to the furtherance of what, in the way of conduct, is immediately good’ [177(165)].

       Keeping in mind the secondary role of all nonmoral actions or beliefs, we can summarize this final step as:

 

 

Just as systemt begins by presupposing an unknowable thing in itself (0) and ends with hypothetical belief in a noumenal reality (++x) [see KSP1:VII.3.B], so also systemr, as we have now seen, begins by pre­supposing an un­knowable good predisposition (0) and ends with hypothetical belief in a revelation of God’s ultimate acceptance of our conduct as well-pleasing (i.e., good).[51]

       Kant devotes considerable effort in Book Four to the task of determining how we can identify what is not true service of God. The speculative perspec­tive on religion produces ‘religious illusion’ [Kt8:168(156)], in which ‘the moral order is wholly reversed’ by the supposition that ‘revealed faith is to pre­cede religion’ [165(153)]:

 

Belief in propositions of which the unlearned can assure themselves neither through reason nor through Scripture (inasmuch as the latter would first have to be authenticated [by schol­ars]) would here be made an absolute duty ... A church founded upon this latter principle does not really have servants ..., but command­ing high officials ... They transform, in this way, the service of the church ... into a domination of its members ...[52]

 

Such ‘allegiance to the historical and statutory element of ec­clesiastical faith as alone bringing salvation’ gives rise to ‘the pseudo-service of the church’ [153(141); s.a. 171(159)], which is the ‘pretended honoring of God through which we work directly counter to the service demanded by God Himself.’[53]

       To illustrate the difference between true and false service, we can imagine ourselves ordering a meal at our favorite restaurant. Waiter A fills the order with the food that was requested, but never smiles or engages in friendly conversa­tion. Waiter B is all smiles and chats at length about every­thing under the sun, but ends up letting the food go cold and bringing someone else’s order to the table. A friendly attitude would obviously be a welcomed supplement to good service, but on its own it is insufficient. In this example waiter A per­forms ‘true service’, despite being unfriendly, whereas waiter B per­forms ‘pseudo-service’ by allowing the supplement (friendli­ness) to stand in the way of per­forming good service (delivering hot food to the correct table). Kant seems to have such situations in mind in Kt8:153(141), when he defines pseudo-service as

 

the persuasion that some one can be served by deeds which in fact frustrate the very ends of him who is being served. This occurs ... when that which is of value only indirectly, as a means of complying with the will of a superior, is proclaimed to be, and is substituted for, what would make us directly well-pleasing to him.

 

       All forms of ecclesiastical faith are ‘alike in worth (or rather worth­less­ness)’ when they take on the character of pseudo-service, because ‘there is no essential dif­ference among the ways of serving Him’, once the relation of ser­vice to moral­ity is taken away [Kt8:172(160)]. Kant’s criticism of ‘penances, castigations, pil­grimages, and the like’ is not that such acts constitute pseudo-service as such, but that they become pseudo-service when people perform them ‘because they ... tes­tify ... to unbounded (though not moral) subjection to [God’s] will. The more use­less such self-castigations are and the less they are de­signed for the general moral improvement of the man, the holier they seem to be’ [169(157)]. In such cases, ‘however few the imposed observances, so long as these are laid down as unconditionally necessary the faith remains a fetish-faith through which the masses are ruled and robbed of their moral free­dom by subservience to a church (not to religion).’[54] 

       Kant’s guiding principle in stage four is: ‘Whatever, over and above good life-conduct, man fancies that he can do to become well-pleasing to God is mere religious illusion’ [Kt8:170(158)]. As we saw in VI.3, the common view that this basic hypothesis reduces religion entirely to ‘good life-conduct’ is untenable; such an interpretation contradicts Kant’s em­phasis elsewhere on the impor­tance of statutory laws as significant vehicles for true religion. The con­tradic­tion is easily resolved, however, by understanding the words ‘over and above’ to mean ‘instead of’ rather than ‘in addition to’. Kant’s complaint is not against honoring God in nonmoral ways in addition to moral ways, but only against those who allow the former to take the place of the latter.[55] The ten­dency of in­terpreters to misunder­stand such principles is (as usual) Kant’s own fault. For in his earnest attempt to emphasize the primacy of the moral in God’s eyes, he sometimes makes assertions which, taken in them­selves, do seem to imply an extreme reduction­ism. A few examples will illus­trate this point:

 

All these observances [of public divine worship] are at bottom morally indifferent actions; yet, just because they are to be performed merely for His sake, they are held to be all the more pleas­ing to Him. [106(97)]

 

There are no special duties to God in a universal religion, for God can receive noth­ing from us; we cannot act for Him, nor yet upon Him. [154n(142n)]

 

... we can do no more than our duty with respect to God ... [Kt39:491(207)].

 

... the cause of all ceremonies is [‘unbelief in natural religion’]. Men think that ceremonies can take the place of morality, and they seek to win God over by non-moral actions. [Kt35:(92)]

 

The only thing that matters in religion is deeds ... [Kt65:41].

 

       Such strong statements serve to stress the importance of the per­spectival shift Kant is suggesting, away from focus on the outward form of religion and towards a focus on its inner reality. The mistake is to conclude from their ap­parent one-sidedness that Kant finds no place whatsoever for such ‘moral­ly indifferent actions’. True, he does not wish to regard them as duties, nor even as deeds in the moral sense of the word. Nevertheless, he rec­ognizes that they can play a very important (indeed, necessary) supporting role to the main character in stage four (viz., moral con­duct), so long as they do not usurp the lead role. For example, when he criti­cizes the person who defends a pri­ma­ry emphasis on statutory laws by charg­ing that ‘when he says that he also gives his heart to God he means by this not the disposition to a course of life well-pleasing to Him but the heart-felt wish that those sacrifices may be ac­cepted in lieu of that disposition’ [Kt8:172(160)], Kant is not claiming all worship­pers of God commit this error, as interpreters so often assume [see e.g., Cr96:99], but only those who do not adopt a ‘moral dis­position’. For ‘everything depends ... upon whether we rely on the moral dis­position alone ..., or on pious playthings and on inaction’ [173(161), e.a.]. Even superstition ‘is only contingently ob­jec­tionable’, since it is actually ‘allied to reason’ when used to help a person ‘to work against the obstacles in the way of a disposition well-pleasing to God’ [174(163)]. Eccle­siastical cere­monies, as we shall see in AVII.4 and AVIII.1-4, are not objectionable at all if they are viewed from the proper perspective.

       Kant describes ‘devotion’ as ‘the frame of mind ... attuned to acquiring dispositions dedicated to God’ [Kt8:170(158)]. As such it is a necessary part of service to God. (Only when ‘we ascribe to the frame of mind ... the worth belonging to those dispositions themselves’ does devotion become pseudo-service, for only in this case is it ‘a procedure which has no moral value in it­self’.[56] Greene misrepresents Kant’s position, therefore, when he says ‘Kant’s abso­lute insistence upon the reduction of true religion to morality ... rendered him incapable of appreciating true religious devotion’ [Gr34:lxxvi].) Kant read­ily admits that a person with an ‘active disposition to good life-conduct’ can prop­erly use devotional exercises ‘to make himself worthy of the supplementa­tion of his impotence through supernatural assis­tance’ [178(166); s.a. note VII.33]; for in so doing ‘he is counting on some­thing supernatural to supple­ment his natural impotence, yet not on what is ef­fected by man ... but on what is re­ceived, on what he can hope for but can not bring to pass.’ What Kant rejects is any attempt ‘through natural acts’ to ‘conjure up divine assis­tance’ [178(166)]. The difference has entirely to do with the perspective assumed, for as Kant exclaims in Kt8:179(167): ‘So much de­pends, when we wish to unite two good things, upon the order in which they are united! True enlight­enment lies in this very distinction [between direct and indirect service]; therein the service of God becomes first and foremost a free and hence a moral ser­vice.’

       Kant expresses the same point in another way when he argues that ‘the doctrine of godliness’ should be subordinate to ‘the doctrine of virtue’, since the former ‘can merely serve as a means of strengthen­ing’ the latter [Kt8:183 (171)]. Thus he warns [185(173)]:

 

When rever­ence for God is put first, with virtue therefore subordinated to it, this object [of reverence] becomes an idol, that is, He is thought of as a Being whom we may hope to please not through morally upright conduct on earth but through adora­tion and ingratiation; and religion is then idolatry. But godliness is not a surro­gate for virtue, whereby we may dispense with the latter; rather is it virtue’s con­summation, enabling us to be crowned with the hope of the ultimate achievement of all our good ends.

 

It is important to note that ‘put first’ in this context means ‘relied upon as the end goal’, not ‘chronologically prior’. For a devout attitude may well (and often does) come before a virtuous act, without nullifying its goodness. Kant’s point is that reverence as an end in itself, with­out leading to good life-conduct, is idolatry. ‘True reverence consists in acting according to God’s will’ [Kt39: 495(216)].

      In light of all these ways Kant has of emphasizing the importance of putting moral and nonmoral actions in the right order, we can now see that the false version of systemr (corresponding to systemt’s speculative perspective) merely reverses the priority of steps ten and eleven. In other words, revelation and its statutory laws are regarded as being most important, with the fulfillment of human duties (defined now not in moral terms, but in terms of the ‘right’ interpretation of scripture) having a secondary significance. Since many of the statutes are bound to be nonmoral (e.g., devotional), the service that results is false, and the end result is no longer universal, but is limited in its extent to the devotees of the historical tradition in question. We can therefore summarize the three steps that compose the ‘pseudo-service’ version of stage four as follows:

 

 

 

 

4. An Analytic Summary and a Synthetic Model

       Without recognizing Kant’s de­pendence on the principle of perspec­tive, interpreters are bound to regard his treatment of religion in books such as Kt8, Kt35, and Part I of Kt65 as filled with con­tradictions. As we have seen and shall see even more clearly in the following chapter, doctrines often appear to be re­jected and then accepted even within the same passage. But with a clear aware­ness of the principle of perspective as our interpretive guide, we have been able to in­terpret the first of the two ‘experiments’ that constitute Kant’s Critical religion (viz., his construction of a system of religious perspectives) as a balanced approach to understanding religion. Of at least equal importance is the extent to which it will enable us to see the thor­oughly constructive inten­tions of his second experiment (viz., his assessment of historical religion in gen­eral and of Christianity in particular); indeed, I shall argue in Chapter VIII that Kant actually presents Christianity as the one true expres­sion of universal religion. Likewise, the transcendent ideas that arise in each stage of systemr, though sometimes magni­fied by interpreters to a place of primary importance [see e.g., De73:215-36], can now be seen in their proper role as potentially healthy ‘by-products’ (parerga) of the ac­tual system. Appendix VII demon­strates that Kant’s intention in dis­cussing them is not to reject them outright, but merely to prevent the spread of disease throughout an otherwise healthy religious sys­tem—the disease arising only when the by-products are mistakenly regarded as religion’s main source of nourishment.

       The most decisive advantage of this way of interpret­ing systemr is that, by replacing the typical reductionistic interpretation [see VI.1-4] with one that adopts the Coperni­can Perspective [see KSP1:61-8], we can now see how thoroughly Kt8 follows the architectonic pattern set in Kt1 for the entire Critical philoso­phy. Kant’s Coper­ni­can Perspective on religion reverses the usual priority given to the ex­ternal expres­sion of religion over its internal core. Just as Copernicus sug­gested that the earth actually revolves around the sun even though the sun appears to revolve around the earth, and just as Kant argues in Kt1 that objects conform (transcendentally) to the subject even though the subject appears to conform (empirically) to the object, so also Kant argues in Kt8 that historical religious traditions conform to pure moral religion, even though morality ap­pears to arise out of just such traditions—or at least, this Copernican Perspec­tive must hold true in order for any historical tradition to serve as a ve­hicle for universal religion. What is crucial for systemr is that religious people read a truly religious disposition into the outward observances of their tradition (which are to be viewed as pleasing God only indirectly, not directly, as they may seem to do), just as in systemt the subject reads various a pri­ori forms into the object (which is to be viewed as a representation, not as a thing in it­self, as it may seem to be).[57]

       Now that we have completed our descriptive account of systemr, it will    be helpful to provide an analytic summary of its twelve steps, following the same procedure used in KSP1:VII.4 for systemt and in KSP1:VIII.4 for systemp [see below, Figs. VII.7-8]. (The same qualifications apply to my account of the twelve steps of systemr as were expressed in KSP1:VII.4 with regard to systemt: Kant lays out the four main stages in his systems quite clear­ly, but the exact identification of the three steps within each stage is open to

 

Figure VII.7: Schematic Analysis of Systemr*

 

controversy.[58]) This summary will not only facilitate the discovery of correla­tions be­tween systemr and the other systems, emphasizing its judicial, synthetic sta­tus in the System, but will also prepare the way for an assessment (in VIII.4) of how systemr can serve as an antidote to the ever-present tendency in religious people (both laymen and scholars) to­wards polarization be­tween the extremes of con­servatism and liberalism.

       Stage four. The hypothetical perspective (++) of systemr aims to establish how humanity can become well-pleasing to God. We can work towards the accomplishment of this goal only by serving God through good life-conduct (x). Because human beings are sensible creatures, their service in most cases needs to be  guided by the statutes of a revealed faith, which presupposes both a scriptural revelation and scholars to interpret it (+). More important, however, is the pure inner disposi­tion of natural religion, which requires us to regard all duties hypothetically, as divine commands (-). The latter must be given priority (as the material) and the former treated as secondary (as the form), lest false service of God through empty ceremonies (or other non­moral actions) result.

       Stage three. Religion’s empirical perspective (-+) requires some histori­cal context to be used for putting into practice our service of God. Ultimately, this context will take the form of the ‘kingdom of God’ on earth (x). This can be realized only as a humanly organized com­munity (a ‘visible church’) grad­ually corresponds more and more to the archetypal pattern of the invisible church. This pattern consists of four organizational categories (unity of inten­tion, purity of motivation, free­dom of relationships, and un­changeable­ness of principles) that define an ethical commonwealth to be a people of God (+). An ethical commonwealth is a community of individuals who agree to adopt laws of virtue (-) as a schematism to counteract the tendency of good-hearted people (stage two) to allow evil (stage one) to influence their social relationships.

      Stage two. The logical perspective (+-) in religion defines the basic requirement for individual membership in the church. Each member of a true church must have undergone a conversion (x)—i.e., a painful experience of facing the evil heart that char­acterizes every human being until it undergoes a radical change, with a good maxim re­placing the ‘inverted’ maxim in the supreme ground of that person’s disposi­tion. This comes about through practical faith in the archetype of a per­fect per­son (+) that resides within every human individual. We can be confident such a conversion has actually taken place only by observing our progress in adopting good maxims more and more often. Ultimately, however, the very existence of this archetype is a sign that inscrutable assis­tance is available from God (-) for the otherwise impossible task of overcoming our evil heart.

       Stage one. The transcendental perspective (--) explains why conversion (and ultimately, religion itself) is necessary. Conversion is required by the fact that every person’s heart is corrupted, at the very outset of their moral develop­ment, by adopting an inverted (hence, evil) maxim into their disposition (x). Reason cannot explain the presence of this universal propensity to be evil-hearted, except to say that it is present as a ‘radical’ con­stituent of human nature (+). Considered apart from the influence of this radical evil, human persons would all have an unobstructed potential to do good. In other words, the original state of every human being, as determined by human nature as such, is one of inno­cence (-), for human nature provides each person with a good predisposition.

       The synthetic version of this same summary can now be given, by map­ping these twelve steps onto a broken circle, just as in KSP1, Figures VII.5 and VIII.2:

 

 

Figure VII.8: Kant’s Circle of Religion

 

Before moving on to examine Kant’s sec­ond experiment, it will be helpful to conclude this account of his first experiment with a brief reminder of the four important ‘gaps’ systemr leaves open.[59] A good historical religion will be one that can fill these gaps in a rational way—i.e., without contradicting or in any way detracting from the sig­nificance of the moral law. Each gap defines a ‘space’ in systemr that Kant believes reason on its own is powerless to fill, yet is compelled to assume, lest the highest good be rendered impossible to attain. As we saw in VII.2.A, Kant never explains the origin of ‘radical evil’ (step two), but merely sets it up as a sign of the inscrutability of evil’s true origin. The solution to the problem of personal evil, as elaborated in stage two, also rests on an inscrutable element in the system: the notion that there is a higher moral Being who will assist us in our moral weak­ness, thus making practical faith (step five) effective. Stage three leaves a space for God to guide human beings in building an ethico-spiritual kingdom on earth that will genuinely reflect the archetypal principles of the invisible church (step eight). And stage four leaves open a space for a revelation (together with its subsequent historical tradition) that will fill in the gaps in the natural religion provided by bare reason (step eleven). Taken together, these four spaces or gaps define the four types of ‘clothing’ that a good historical religion must provide in order to complement the naked body of pure moral religion.

 

  [1].  Wo78:60; s.a. Vo88:180. Likewise, Guyer claims that in Kt8 and Kt65 ‘Kant argued firmly for the primacy of phi­losophy over religion’ [Gu92a:4]. But as we saw in Chapter VI, Kant holds such a view of the rela­tion between philosophy (as the guardian of practical reason) and theology (as the attempt to apply theoretical reason to gain knowledge of God), but would not make such a bold claim about religion, which is the synthesis of morality and theology. Thus Friedman [Fr86b:518] claims that ‘Kant’s attempt to move to religion from morality reveals that religion is for him the teacher of the mind ..., while philosophy is the handmaiden.’ McCarthy’s view is still more accurate [Mc86:98]: Kant’s God ‘is not the traditional God of Christian theologians or of philosophers. For ... he is a living God, the judge of human hearts’, and wills ‘creation’s moral goodness’, yet without ‘intervening in the process.’ As we shall see in VIII.3.A and AVII.2, the latter claim is open to considerable doubt, since Kant does leave room for God’s grace and very occasional miracles. In any case, more detailed accounts of Kant’s position on the relation between philosophy and theology are given in VI.2 and note VII.3.

  [2].  We26:49-50; s.a. De73:255. Greene’s description [Gr34:xii-xxii] of the religious climate of Kant’s youth, as characterized on one side by a demand for ‘correct ceremonial and orthodox belief’ [xii], and on the other by a pietistic revolution demanding ‘that justification and rebirth be actually experienced’ [xiii], helps to explain why (as we shall see) Kant reacted against these established traditions—especially the former. For, as Webb points out in We26:20, ‘the effects of Pietism in Kant’s concep­tion of religion’ are clearly evident in his emphasis on the moral law, individualism, conversion, and radical evil, as well as in ‘his obvious familiarity with the Bible’ [20]; ‘in all these features of his mind and character we trace the result of his religious education in Pietistic surroundings.’ Kant was far from being uncritical of his tradition, however. For instance, he rejects any form of Pietism that is based on ‘the principle of a passive attitude toward a godliness which is to be awaited from a power above’ [Kt8:184n(173n); s.a. Kt65:55-7; but cf. Kt8:24n(19n)].

  [3].  Wa01:47. In Kt65:21-2 Kant discusses the relationship between the four ‘faculties’ that consti­tute a university. He describes them in terms of a 2LAR, con­sisting of a ‘lower’ faculty (philosophy), which has no power to influence people directly (--), and three ‘higher’ faculties (law, medicine, and

 

 

theology), which do have varying degrees of influence. This division can be mapped onto the cross as shown on the diagram to the left.

          Because philosophy has no direct in­flu­ence on ordinary people, but only an indi­rect influ­ence through the agency of the three higher faculties, Kant argues that philoso­phers should have the right to publish their views freely: government censorship should pertain only to scholars in the higher facul­ties. In Kt65:30 Kant connects the three higher faculties to the three principle de­sires of ordinary people: ‘being happy after death, having their possessions guaranteed by pub­lic laws ..., and finally, ... looking forward to

... health and a long life’. The philosopher suggests that in order for these wishes to be fulfilled, one should ‘live righteously, com­mit no injustice, and, by being moderate in his pleasures and patient in his illnesses, rely primarily on the self-help of nature.’ Unwilling to accept such strict demands, most people look to the clergyman, the lawyer, and the physician for miraculous help, even though they have ‘been a scoundrel all [their]life, ... broken the law, ... and abused [their] physical powers’ [30].

  [4].  Kt8:3-4(3). This position is verified by experience: we need not look far to find examples of nonreligious people who are highly moral. Kant goes even further, however, when he says ‘no one, not even God, can be the author of the laws of morality’ [Kt35:(51)], even though from a religious standpoint such laws can ‘be regarded as divine commandments’ [(52)]. The former is im­plied by Kant’s strict distinction between theology (-) and morality (+) [see Fig. VI.2]; the latter does not require the religious person to believe a falsehood, but merely to adopt the properly reli­gious standpoint (x), where theology and morality are synthesized. Thus, as Kant puts it in Kt35:(81): ‘All religion assumes morality, and morality cannot, therefore, be derived from religion.’

  [5].  This claim, initially made in KSP1:96, is substantiated here in VII.2-3. Collins does not use the term ‘analytic’ in the technical sense spelled out in KSP1:III.3 when he appears to express the opposite view by saying Kant’s procedure in Kt8 ‘is to make an analytic inspection of religion as an experienced, complex reality among men’ [Co67:155] and ‘to focus analytically upon that general meaning for religion which is conveyed by some given revelational religion’ [156]. The phrases ‘as an experienced ... reality’ and ‘by some given [revelation]’ suggest that by ‘analytic’ Collins means Kant is constructing a system of transcendental elements that ground something em­pirical—and this is just what Kant describes as synthetic a priori. This may be what Despland has in mind when he says Kt8’s approach ‘is not merely descriptive and analytical’ [De73:246]. As I suggested in note III.25 of KSP1, Despland is right to deny that Kt8 is a fourth Critique and also to deny that it belongs to the metaphysical wing of Kant’s System [158]. Cassirer seems to be ex­pressing the latter opinion when he refers to Kt8 as one of Kant’s ‘pedagogical works’ [Ca81:387], but he never defends this claim in any way.

                  My view [cf. KSP1:III.4] is that Kt8 and Kt7 are obviously meant to work together in answer­ing the judicial question of hope, in the same way that Kt1 and Kt2 answer the theoretical question of knowledge and Kt4 and Kt5, the practical question of moral action. The fact that Kt8 is so obviously written in the twelvefold, synthetic form of a Critique may be due to the fact that Kt7 fails to exhibit this architectonic form [see KSP1:IX.1]. Kt8 makes up for this, but could not be named ‘Critique of ...’, because there is no room in Kant’s System for a fourth Critique and a third Critique had already been published. As suggested in note VI.14, the best way to reconstruct Kant’s System would be to regard Kt8 as the third Critique and Kt7 as its analytical supporting work. In any case, the two ‘experiments’ in Kt8 (see below in main text) can be regarded as directly parallel to the two types of judgment in Kt7—one moving from the rational to the factual, the other from the factual to the rational [cf. Fig. AIII.3].

  [6].  Cf. Fig. III.4. Neglecting this correspondence between Books and perspectives, McCarthy [Mc86:59] claims that Kt8 does not present us with ‘a complete religious system or philosophy of religion.’ He rightly rejects the view that Kt8 ‘adds nothing to Kant’s philosophy’ and is ‘not formally a part’ of it; yet proceeds to affirm [60] that Kant’s ‘philosophy of religion is not a part of the Critical Philosophy as such’. The latter is true in the narrowest and most obvious sense, in that Kt8 is not presented explicitly as a Critique [cf. note VI.14]; but this does not decrease its signifi­cance for Kant’s System of Perspectives as a whole.

                  A similar neglect of perspectives leads Flesher [Fl88:119] to conclude that ‘Kant completely fails to reveal a clear argument in Religion. In addition, the work has no climax.’ But this is no more true of Kt8 than it is of Kant’s three Critiques. Once we recognize the hypothetical perspec­tive as the climax of Kant’s architectonic style, its presence in Kt8 becomes as clear as its presence in Kt1 and Kt4 [see KSP1:VII.1,VIII.1]. Nevertheless, Flesher does agree that ‘we must treat Reli­gion as a system’ [121]. Thus, he rightly argues [128] ‘that Kant’s argument and the structure he gives to Religion complement each other.’ But Flesher’s analysis of this structure does not go deep enough. He merely distinguishes between Book One, on evil, and Books Two to Four, on society’s response to evil [123]. He thinks Kant’s animality-humanity distinction corresponds to the indi­vi­dual-society distinction [128], inasmuch as Kant relates our humanity to ‘the opinion of others’. Flesh­er’s claim, however, that the ‘two solutions’ to the problem of evil (the individual and the so­cial) come in Book One and Books Two through Four, respectively, is incorrect. Book One does not explain how an individual ‘can overcome evil’, as he claims. Rather, the struggle with evil be­gins only in Book Two, with society entering into the picture in Book Three [see note VII.15].

                  Perhaps the grossest example of an interpreter who mistakes his own inability to see system­atic connections for a problem in the text itself is Michalson. In Mi93:41, to single out but one instance, he complains about Kant’s tendency in Kt8 to inject ‘unruly notions that wreak havoc with philosophical principles he has established elsewhere or that appear starkly incompatible with other positions taken within the Religion itself.’ This ‘instability’, he adds, is ‘a virtual leit­motif designed to frustrate.’ Later, he concludes: ‘the book is a mess’ [51]; ‘taken as a collection of philosophical arguments about religion, [Kt8] is apparently a failure.’ My goal here in Part Three is to demonstrate how thoroughly incorrect such a conclusion is. The ‘mess’ is caused not by Kant’s inattention to supposedly blatant self-contradictions, but by the interpreter’s neglect of the principle of perspective, and his resulting inability to see architectonic interconnections.

  [7].  Just as the initial stage of religious development involves a passive receptivity to evil, at least in comparison to the active struggle experienced in stage two, so also the church’s role in the final victory over evil (stage three) is passive in relation to the active service performed in stage four.

  [8]. Despland agrees that ‘the passage’ to Book Three from Book Two ‘is a change of point of view: from the individual to mankind’ [De73:203; s.a. Mi79:120]. But he then says this ‘led to a pro­found renovation of many aspects of Kant’s thinking’ [De73:204, e.a.], thus neglecting that Kant probably had such a perspec­tival shift in mind all along. See note VII.15 for further clarification.

                  Michalson makes the same observation, calling the individual-social transition ‘a subtle yet potentially powerful tension’ [Mi93:42]. But he, too, fails to see these as complementary perspec­tives, suggesting instead that the social view of salvation ‘somehow supersedes the individual aspect’. Yet the revolutionary account of salvation, where having a good disposition saves us, could be true for the individual at the same time the evolutionary account, where God projects the path of gradual progress into an indefinite future, is true for our social interactions. Unfortunately, instead of viewing these as two perspectives, Michalson concludes [45] that ‘the evolutionary imagery apparently compromises Kant’s ethical rigorism.’

  [9].  Reason supplies the formal elements in Kant’s systems. Kant clarifies how this applies to religion in Kt6:487: ‘The formal aspect of all religion ... belongs to philosophic morals ... But ... the material aspect of religion, the sum of duties to ... God, that is, the service to be performed for him ... [can] be known by us only empirically, not a priori, and would therefore belong only to revealed religion. [These duties] would therefore also have to assume the existence of such a Being, not merely the Idea of Him for practical purposes, and to assume it ... as something that could be set forth as given directly (or indirectly) in experience.’ Kant does not say this material aspect is false or even dispensable; he just says reason cannot supply it. The material aspect must be revealed. As a product of historical faith, it can thus serve as a vehicle for the formal aspect. Kant expresses much the same point when he distin­guishes historical faith from rational religion by saying the former is ‘built not upon bare concepts of reason but upon facts’ [Kt8:163(151); s.a. Kt20:141-2n]. This difference will be a crucial point to remember when we discuss the biblical theologian’s Perspective in IX.2-3 and Kant’s own commitment to Critical mysticism in Part Four.

                  Failing to see the strategic purpose of these ‘gaps’ in Kant’s argument, as paving the way for his second experiment, Michalson [Mi89:263] regards Kt8’s ‘use of biblical imagery [as] a tacit and provocative admission that a full account of salvation (or moral regeneration) exceeds the limits of his own philosophy.’ It exceeds the limits of pure religion, as established by systemr, but only in order to make room for historical faith! Michalson thinks [263] the ‘turn to narrative in Kant’s account of both the fall and moral regeneration marks the limit of the critical philosophy’s ability to account for its own content.’ While this is true, it is not unintentional. As Michalson himself states [264]: ‘Divine aid is a supplement that enables us to complete the moral task associated with the demand to overcome radical evil.’

[10].    Kant introduces a similar pattern in Kt35:(85-90) to denote ‘on the one hand sophistication and su­perstition, and on the other fa­naticism and blasphemy’ [(86)] as the four main ‘errors of religion’; but he also discusses ‘practical atheism’ (godlessness), ‘piety’, and ‘bigotry’ as equally erroneous approaches to religion [(103)]. His purpose in discussing these is not to scoff at religious people, but to encourage them to correct ‘their religious outlook’ [(89)]. Elsewhere he lists four ‘extrava­gancies’ of religion: ‘credulity, superstition, fanaticism, and indifferentism’ [Kt57:250(69)]. Although the content in both of these cases differs from that shown in Figure VII.3, Kant is always careful to follow the same 2LAR pattern when making such distinctions.

[11].    A forward-looking glance through the elements of systemr reveals that experiences such as sin, conversion, church or­ganization, worship, etc., occupy the center of Kant’s attention, while the task of interpreting theoretical doctrines in practical terms is always secondary. In discussing Kant’s theory of conversion, Webb goes so far as to say it ‘can hardly perhaps be completely under­stood from within by any one to whom that experience is utterly strange or alien’ [We26:60]. As we shall see in VIII.4, this is one reason Kant’s approach to religion can provide a viable alternative for those nowadays who were brought up in a fundamentalist tradition—perhaps the closest modern equivalent to the Pietism of Kant’s youth.

[12].    Kant is careful to explain that the term ‘nature’ here does not mean ‘the opposite of freedom’, but rather refers to a person’s innate ‘character’, based as it is on ‘the subjective ground of the exercise (under objective moral laws) of man’s freedom in general’ [Kt8:20-21(16-17)]. Because our charac­ter is so inextricably connected to our own freedom, Kant never tires of insisting that we are responsible for our own actions (whether good or evil) even if their fundamental ground is innate [e.g., 21n(17-8n)].

[13].    Kt8:22(18),25n(20n),39n(34n). Kant interprets the word ‘nature’ from this perspective in Kt39: 492(210): after posing the question ‘whether man is by nature morally good or bad’, he answers that mankind ‘is neither; for he is by nature [i.e., in systemt] not a moral being at all; he becomes a moral being only when his reason raises itself to the concepts of duty and of law [i.e., only in systemp]. It can be said, however, that [in systemr] he has originally impulses for all vices ..., although his reason impels him in the opposite direction at the same time.’ This passage does not contradict the parallel passages in Kt8, provided we recognize that Kant is merely acknowledging the different standpoints from which human nature can be examined.

[14].    Kt8:25(20). For a discussion of Kant’s use of the term ‘disposition’ (Gesinnung) in systemp, see KSP1:VIII.2.A. The dis­po­sition is the transcendent root of the maxims an individual uses to make moral decisions. As such, Kant calls it ‘the essential element in religion’ [Kt7:481].

[15].    This does not contradict my claim in VI.3 and VII.1 that Books One and Two focus on the indi­vidual nature of mankind, and Books Three and Four on the social nature [s.a. note VII.8]. Another way of express­ing the same distinction, taking Kant’s clarification into account, would be to say that the first half of Kt8 examines the elements of human nature that determine the private religion of each individual member of the human race, while the second half examines the elements that determine the public religion of the same. In light of Kant’s clarification, Flesher may be right to say [Fl88: 123] Kant’s use of the terms ‘evil principle’ and ‘good prin­ciple’ refer to ‘the universalization of the predisposition’s problems.’ But he goes too far when he adds: ‘The Evil Principle is not a diffi­culty for mankind as individuals but for mankind as a whole.’ Surely it is both! That evil is a universal problem means it requires a universal solution—i.e., one involving an ideal indi­vidual.

[16].    Kt8:26-8(21-3). These three aspects can be regarded as Kant’s complete list of the elements of human nature, for their logical relationship corresponds directly to the architectonic relationship between the three Critiques: Kt1 examines our humanity (rationality), Kt4 our personality (accountability), and Kt7 our animality (living feeling). That Kant says he has limited his attention to the volitional aspects [28(23)] indicates that these three elements also have other implica­tions for cognition and aesthetic feeling.

[17].    Kt8:28-9(23-4); s.a. We26:103. In Tr89 Treloar ignores Kant’s distinction between predispo­sition, propensity, and disposition. He grossly misrepresents Kant’s position by consistently referring to evil as a ‘predisposition’ [see e.g., 335]. After committing the same mistake in Se74:612, Seigfried claims to have found a ‘contradiction’ in Kant’ position: ‘every person has to be both good and evil but can never be both good and evil.’ A little perspectival salve quickly heals this hermeneutic wound: the former (‘has to be both’) refers to our potential state, due to the conflict between the good pre disposition and the initially evil disposition; the latter (‘can never be both’) refers to our actual state at any given point in time.

                  The ‘contradiction’ Scharf claims to detect in Kant’s account, whereby evil is somehow both ‘predetermined’ (i.e., inevitable) and yet ‘freely elected’ [Sc93:71] can be resolved in much the same way. Scharf complains that ‘if there is a natural propensity to evil, then the free exercise of one’s will ... seems to be preempted’ [81]. ‘This means that the supposedly autonomous will ... is bent in the direction of evil before any choice has been made’ [83]. But this totally ignores Kant’s emphasis on our original innocence; the propensity first arises when our first evil choice is made, not before or after. Neglecting this point, Scharf goes on to the claim [83] that ‘Kant has created a vicious circle for both God and humanity ...: Both need to act first, and both must wait for the other to make the first move.... God cannot dispense unmerited grace, and humans are in no position to merit grace.’ Yet neither of these claims accurately represents Kant’s position. Scharf’s false assumption is that when we are under the influence of radical evil, we are unable to do any good; but this is not Kant’s view. There is no vicious circle because Kant makes no such extreme assump­tions. Scharf completely neglects the significance of perspectives—in this case, the all-important difference between a perspective-bound being and one who is beyond all perspectives. ‘Kant sees the dilemma but apparently knows no way out. Rather, ... he vacillates between human and divine agency’ [84]. Kant’s point, however, is precisely that reason knows no way out, other than by appealing to religion and the explanations provided by historical faith(s). Scharf totally overlooks Kant’s strategy of uncovering the gaps in reason’s ability to make us moral. See also note VII.30.

[18].   Kt8:29(24). Unlike original moral goodness, moral evil ‘can be imputed to man’, because it ‘consist[s] in maxims of the will which are contrary to the [moral] law’ [32(27)]. Because ‘the source of evil cannot be in an object determining the will’, but only ‘in a maxim’, and so also in an evil disposition as its ‘ultimate ground (inscrutable to us)’, Kant stresses that ‘nature is not to bear the blame (if [a person’s character] is evil) or take the credit (if it is good)’: ‘man himself is its author’ [21(17); s.a. 43(38)].

[19].    Kt8:30(25), t.b. Allison rightly stresses [Al96:175] that this account regards the motivation for evil as being rooted in our will, not in our inclinations: our choice to ‘incorporate’ the latter into our maxims is a choice against following the moral law. Thus, ‘evil must be rooted in a free choice against the law (a kind of inner voting in favor of inclination)’.

[20].    Kt8:30(25). A former student of mine, Susanna Lam Oi Chi, once suggested that, if we reserve Kant’s phrase ‘positive evil’ [22-3n(18n)] for the third degree of evil, then the first two degrees could be called ‘negative evil’. This would fit well with the placement of these terms on Figure VII.4, though Kant himself does not develop his theory in this way.

                  Kant makes a similar distinction in Kt64:256-7(193-4) between three types of evil in general, or ‘contrary-to-end’ (Zweckwidrige): (1) ‘The ab­solute contrary-to-end’ (i.e., moral evil); (2) ‘The conditional contrary-to-end’ (i.e., natural evil); and (3) ‘the disproportion of crimes and punishments’ (i.e., injustice). His doctrine of radical evil in Kt8 has to do primarily with moral evil, though the others are indirectly related [cf. Fig. VII.4]. Natural evil is rooted in the physical world, just as frailty is, and injustice is rooted in rational comparisons, just as impurity is. For more on the problems associated with these latter two forms of evil, see AVI.1.

                  A fourth type of corruption that Kant does not mention is self-deception, corresponding to the faculty of reason. (This idea was brought to my attention by Jeanine Grenberg in a discussion carried out on the Kant-L e-mail discussion group in May, 1995.) Self-deception occurs whenever we act on a maxim we believe to be good, but further reflection reveals our reasoning processes to be defective. Either the maxim itself cannot pass the test of the categorical imperative, or we discover that (contrary to our original opinion), our action was, in fact, based on some other, corrupt maxim. This fourth source of moral evil should not be confused with the three sources Kant discusses. Determining whether or not actions based on self-deceptive maxims are morally evil requires us first to specify the standpoint under consideration. A major goal of Kt4 is to help us learn to discover such self-deceptions, so from its practical standpoint, such actions must be declared to be just as evil as those in which the maxim is known to be bad. Book One of Kt8 assumes, by contrast, that we are not self-deceived, and investigates the consequences of intention­ally breaking the moral law. Were Kant to consider from this standpoint how to classify a person who does an evil deed while genuinely believing it is good, I think he would be inclined to recommend not so much confession, as the need to bone up on one’s philosophy! In fact, Book Four is all about just such cases of religiously-motivated self-deception, where religious people do the wrong thing while genuinely believing it is right. As we shall see in VII.3.B, Kant does not accuse such people of being frail, impure, or wicked; rather, he treats them as being unenlightened.

                  Allison [Al96:170] claims that ‘self-deception in the overall Kantian account of evil ... plays an absolutely crucial role at all levels.’ This is true, but only in the sense that ‘self-deception is already for Kant ... the major mechanism that human beings make use of to evade their responsi­bility’—for example, in the form of an ‘inner lie’ [179]. Along these lines, Allison points out that, in testing maxims for universalizability, ‘virtually any maxim, if suitably formulated, can be made to pass the test.’ This is not a weakness of Kant’s theory, but evidence of the fact ‘that it is precisely the testing of maxims that provides the major occasion for self-deception’ [180]. Maxim-testing, however, is a function of systemp, not systemr. So Allison’s position, while correct, does not negate the claim that Kant is not addressing the issue of self-deception here in stage one.

[21].    Kt8:32(27); s.a. 83(78). A few pages later [34-5(30)] Kant again warns against grounding evil ‘in man’s sensuous nature’, adding that it is also not grounded in ‘the morally legislative reason’, which would make us ‘a devilish being’, but only in ‘the will’ as such. In other words, the evil propensity has its true ‘home’ only in the ‘x’ position of Figure VII.4; the ‘+’ and ‘-’ degrees of evil are but by-products of the corruption of the will itself. This view of evil is directly parallel to the view of ‘error’ defended in Kant’s theoretical writings, wherein error is blamed not on sensibili­ty but on judgment. Sensibility is blamed only when it exercises something like an unconscious influence (perhaps corresponding to ‘frailty’), as when Kant says in Kt10:59 that error arises from ‘the unnoticed influence of sensibility upon the understanding, or, more exactly, upon judgment.’

                  The extent of Kant’s rejection of the view that associates sensibility with evil [see e.g., Kt65:23] can be seen by noting that sensibility occupies the same position in relation to the other faculties of the mind as philosophy does in relation to the other faculties of the university [cf. note 3, above, and Fig. III.10 of KSP1]! Moreover, the -- position shared by both philosophy and sensibility on their respective maps is also the position of the transcendental perspective in relation to the other three perspectives [see above, Fig. III.4]. These architectonic correlations should help us appreciate why Kant repeatedly emphasizes that the transcendental philosopher’s ‘home’ lies close to the ‘shores’ of sensible experience, rather than in the ‘stormy ocean’ of speculation [see e.g., Kt1:294-5]—the latter corresponding to the ++ position on the 2LAR map.

[22].    In Kt8:39n(34n), for instance, Kant says the choice that gives rise to our evil disposition should be re­garded as an ‘intelligible act, [which] precedes all experience’. ‘The propensity to evil’, he explains elsewhere, ‘is intelligible action, cognizable by means of pure reason alone, apart from every temporal condition’ [31(26-7)]. The problems surrounding this notion of a ‘noumenal act’ have already been discussed in KSP1:284,407,412-5. For our present purposes, it is sufficient to keep in mind that such comments need not be taken as evidence that Kant is defending a literal form of action that is somehow ‘timeless’ [see KSP1:VIII.1]. Rather than accusing Kant of holding this ‘absurd conclusion’ [see e.g., Se74:611], we should heed Kant’s clear reminder that ‘as sensuous beings we can work against the law, or for its behoof, only in the appearance of the intellectual principle’ [Kt8:170n(158n)]. All talk of the noumenal basis of our actual spatio-temporal actions must therefore be regarded as a metaphorical way of emphasizing the nonempiri­cal source of some transcendental element in the system.

[23].    Kant tries to excuse himself in a footnote attached to the last sentence in §III, by saying the ‘special proof of’ the universality of evil ‘is to be found in the preceding section rather than in this one’ [Kt8:39n(34n)], even though just a few pages earlier [35(31)] he had clearly announced his in­tention to provide the a priori alternative to the ‘experiential proofs’ in the last half of §III. The last paragraph of the section does contain a semblance of an argument, however, based on two quota­tions. In essence the argument (presented only in a hypothetical form) is that ‘there is no virtue for which some temptation cannot be found capable of overthrowing it’, and that the success of such temptations is ultimately a matter of their intensity, so every person will inevitably be faced with situations wherein they cannot resist giving in to the incentive of self-love. For a better proof, see note VIII.17.

[24].    ‘This evil is radical, because it corrupts the ground of all max­ims’ [Kt8:37(32)]—i.e., the dis­position. Although the term ‘radical evil’ appears in the title of Book One, Kant mentions it only a few times in the main text itself. Nevertheless, it should not be regarded as a mere synonym for the evil propensity. Rather, it is Kant’s technical name for the mysterious noumenal origin of our propensity to evil. Naming it in this way does not actually explain it, so much as indicate the extent of our ignorance of its origin. In De73:169-72 Despland traces the development of Kant’s views on evil as a positive force, from his optimism in Kt13 to his rejection of Leibniz in Kt64.

                  Galbraith [Ga96:100] says Kant calls evil ‘radical because we choose to do it through freewill, not because it belongs to us by nature.’ She is right to regard evil as resulting from our free choice; but this is not why Kant calls it ‘radical’. The latter refers to the fact that our initial choice to act on an evil maxim strikes at the root of our good predisposition. Allison’s account in Al96: 170 is more accurate: ‘Radical evil does not refer ... to a particularly great or deeply rooted demonic evil. It refers rather to the root of all moral evil, whatever its extent.’ As an illustration of evil, he takes Arendt’s report of the attitude of a Nazi war criminal, Eichmann [172], whom Arendt assesses as having ‘a total incapacity to look at things from the other’s point of view.’ Allison adds that ‘one might characterize [this] as an incapacity even to recognize that the other has a point of view’ [172]. Interestingly, Arendt sees this as a ‘failure of [aesthetic] judgment’, or ‘an inability to imag­ine’ [172-3], thus suggesting that thinking perspectivally is an essential function of the judicial (and so also, the religious) standpoint. Radical evil thus boils down to a neglect of the very stand­point that makes perspectival thinking possible, with Critical religion as its obvious solution.

[25].    Kt8:40(35). Kant relates this point to the issue of how to interpret the traditional doctrine of original sin: regarded as an explanation of our ‘inheritance’ of sin, it is ‘the most inept’ of all ex­planations of the origin of evil. Nevertheless, as we shall see in VIII.2.A, Kant’s overall assess­ment of the biblical doctrine is not entirely negative.

[26].    See e.g., Kt8:44-5(40-1); s.a. 76(71),83(78). ‘The concept of divine aid’, as Michalson interprets it [Mi89:265-6], ‘is properly and morally used if we invoke it when we find ourselves at the limits of our moral efforts ... The appeal to divine aid, then, has roughly the same status as the postulates of the immortality of the soul and the existence of God.’ While his initial statement is quite astute, the comparison that follows is not systematically correct. Divine aid functions not as a ‘necessary hypothesis’ [266] for religion, as the postulates do in systemp, but as a logically necessary element. For without it, one does not have religion, any more than one has knowledge without concepts, because the very God-concept would then be rendered useless. The postulates do not define the logic of morality, but its teleological purpose. As we shall see in VII.3.B, the closest equivalent to the latter in systemr would be worship, rituals, and other acts of religious service as indirect yet historically necessary ways of achieving religion’s purpose (i.e., pleasing God).

[27].    See Pa67:171. Because the original predisposition to good is not a choice, but merely part of our nature as human beings, we are not responsible for its presence in us—that is, it does not make us actually good. Nevertheless, we are responsible to this predisposition (as manifested in the form of the moral law), once we stray from it and choose to do evil. Thus Kant says [Kt35:(30)] ‘men can be placed under obligation because their [originally good] will is evil.’ By contrast, God’s will is entirely holy, so ‘the concept of duty does not apply’ [Kt32:350n; s.a. Kt4:84; Pa67:52-3].

[28].    White points out that Luther denies that ‘“ought” implies “can”’ [Wh90:14-5], perhaps the most fundamental premise of systemp. This, he claims, is the root of much of Kant’s disagreement with Luther [57]: ‘Suppose we do not know what is right. Suppose we have warped or corrupted views of the good life. These suppositions ... Kant simply rules out of court, but they are the question with which Luther begins.’ But does Kant rule them out completely? Surely his doctrine of radical evil attempts to deal with them. White is not distinguishing properly between systemp and systemr. Thus he claims [58]: ‘One obvious fact about the Bible which Kant signally omitted ... is ... it confronts us with natural man as “blinded”.’ But as we shall see, Kant does appreciate this aspect of the Bible. What separates him from Luther is that he also sees another strain that runs throughout the Bible, ignored by Luther: that we ourselves are responsible to respond properly to this situation. White thinks Kant’s position requires us [59] to make the ‘incredible assumption that we are infallible in moral matters, that we always know what is the right thing to be done.’ Instead, White argues, I should admit ‘that I am simply unable to do what is right because I have radical misconceptions of what my duty is.’ Yet from the standpoint of systemr, this is no problem for Kant. For he fully admits that we cannot even see clearly into our own motivations. Systemp defines moral duty precisely to prepare us for our radical ignorance of what it is in each situation! In Kt8 Kant hints that sometimes we just have to guess and hope we have properly assessed our duty. I believe these two positions can therefore be reconciled by regarding Luther’s position as historically correct, and therefore true for historical faith, while Kant’s systemp position is rationally correct, and therefore true for pure moral religion. Kant would fully agree that the histori­cal ‘ought’ alone cannot give a person a significant degree of confidence that he or she can carry out a given duty. A perspectival approach thus overcomes the conflict between Kant and Luther.

[29].    Kt8:37(32). Galbraith [Ga96:83] interprets this statement to mean ‘humans will always be open to a disposition to evil, not that we cannot overcome this disposition.’ That is, even a person whose disposition has been converted to good (see stage two) will still be open to the influence of evil (see stage three). Unfortunately, Galbraith seems unaware of Kant’s concerted effort in Book Two to deline­ate the formal requirements that must be followed by any faith-based solution to the problem of evil, for she adds ‘no clue is given [in Kt8] as to how we can overcome the evil in our nature.’

[30].    Kt8:44(39). After pointing out that Luther believed ‘you could not isolate within Man a faculty or part that was and remained exempt from corruption’ [Wh90:47], White alleges: ‘This is, of course, precisely what Kant does’. But this is misleading. Kant affirms only a seed of goodness, not a full-fledged ‘faculty’ or even a well-developed ‘part’ of human nature. Just as for Luther, this remains no more than an undeveloped potential until divine assistance is given.

                  Kant’s account of the fall from innocence into evil as giving rise to the need for salvation can be regarded as the theological equivalent of the philosophical ‘fall’ from ignorance, through the mediating stage of wonder, to wisdom as a form of renewed ignorance [see Pa00a]. The final sen­tence of Book One is also reminiscent of the myth of Pandora’s Box. That all manner of evils are released into the world by the opening of the box is well known; but an aspect of the myth that is often neglected is that hope lies at the bottom. So also Book One is best known for opening up the ‘Pandora’s Box’ of radical evil; what we must not forget is that it ends by reminding us that hope also lies therein. McCarthy expresses this point rather poetically in Mc86:71: ‘hope ... honeys the rim of the cup of duty and cuts short the danger of despairing of ever being well-pleasing to God.’ On the significance of hope in Kt8, see VI.2 and AVI.3.

[31].    Kt8:61(54); s.a. Kt35:(98). Kant develops an early form of this theory in Kt19:396, where he refers to God as the ‘exemplar’ of ‘noumenal perfection’. As the fourth step, the archetype’s role in systemr can be compared to that of imagination in the fourth step of systemt. Just as the latter empowers the mind to form concepts out of representations that were formerly mere intuitions, the former empowers the heart to form good maxims despite being (formerly) dominated by evil.

[32].    Scharf rejects Kant’s appeal to such an inscrutable ‘mystery’ as insufficient ‘if Kant wants to have his religion remain within the limits of reason alone’ [Sc93:84-5]. ‘Kant’s project ... fails because humans are not the only actors’ [87n]. But this objection fizzles once we recognize the theocentric orientation of his entire System [see I.3] and give up the strict reduction­ist paradigm for interpreting Kt8 [see VI.4]. Kant’s appeal to inscrutability is necessary and appropriate as long as he remains within reason’s limits. The criterion of ‘success’ for his project was never to explain this mystery from the standpoint of rational religion alone, but rather to establish its necessity in order to identify the problems a good historical faith must solve. As we saw in IV.1,4, the living God of religious faith is welcomed into the ‘house’ of Kant’s System as a legitimate resident (perhaps even as its ‘owner’), not secretly admitted just to please the unenlightened.

[33].    Kt8:67(60-1); s.a. 171(159),174(162),178(166); Kt65:43-4; Wa72:157; We26:120. Kant de­scribes practical faith in this divine forgiveness in Kt35:(95-6) as ‘trust in God that He will supply our deficiency in things beyond our power, provided we have done all within our power.... [It con­sists] in saying: “I will myself do all I can, and if I then leave myself in God’s hands, He will strengthen my weaknesses and make up my shortcomings as He knows best.”’ Fendt claims [Fe90:117] that such an appeal to divine assistance (grace) on Kant’s part ‘becomes oxymoronic, paradoxical, self-contradictory.’ His main reason is that, ‘if we are inadequate, then it is clearly not in our power.’ But Fendt’s ‘it’ is equivocal. For us ‘to become better men’ [Kt8:45(40-1); q.i. Fe90: 117] is possible and (Kant argues) adequate for becoming worthy of God’s assistance; this is in our power. What is not in our power is to supplement what is still lacking in order for God to be pleased. This is the role God’s grace must fulfill in Kant’s system. McCarthy correctly describes Kant’s concept of grace in Mc86:76-8, but misleadingly refers to it as ‘a small supersensible supplement’ [78]. To Kant, however, the size of the supplement is irrelevant; the key point is that some supplement is necessary and has a genuinely saving effect. See AVI.4 for further details.

[34].    See e.g., Kt8:110(100),115(105). As Collins aptly points out [Co67:184], this perspectival shift implies that the question generating the religious (judicial) standpoint ‘concerns not only what I may hope by myself but, more determinately and incisively, what we may hope together, as fellow men and bearers of the tendency toward personality.’ In a similar vein McCarthy suggests [Mc86: 71] that ‘the ethical commonwealth ... is a development ... of ... the implicitly social [i.e., universal] character of the moral law itself.’

[35].    Kt8:95(86); s.a. 100(91). Despland is right to say [De73:208]: ‘The notion of an ethical com­mon­wealth ... presents salvation as occurring in a community and through a community.’ But this does not mean salvation comes from the community. The ethical commonwealth sets the stage for us to be able to receive God’s saving grace, but fails on its own. It is the problem, not the solution.

[36].    Kt8:95(87). Thus Kant asserts [102(93)]: ‘An ethical commonwealth ... really [i.e., ideally] has ... nothing resembling a political constitution.’ Indeed, he exclaims [96(87)]: ‘woe to the legislator who wishes to establish through force a polity directed to ethical ends!’ This warning highlights the fundamentally paradoxical nature of the very idea under consideration: a ‘commonwealth’ is an implicitly political, externally-legislated system of human organization; yet ‘ethical’ implies an essentially non-political, internally-legislated system. I introduced the notion of a ‘non-political political system’ as applied to biblical theology in Pa93 and will elaborate on Kant’s philosophi­cal use of this notion in KSP4.

[37].    The argument appears in Book Three, Di­vision One, §II, at Kt8:97-99(88-91). Wood acknowl­edges that Kant’s arguments in support of ‘faith in a divine grace’ [Wo92:403] can be regarded as supple­menting his moral argument, but does not call attention to this passage. Lenk identifies a ‘socio­morphic’ argument for God in the passage [Le89:103], but leaves it undeveloped. Peters develops a formalized version of the argument [Pe93:101-2], but without acknowledging the way it lends support for belief in God. Instead, he interprets it as an attempt to encourage hope in the possibil­i­ty of an ethical commonwealth becoming real and regards the introduction of the idea of God as a dispensable element [106,157-61]. Yet this totally ignores the argument’s progression from the assump­tion of an ethical commonwealth to the need for belief in God. Without the latter, the argu­ment would be powerless to convince anyone of the reality of anything! Moreover, Peters thinks Kant introduces the idea of God in order to guarantee the possibility of moral progress [e.g., 161]. But Kant’s view is that partial progress is not ultimately meaningful if the full realization of the final goal is impossible; belief in God is needed to guarantee the latter, not merely partial progress.

[38].    Kant does not specify this step in his argument explicitly. However, it is a maxim that he re­peats over and over again in Kt4, Kt8, and elsewhere. In Kt8:41(36), for instance, he says that in every moral act it ‘must be within his [a moral agent’s] power’ ‘to better himself.’

[39].    Divine assistance is the only way (or in Kant’s words, ‘this duty will require the presupposition of [divine assistance]’ [Kt8:98(89), e.a.]) because the only other option is to suppose that an ethi­cal commonwealth can succeed when based entirely on human organization. Yet if the peo­ple them­selves are regarded as the source of the ethical laws, the common­wealth would be essentially politi­cal, not ethical [98(90); s.a. note VII.36]. Rossi makes a similar point when he says Kant’s claim that the ‘complete attainment’ of goodness ‘lies beyond human capacities’ [Ro89:371] ‘helps open up a “logical space” for an affirmation of God on the basis of “moral faith”.’

[40].    Kt8:100-1(92), e.a. Michalson is therefore correct to say ‘the recovery from radical evil’ must take place through ‘a divine/human alliance’ [Mi93:45]. But he thinks this raises numerous ‘philo­soph­ical puzzles and obscurities’ [46]. For example, in Books Two and Three ‘the cooperative role played by God is gradually displaced by other moral agents.’ The ‘community’ assumes the ‘soteriological function that is assigned to God in Books I and II.’ That this might be a change of perspective rather than an inconsistency never occurs to Michalson. Moreover, he never says what would be wrong with such a transition of responsibility. It seems quite compatible with the notion that human beings are God’s children. As we grow up, God gives us more and more responsibility to fend for ourselves. Michalson complains, however, that this ‘does not really solve the problem of radical evil’ [46]; it ‘simply changes the subject.’ It ‘begs the question of individual moral regener­ation’, inasmuch as [47] ‘God’s grace assumes the form of other rational beings.’ That no question is begged here becomes obvious, once we realize Kant is dealing with different issues. Moreover, even in Book Three Kant insists there will inevitably be something God alone can do to make up for our insufficiency, whether individual or social. Michalson rejects such a claim as incoherent [48-9] on the grounds that ‘the “phenomenal” moral agent is playing a kind of “catch-up” with the noumenal agent ... The equivocation here is palpable.’ (See Mi90:103-6 for a similar argument.) But no such monstrosity is assumed in Kant’s text, any more than our empirical intuitions have to ‘catch up’ with our pure intuition of space and time in systemt. What gradually improves over time is our own self-awareness—our knowledge of our disposition, not the disposition itself.

                  Michalson’s misrepresentation of Book Three (especially §III) reaches its height when he claims [Mi93:50] that Kant ‘supplements—and possibly trumps—his appeals to an inscrutable divine grace with appeals to the community of moral agents.’ Yet Kant never comes close to saying the community can do it all; he affirms only that we must act as if we must do so, in order to avoid moral laziness. That Kant is here ‘caught between heaven and earth’ [50] is a offense he would surely admit, for this is the true human situation! (Rossi aptly expresses this point by saying that for Kant ‘the unique status that human beings have in the cosmos’ is precisely that we ‘stand in that breach between the “sensible” and the “intelligible,” because we are the juncture’ [Ro93:62].) The supposed inconsistencies Michalson so diligently enumerates reveal Kant’s integrity, not his philosophical ineptitude. Thus, Michalson cleverly alleges [51] that both of Kant’s supposedly inconsistent views in Kt8 ‘appear to supersede his own postulate of the immortality of the soul in [Kt4].’ This is because in Kant’s account of the individual’s struggle with evil we no longer need duration, and in his account of the community’s victory the kingdom is established on earth, not in heaven. Both these objections, however, are easily overcome. In the former case, an individual’s salvation remains a future reality for Kant, so immortality is still needed in order for us to reap the benefits of having held on to our good disposition. And in the latter, without duration, there would be no experience of reward; a postulate of a new kind of phenomenal realm (i.e., heaven on earth) is still needed, in order for the noumenal ideal to take effect.

[41].    Kt8:100(91). Flesher misleadingly refers to this as an ‘identification’ [Fl88:124-5], saying ‘Kant calls [the ‘ethical commonwealth’] a church.’ Yet the two are far from being identical con­cepts: they are as distinct as democracy is from theocracy [see Pa93]! Flesher does correctly de­scribe the church as ‘an evolutionary body’ [125], adding that it plays out the necessary, though ‘uneasy marriage of the pure religion of reason and ecclesiastical faith.’ As we shall see, this is a mutually complementary arrangement: reason on its own cannot make religion real; it needs the help of faith; historical faiths on their own are illegitimate; they need reason as a guiding light.

                  McCarthy makes a similar blunder [Mc86:98], claiming Kant’s ‘church has become destined to dissolve into the ethical commonwealth.’ This would be true if Kant were a strict reductionist. But it simply cannot be supported by the text. For Kant argues that the ethical commonwealth must be raised to the status of becoming a church in order to succeed! Neglecting the architectonic flow of Kt8, especially the implications of Kant’s ‘religious argument’, McCarthy wrongly concludes [85] ‘that the idea of an ethical commonwealth does not lead to the idea of a revelation-based church.’ As we shall see in VIII.3.A, however, Kant believes the best visible church is ‘revelation-based’. McCarthy likewise claims [86] ‘the idea of an ethical commonwealth leads ultimately back only to itself.’ What it lead to in the flow of Kant’s text is the church, and ultimately to the king­dom of God on earth [see Pa94b]. McCarthy’s claim assumes that the ethical commonwealth is iden­tical to the kingdom of God—yet they are very different for Kant: the former is a mere idea that can be made concrete only by interpreting it religiously, in terms of the latter. McCarthy states Kant’s view more accurately when he says the church serves an ‘intermediate’ role between these two [86].

[42].    Kt8:101-2(93). The correspondence between Kant’s four principles (especially the first two) and the Nicene Creed’s affirmation of ‘one holy catholic and apostolic Church’ may be more than coincidental. Kant’s ‘freedom’ may be intended as a more realistic version of ‘catholic’ (meaning ‘universal’), while ‘unchangeableness’ generalizes the continuity implied by ‘apostolic’. Peters makes a similar observation in Pe93:93, but fails to connect Kant’s usage with the categories.

[43].    Davidovich alludes to this parallel in Da93a:25. Similarly, Crosby notes a ‘close connection ... between the kingdom of ends and the Kingdom of God’ [Cr94:126]. What he fails to see is that the former applies only to systemp; in Kt8 Kant is dealing with the latter. The former becomes transformed into the latter through religion.

[44].    Kt8:109-10(100). Despland notes that Kant makes ‘repeated attacks on the disjunction of reason and history, and reason appears ... as ... dependent on the community’ [De73:222]. He uses the concentric circles metaphor [see above, Fig. VII.1] to give an excellent account of why Kant ‘oscillat[es] between the view that sees reason as the educator of history and that which sees his­tory      as the educator of reason’ [242]. For Kant, reason is ‘the force that draws and attracts’, yet ‘revela­tion and grace [are] the dynamic realities that move man along this progressive path.’  Michalson considers the possibility that ‘the religion of reason is not necessarily opposed to historical religion’ [Mi79:52], but as a direct consequence of his lack of appreciation for Kant’s principle of perspective, he is never able to account for the intrinsic ‘tension’ [126] between the two. Explicitly contrasting his view with Despland’s, Michalson responds to this ‘unresolved tension in Kant’s religious thought’ [130] by repeatedly appealing to the ‘standards’ set in Kt1, Kt4, and Kt5 in order to interpret Kt8—i.e., by insisting [131] that for Kant ‘our moral and religious life is intelligible only in terms of a timeless noumenal realm.’ Yet this uncritical conflation of standpoints, the source of most of Michalson’s confusion, does not come from Kant but from the false set of hermeneutic assumptions being imposed on the text. Thus Michalson portrays Kant as being ‘forced’ into an irrational position of ‘incorporat[ing] the historical aspects of religion into his religious philosophy’ [132], when in fact this incorporation is but a natural outcome of the judicial standpoint Kant adopts in Kt8.

                  Likewise neglecting the compatibility Kant sees between reason and history [see KSP4], Davidovich accuses Kant of having a ‘deep bias against organized religion’ [Da93b:121] and as­serts [122] that historical religion is ‘the greatest possible threat to the autonomy of morality and, by implication, to the cultural progress of human­ity.’ While there is some truth in these comments, they ignore far more impor­tant points that are fundamental to systemr: despite Kant’s personal preference not to attend church regularly [see notes VIII.31 and 49], he makes human organization a neces­sary element in all true religion; and along with the risk of wrongly believing historical religion can replace pure religion comes the greatest pos­sible benefit of religion, that humanity, through its historical struggle with the reality of evil, will finally come of age. One-sided comments such as Davidovich’s tend to shroud Kant’s rightful standing as a reformer.

[45].    The extent of Kant’s emphasis in these sections on the realization of rational religion in history makes it rather surprising that McCarthy would assert [Mc82:200]: ‘Kant makes no references to the possible intention of the New Testament writers to narrate events which in some sense might be historical.’ Perhaps this is simply because Kant saw no need to mention what everyone takes for granted! We must keep in mind, after all, that in appealing to Scripture Kant is exemplifying his own principle of moral interpretation, and that in his defense of this approach to interpretation, Kant freely admits that historical scholarship does have a legitimate role—just not a primary religious one. Moreover, McCarthy himself accurately reports Kant’s view that ‘the actual and historical church’ reflects the ‘true church’ [Mc86:87] only ‘to the extent that it recognizes itself as transitional and as the imperfect vehicle of pure religion.’ This acknowledgment that the true church can (and must) be historical does not mean ‘the church ... cannot, according to Kant, serve as the basis of a universal church.’ It can, provided we recognize it as a temporary and imperfect basis [see Pa94b]. McCarthy continues [88]: ‘The Christian church is thus certainly not the vehicle of salvation history but simply a distinguished passenger.... [T]he Christian church itself eventually needs to be saved.’ This is potentially misleading, for ‘vehicle’ is precisely the term Kant uses to describe the true historical church! Kant allows there to be more than one vehicle, so no visible church can claim to be exclusive, unless (as Kant himself argues [see VIII.2-3] it alone fits the ‘passenger’ (reason). As such, the church needs to be ‘saved’ only in the sense of continu­ing its movement gradually away from historical particularity and towards rational universality.

[46].    Kant’s philosophically correct recognition of ignorance with respect to the details of divine revelation is likely to bewilder any interpreter who does not recognize its perspectival context. Thus Wisnefske [Wi90:149n] asks: ‘What can it mean for something to be revealed about which we have no notion at all? How do we know it is the revelation of God if we have no sense of what it is for there to be a God? Revelation seems to indicate that something vaguely known becomes known.’ Kant’s response would be that, as we saw in V.1-4, we do have a notion of God and that it can be known with a high degree of clarity if regarded as a practical symbol. What reason cannot give us is an intuition that corresponds to this idea. That this can be given only through experience is the central tenet of Kant’s Critical mysticism [see Part Four]. In order to be considered valid by reason, a claim to revelation must therefore either be consistent with practical reason or else must be regarded hypothetically, as a symbolic representation of an essentially unknowable truth.

                  Hicks accuses Kant’s attempt to ‘return to theistic piety and grace’ of being ‘both untenable and self-defeating’ [Hi74:386]; as long as he attempts to do it ‘without revelation’, it is ‘tantamount to the regaining of lost innocence.’ We can now see how unfair this is. First, Kant does allow for the necessity of revelation. Second, his hope is not for a return to Eden, but for a move forward to a new (Critical) innocence, requiring the cooperative participation of God’s grace.

[47].    Ha94:140. Despland expresses a similar view in De73:220 [s.a. 225]: ‘The possibility of [special revelation] is not to be denied, but the use of the idea must be modest.’ As we shall see in VIII.2.B, the same can be said for Kant’s view of the claim that Jesus is God incarnate. This perspectival way of interpreting Kant stands in marked contrast to the more negative interpre­tations so often adopted in the past. Barth, for example, thinks ‘[a]nyone who speaks of revelation is bursting the religion of reason asunder’, to the extent that Kant’s ‘philosophy of religion cannot therefore speak of revelation’ [Ba72:284]; likewise, he claims that for Kant ‘there is certainly ... no sugges­tion that this Word [i.e., the archetype] might by any chance have become flesh.’ Fendt assumes the same position without argument: ‘Kant stands against both Incarnation and Revelation’ [Fe90:206]. We shall see the full extent of how wrong such views are in VIII.2.B and VIII.3.A.

[48].    This same theme is echoed in a number of Kant’s secondary writings on politics, history, and human nature [e.g., Kt31, Kt32, Kt60-Kt63]. The relation of these works to each other and to reli­gion (especially stage three of systemr) will be examined in KSP4. A first attempt to expound Kant’s theory of the political history of mankind can be found in Pa94b, where I argue that Kant’s view of the culmination of history has a close affinity to ‘theocracy’—a theology of politics I have described primarily from the Perspective of the biblical theologian in Pa93.

[49].    Kt8:153-67(142-55) and 167-90(156-78), respectively. On systemt, see KSP1:129-40,235-43. Despland’s view of Book Four as ‘a kind of appendix’ [De73:185; s.a. note VII.51, below] ignores its crucial role in completing the system.

[50].    Kt8:162(151). This process is a good example of what I have elsewhere called the ‘analytic a posteriori’ [see e.g., KSP1:134-9,237-9,251-2,367-8; Pa00a:76-7]. A pre-formed concept (‘revela­tion’) is used to define analytically, or determine in advance, the nature of something (a set of texts) that is met only a posteriori, in experience. Describing revelation in this way is not meant to detract from its legitimacy, but only to describe what is happening when a person adopts an hypothetical belief in its status as revealed.

[51].    As Vossenkuhl correctly observes, ‘the ideal of a new man pleasing to God’ is systemr’s ‘analogue to the “supreme good”’ in systemp [Vo88:185]. This suggests how wrong Flesher [Fl88:126; s.a. note VII.49, above] is to regard Book Four as constituting ‘little more than an appendix to Book Three.’ As in systemt and systemp, the fourth stage here supplies the true aim for the entire endeavor. That aim is to serve God, and only in Book Four does Kant tell us clearly how this is to be done. As such, Book Four of Kt8 fulfills a role equivalent to the Dialectic sections of Kt1 and Kt4.

[52].    Kt8:165(153). Concerning such an insistence on propositional assent, Kant asks in Kt8:172(159-60): ‘Who, indeed, is now the unbeliever? Is it he who trusts, without knowing how that for which he hopes will come to pass; or he who absolutely insists on knowing the way in which man is released from evil and, if he cannot know this, gives up all hope of the release?’ Ob­viously, Kant’s answer is that the latter person, by adopting the speculative perspective on matters of religious belief, has unwittingly declared a profound lack of faith. To this we can add that, given Kant’s understanding of the terms ‘deism’ and ‘theism’ [see IV.4], those who ignore natural religion and base the entirety of their doctrinal beliefs on supposedly theoretical knowledge gleaned from a particular set of holy scriptures, assumed to be God’s unique and final revelation to humanity, are in fact more like deists than theists. They know God not as a living ‘voice’ [see X.3-4] but only through the dead letter of a revelation set in stone, a revelation as complete as the deists’ proverbial ‘clock’: once wound up (written down by human authors), it requires no further intervention from God.

[53].    Kt8:168(156). By contrast, true service is inherently paradoxical [Kt39:450-1(124)]: ‘God ... com­mands that we practise virtue for its own inherent worth, and not merely because He demands it.’

[54].    Kt8:180(168); s.a. note AVII.17. ‘To claim universal validity for a dogma ... involves a contradic­tion: ... no mere statute can be universally valid’, because it is not a priori, but empirical [Kt65:49]. Kant defines ‘orthodoxy’ as ‘the view that belief in dogma is suffi­cient for religion’ [60] and ‘sectarianism’ as the view that such belief is ‘essential’ [50].

[55].    Kant states this explicitly at the end of the section where he discusses this principle: ‘ecclesiastical faith ... must contain within itself, along with the statutory articles ..., still another principle, of setting up the religion of good life-conduct as the real end’ [Kt8:174(163), e.a.]. See AVIII.1 for a more detailed discussion of this point. The idea that we should eventually ‘dispense with the statutory articles’ is not something Kant regards as a realistic, short-term goal; it is rather an ideal, a long-term task that is not likely to be fully accomplished in the foresee­able future [see Pa94b].

[56].    Kt8:169-70(157-8). Kant expresses this rather forcefully in Kt35:(89): ‘Devoutness is an indi­rect relation of the heart to God, which seeks to express itself in action and to make the knowledge of God work effectually upon the will. It is not an activity, but a method of securing readiness in ac­tion. It is action, the putting into practice of the moral law, the doing of what God wills us to do, that constitutes true religion.... [D]evotional exercises are meant for the purpose of acquiring the habit of doing good ... Devotion as a separate pursuit, as an occupation in itself, has no point.’

[57].    This analogy between systemt and systemr is implied by Kant in Kt8:168n(156n) when, as a preparation for explaining religious illusions, he defines illusion in general as ‘the deception of regarding the mere representation of a thing as equivalent to the thing in itself.’

[58].    The three steps in stage three, however, are summarized quite clearly in Kt8:151-2(139). This is fortunate since the reader could easily be misled by the fact that the ‘philosophical’ division of Book Three contains not three but seven sections.

[59].    See Table VII.2. These four key aspects of systemr suggest that Kant’s philosophy of religion is a ‘God of the gaps’ theory. This is true in a special, practical sense. But it is not true in the ordinary sense of this phrase, where the ‘gaps’ refer to our ignorance in matters of empirical, scien­tif­ic truth, which we are supposedly able to fill in with theological ‘knowledge’. Kant has no sympathy for such an approach. Rather, the gaps in question here relate only to our practical reason, and are filled only hypothetically and only for elements about which bare reason leaves us necessarily ignorant. The same two qualifications would have to hold for any attempt to fill any gaps in our theoretical knowledge with a theological content: our ignorance must be necessary; and our theological claims must be made only hypothetically.

 

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