When we think about faith as a relationship with god, rather than a set of propositional beliefs, this changes the way we think about ethics. We think about ethics more as a set of practices and orientations than as rules. The chapter considers this claim through examining the way evangelical Christians come to understand their relationship with Jesus, and more briefly through Catholics who seek to understand what it is to be a modern Mexican, through Amazonian shamans who want to know their spirits, and modern magicians. When we focus on religion as something people do, rather than just what they believe, we must approach ethics as a series of incremental interpretations of how people make sense of who they have become in the world, rather than a carefully considered set of logical arguments.

Famously, in the Canon of Pure Reason, Kant present a practical argument to the effect that our beliefs in God and immortality are justified. I argue that reading the Critique of Pure Reason as the doctrine of method of metaphysics provides a straightforward explanation of the systematic place of Kant’s practical argument in the Canon. Customarily, the relevance of the Critique for the practical part of metaphysics is restricted to proving the theoretical undecidability of God and immortality, but the Canon clearly goes beyond establishing that. According to its positive task as the doctrine of method of metaphysics, the Critique must establish that metaphysics can achieve ‘architectonic unity’. I argue that showing that this unity is possible for metaphysics requires showing that there is conceptual space for coherently accommodating our commitment towards the existence of God and immortality within it.

This chapter examines a number of arguments against God’s existence and identifies what conception of God underlies them. It explores how these arguments can inform a theologically healthy image of God.

Throughout his life, Martin Buber insisted that his dialogical thinking was “not the result of reading but of personal experience.” This emphasis on his own generative experience does not vitiate the fact that, as Buber likewise acknowledged, “in all ages it has undoubtedly been glimpsed that the reciprocal essential relationship between two beings signifies a primal opportunity of being, and one, in fact, that enters into the phenomenon that the human being exists.” Although historical antecedents pointed toward Buber’s dialogical thinking, its crystallization occurred during the tumultuous years of the First World War, when he underwent a conversion, personal as well as intellectual, from the mysticism of his prewar writings to his signature postwar dialogical thinking.

On many fronts, 1916 marked a point of no return. After the collapse of optimism for swift victory following the outbreak of hostilities, the inconclusive bloodlettings at Verdun and the Somme, and mounting economic hardships on the home front, the prospects for German triumph seemed increasingly dim. Attitudes became more resigned to a war like no other, a war without end. Dampened expectations gave way to creeping pessimism matched by defiant fatalism. A number of prominent intellectuals and academics who in 1914 eagerly supported the war now came to express their doubts or else fell conspicuously silent regarding the fate of the nation. Once the most vocal of advocates for the war, Ernst Troeltsch began to see things differently and came to accept the political deficiencies of the Wilhelmine Empire with its deleterious militarism.

For countless soldiers, revelation as to the significance of their lives entwined with the fate of God, the Nation, or whatever Absolute claimed to give meaning to it all could occur in the most fearful of situations, but also in the most inauspicious of moments. For many, the war was experienced as a rite of passage and self-discovery. Many emerged from the war transfigured, set upon a new course of life. There were those, as with Ernst Jünger, who entered the war with an adventurous heart in search of something more than what domestic life had on offer; there were those, as with Karl Löwith, who did not go to war adventuring but in need of an ill-defined alternative, returning from the war scarred for life; there were those, as with Dietrich Mahnke, who through the war found confirmation of what had already been known but as yet existentially evidenced; there were those whose philosophical promise was extinguished on the battlefield, as with the deaths of Emil Lask and Adolf Reinach; and there were those who, philosophically active before 1914, disappeared from the stage of history after 1918, whose postwar quietude, as with Johannes Daubert, poignantly bespoke the extinguishing of thinking.

On August 25, 1914, three weeks after the invasion of Belgium (August 4) and two months after the fateful assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife in Sarajevo (June 28), German troops entered the city of Leuven and destroyed its celebrated university library. Some 300,000 books and more than a thousand irreplaceable Medieval manuscripts were burnt along with the torching of 2,000 buildings and the killing of 248 civilians. The devastation was so intense that Dietrich Mahnke, a student of Edmund Husserl’s serving in the 75th Reserve Infantry Regiment, could still observe the city burning on August 27 as his company marched through the village of Korbeek-Lo a few kilometers northwest of Leuven. Outrage among intellectuals, politicians, and the public in Allied nations was swift.

Christian theological interpretation of Scripture is a practice that brings together both trained biblical scholars as well as theologians of various types. In recent years this has enabled the importance of some foundational theological questions about scriptural interpretation to come to the forefront. This chapter both highlights the importance of addressing these questions and how the practice of theological interpretation might move forward in the future.