While one of John Henry Newman's principal aims in the Grammar of Assent is to explain how men can give a ‘real assent’ to the existence of God, the major part of the actual phenomenology of religious belief in the work is concentrated in the fifth of its ten chapters. Unfortunately, this section of the essay has been overshadowed by the preliminary distinction between real and notional apprehension and by the later invocation of the illative sense; but perhaps the time is now ripe for a closer examination of this central part of Newman's philosophy of religion, which is in many ways the key to the successes and failures of Newman's new method in philosophical theology.

The aim of this essay is to show the significance for a new situation of Barth's attack upon some of the historical scholarship of his day over fifty years ago. Barth was motivated by Christian theological concerns, but what he stood for has important implications for New Testament studies generally, and in particular for its purpose and place within a Religious Studies syllabus. If what is written has a mildly polemical edge this will betray the scarcely veiled theological interests which prompt the warning against New Testament studies that spurn theology and a theology that spurns the New Testament. But the argument depends upon considerations arising from the character of the New Testament material and the educational reasons for studying it outside the Christian church. Within the theological circle, liberal protestantism is at last emerging from under the cloud cast over it by the dialectical theology. The rediscovery of Schleiermacher is rightly being followed by a rediscovery of Troeltsch. But for reasons for which dialectical theology is itself partly to blame this is being accompanied in some quarters by a failure to insist upon the importance of the Bible for Christian theology. Despite all their differences, liberals and dialectical theologians agreed in defending biblically rooted theologies. Some of those engaged in revising the map of recent theological history need reminding that the emphasis upon the theological use of the New Testament which has dominated the work of Barth and Bultmann has more than a narrowly confessional interest. It is directly relevant to the recent swing towards Religious Studies in British universities and colleges of education.

What is religious faith? Contemporary philosophy of religion and philosophical theology provide a bewildering abundance of different answers to this question. In this essay I shall sketch an over-view of some of the literature, in the form of a classificatory schema. I hope that this schema will enable the reader to distinguish with greater clarity some of the various kinds of issue which arise. My focus will be on contrasts between faith and belief.

‘Mysticism means to isolate the eternal from the originated.’ This is not my definition of the word ‘mysticism’ but that of the founder of the ‘orthodox’ school of Muslim mysticism, Al-Junayd of Baghdad who flourished in the ninth century a.d. In actual fact it is not a definition of mysticism at all but of the Arabic word tawḥīd which means primarily ‘the affirmation of unity’; and that surely is an essential ingredient of any form of mysticism: it is the affirmation through personal experience of unity either absolutely or in some qualified sense.

In general, there are two main approaches to settling the alleged conflict between religion and science. On the first approach, one argues that there is not even the possibility of such a conflict, since the uses of religious utterances are sufficiently different from those of scientific ones to constitute them a distinct logical type. Thus, if religion appears to conflict with science, either this is merely an appearance, or else one of them, at least, is also performing the function of the other, in which case their conflict is really either a scientific conflict or a religious conflict. In no case, however, can the truth of a scientific utterance be any reason for inferring the falsity of a religious one, and much less can it be any reason for entertaining doubts about the religious utterance's logical propriety.

One of the consequences of the breakdown of physical barriers between the various peoples of the world has been that the question of the relationships between the major religious traditions still actively functioning at the present time has become more acute than it ever has been before. Previously a degree of exclusivity, either partial or total, could be maintained without adherents of one particular tradition being seriously troubled by the fact that elsewhere men worshipped ‘other gods’ through other forms. To maintain a rigorous exclusivity today in the name of one particular tradition is a far more difficult matter, for it means denying the validity of what appear to be manifestations of the Spirit outside this particular tradition; and to go to these lengths would be a sign of an extreme prejudice. But how, on the other hand, is one to account for these manifestations? Are they simply to be regarded as evidence of the Spirit blowing where he wills? Or do they indicate the intrinsic sacred quality of the traditional forms through which they occur, with the implication that each tradition within which they do occur is equally and fully with each other such tradition a divinely-instituted way of spirituai realisation? It is to this latter point of view that many most seriously concerned with the question are now tending to subscribe. Yet it does have serious implications. One of these is that it appears to involve the assumption, tacit or explicit, not only that there are the particular traditions themselves but also that there is something which one can only describe as the Tradition: a body of doctrine or form of revelation which is intrinsically superior to other religious traditions and which in some manner completes or subsumes them. How does this come about and what does it amount to?

‘The organic body signifies the latent crisis of every known ontology and the touchstone of “any future one which will be able to come forward as a science.”’ —Hans Jonas

‘Thales…said that the magnet has a soul in it because it moves the iron.’—Aristotle

Miquel de Unamuno, a thinker perhaps too large and passionate to yield to easy labelling, has been characterised in different ways by many of his most brilliant compatriots. Julian Marias spoke of him as a man obsessed by the proud thirst to know, a passionate man who in spite of a ‘problematic intellectual adherence’ was nonetheless able to live and think within a vital Catholic tradition. Ortega y Gasset wrote that all of Unamuno's work was dominated by one theme, that of death; it was one monumental meditatio mortis. It was Madariaga, not an original philosopher but undoubtedly as penetrating a critic as either Marias or Ortega, however, who most faithfully portrayed the often convoluted but always profound man Unamuno was. In most if not all of the main characters of his novels and short stories, he rightly observes, ‘we can trace the dominant passion which is their whole being to a mere variety of the one and only passion which obsesses Unamuno, the hunger for life, a full life, here and after’. This passion, assailed as it was by the constant probings of his critical intellect ought to have made his existence precarious at best.

To me the decisive reason in favor of our minds meeting in some common objects at least is that, unless I make that supposition, I have no motive for assuming that your mind exists at all.

Hegel's treatment of the Sublime is both self-consistent and distinctive. He not only defines sublimity, but discovers and ranks its types or stages from one select point of view—the viewpoint of God-world relation; and the way he does this, on the one hand, distinguishes him from many others who have contributed to an understanding of the concept, and, on the other hand, enables him to suggest, if but implicitly, a criterion for distinguishing the sublime from allied concepts. Besides, he discusses the matter in the wide context of diverse cultures, making quite a few insightful references to Eastern literature; and, consistently with his own conception of philosophy, also from the viewpoint of historical necessity, so that the sublime appears, in his Aesthetik, as a specific stage which the evolving story of art must in fact traverse.

When philosophers approach philosophy of religion, they typically ask two questions: (a) are there any sound arguments to prove the existence of God; and (b) is talk about God even rationally intelligible? Theologians, for their part, primarily expound the meaning and relevance of Christianity. I am by profession a philosopher, but apart from Secs. VI and VII I am here writing as a puzzled twentieth-century man. My prime worry is whether we philosophers and theologians are beginning with the right questions.

There are themes in Wittgenstein's later work which are extremely radical. By ‘radical’ I mean both that they cut to the very root of crucial philosophical issues, and that they tend to be ignored by the established philosophical positions of the day. More specifically, these themes focus on the understanding of epistemological bedrock, and they lead in directions about which it is difficult to get a hearing in major philosophical circles.

It is a current commonplace that if the concept of deity is incoherent then no significant truth-claim is made for a formula like ‘God exists’, for it is neither true nor false but meaningless. This is the problem of factual meaning on which such emphasis is laid by critics like A. Flew, R. W. Hepburn, C. B. Martin, K. Nielsen and P. Edwards. I wish here to counter their challenge.

The ontological argument appears in a multiplicity of forms. Over the past ten or twelve years, however, the philosophical community seems to have been concerned principally with those versions of the proof which claim that God is a necessary being. In contemporary literature, Professors Malcolm and Hartshorne have been the chief advocates of this view, both men holding that God must be conceived as a necessary being and that, as a result, his existence is able to be demonstrated a priori. This claim has not gone unchallenged; indeed, numerous writers have argued that neither Malcolm nor Hartshorne has exercised due care in his use of ‘necessary’. That is, critics charge that the arguments of both men have only the appearance of validity, for in their reasonings the defenders of the a priori proof have tacitly assumed that God is a logically necessary being. Whether or not a being can be logically necessary, however, is a quaestio disputata. In fact, until recently the question was not in dispute at all—virtually all ‘competent judges’ agreed that only propositions could be spoken of as logically necessary, and thus that God must be defined as a physically or factually necessary being. But is the statement, ‘a physically necessary being exists’, logically true? Critics of the ontological argument think not; and in support of this view they offer analyses of ‘physical necessity’ which, they feel, not only give meaning to the phrase, but also show that a physically necessary being's existence can be proven only by some kind of a posteriori investigation.

Appeal to experience for rational justification of religious belief is probably as old as the question whether religious belief has any rational support. The issues relevant to such appeal range widely, and I will have to be content to deal with only a few of them.

The purpose of this paper is to describe and to discuss the implications of some features of Hinduism which seem to be of universal significance for Christian thinking. The title ‘Christian Response Within Hinduism’ refers to aspects of Hindu spirituality which a reasonably detached observer might find hard to distinguish from Christian spirituality in its better moments, but which, if only on account of the absence of the institutional Church, is likely to be classified as Hindu rather than Christian.

Kaufman's God The Problem is a stimulating and important book in so far as it raises for us the problem ‘God’ has become for modern theology (theologians, believers, etc.). In its attempt to bring clarity and precision to our understanding of ‘God’ however, I am much less sure as to its value. Indeed, it seems to me that Kaufman more often confuses the issues than clarifying them—although he does so in a very stimulating manner. The inconsistencies in his argument and the tensions between earlier and later pieces of work are more than trivial as Kaufman suggests in the preface (xi). For example, in his discussion of ‘God as symbol’ he claims that it is possible to conceive God as living and active, one to whom men can pray with conviction and to whom they can cry in their hour of need (113 f). Yet in his discussion of the meaning of ‘act of God’ he denies the same. As he puts it in the latter essay, God is not one who,

‘“walks with me and talks with me” in close interpersonal communion, giving his full attention to my complaints, miraculously extracting me from difficulties into which I have gotten myself, by invading nature and history with ad hoc rescue operations from on high.’ (196)

Karma and Saṁsāra are ideas common to both Hinduism and Buddhism. They cannot be properly applied to the latter, however, without a critical modification of their significance. For at the heart of Buddhism lies an apparent ethico–metaphysical accountability which implies an ‘agent’ who is accountable; yet the personal existence of such an agent has not been held as philosophically admissible. While a familiar moral emphasis and relative freedom are integral to the faith's dukkha motif, one scarcely exaggerates in saying that ‘perhaps one of the hardest of the Buddhist doctrines is that of Karma’.

In a recent articles David Mouton has argued that immortality is compatible with one sort of physicalism. I believe that he fails to establish this thesis and that, moreover, this article contains several misconceptions having to do with the topic of immortality.

In responding to the problem that evil poses for belief in the existence of an omnipotent and all good deity, a number of Christian philosophers have followed Augustine in making the free will defence (FWD) the foundation of their theodicies. The FWD seems to be well suited for the important role it has played in Christian religious thought. Not only does it admit the reality of evil in God's world, but it also proposes to free God from moral responsibility for at least a considerable portion of that evil. A few philosophers, e.g. Terence Penelhum, have even argued that ‘… the Christian theist is committed to some form or other of the free will defence …’ because of the Christian understanding of the nature of God and man. Whether or not this is true, the argument that it was not possible for God to create free human beings without permitting some degree of evil in his world (the FWD) has been sufficiently influential that those sceptics who have intended to show that the reality of evil makes theism an intellectually indefensible position have usually felt compelled to treat it. For similar reasons, a number of theistic philosophers have felt obligated to defend the FWD against such sceptical attacks.