What is the self? What is the ‘I’ that appears to be the subject of all ‘my’ thoughts and imaginings, my experiences and desires? This is not simply about problems of identification. How I pick you out or you recognize me are questions related to the problem of what it is to be or you, but they are not the same issue. If our ‘true selves’ are inaccessible to public scrutiny, how we are identified and re-identified publicly will be different from who ‘we’ are. The problem of the self is a genuinely metaphysical question which cannot be reduced to the epistemological one of how we know each other, without further argument.

A number of years ago, James Rachels presented an argument for the necessary non–existence of God. It was based upon a supposed inconsistency between worship and what might be called ‘autonomous moral agency’. In Rachels' view, one person's being the worshipper of another is partially determined by the way in which it is appropriate for the first to respond to the commands of the second. In brief, a worshipper's obedience to commands should be ‘ unqualified ’. Rachels thought that there was some kind of incoherence in the requirement that an autonomous moral agent respond to commands in this way. He concluded that there could be no being who, like God, was alleged necessarily to be a fitting object of worship.

The methodological implications of the motives that underlie the study of religion and, more particularly, the academic study of religion have not, I think, received the attention they deserve. They are of the utmost importance, however, for the differences of motivation between the study of religion legitimated by the modern university and the scholarly study of religion that antedates it, sponsor radically different, if not mutually exclusive, approaches to its study. In asking why the study of religion is undertaken as an academic exercise – which is, after all, a comparatively recent development – I shall be attempting to delineate, to some extent, the relation of motive to method in what has come to be called Religious Studies. In clarifying that relation I hope also to show that Religious Studies – that is, the academic study of religion – must be a vocation in very much the same sense that Max Weber speaks of science as a vocation and, therefore, that such study must take as merely preliminary a ‘religious studies’ that is concerned only to ‘understand’ rather than to explain the phenomenon of Religion.

Augustine tells us in the Confessions that his reading of Cicero's Hortensius at the age of nineteen aroused in him a burning ‘passion for the wisdom of eternal truth’. He was inspired ‘to love wisdom itself, whatever it might be, and to search for it, pursue it, hold it, and embrace it firmly’. And thus he embarked on his arduous journey to the truth, which was at the same time a conversion to Catholic Christianity, and which culminated twelve years later in his experience in the garden in Milan.

In this review of articles in the Encyclopedia of Religion I have selected those concerning theoretical issues about the nature of religion and those describing the history and methods of the study of religion as an academic discipline. By any count this collection of papers (over 50) should be of central importance to an encyclopaedia of this nature. Method provides one of the most contentious and thorny sets of issues in contemporary academic debate in the study of religion. A reference work of this sort would perform an invaluable service if it offered a clear and comprehensive guide to these issues. Furthermore, there can be no more important questions for the student of religion than those concerning what kind of phenomenon religion is and how religion is related to human nature. If a reference work in the study of relgion cannot sum up the best of what is thought and known in contemporary scholarship in answer to these questions then, for all the detail it offers on particular manifestations of religion, it will be seriously deficient.

In his recent work Professor Morris writes: ‘I am suggesting that, armed with a couple of fairly simple metaphysical distinctions we can begin to see how the doctrine of the Incarnation can possibly be true.’

What are these ‘metaphysical distinctions’ and do they stand up to critical examination? My answer to the latter part of this question in regard to the first distinction is a reserved ‘Yes’; in regard to the second distinction a definite ‘No’. If my criticism of the second distinction holds good, then Morris's defence of the orthodox doctrine of the Incarnation fails, for his defence crucially relies on the validity of that distinction.

The Issues at Issue: (1) Heidegger declares metaphor to be a function of metaphysics. Ricoeur's tension theory of metaphor takes the understanding of metaphor beyond metaphysics. (2) Ricoeur's theory of metaphor is a theory of metaphorical statement not of naming. The classical, lexical theory of metaphor focuses on a primary meaning of each metaphor (grounding metaphor in what Aristotle calls pros hen equivocity). As such metaphor is merely ornamentation in language. What it names could more appropriately be accomplished in literal language. In contrast, metaphor is understood by Ricoeur to be a semantic event made possible by three kinds of tensions. (3) One may understand symbols to function with the same metaphorical tensions. In the case of symbols, however, these tensions function not at the level of the sentence but rather of the narrative. Metaphor and symbol both have an ‘ontological priority’ over other elements of discourse and experience. They ‘work’ because of the event character of both understanding and experience. Understanding (made possible by the dialectic of belonging and distanciation according to Ricoeur) and experience (made possible by temporality, dynamis) have event as their condition of possibility. (4) Metaphor and symbol both have a ‘temporal priority’, as well, for they serve as the shock to think ‘more’. This can occur, however, because they are part of a circularity that is non-metaphysical, that is, the circularity of the event character of the Being-of beings. Hence, just as metaphors are always ‘larger’ than the sentence, so are symbols always ‘larger’ than the narrative.

In the present context the word ‘explanation’ is taken to mean an identification of the factors which would disclose to us why a phenomenon exists and/or functions as it does, and it is my purpose in this paper to do three things: firstly to argue that explanation as just defined is the supreme goal to which the academic study of religion should direct its investigations; secondly to offer what I consider the most illuminating method of explanation in this context; and thirdly to consider certain problems which arise from that method for our subject as presently conducted. As such, the present essay is also a commentary on and defence of the central methodological ploy in my recent book, Religion and Ultimate Well-Being: An Explanatory Theory (1984), though it can stand on its own quite independently of the book.

According to the Law of Non–Contradiction, no statement and its negation are jointly true. According to many critics, Christians cannot serve both the orthodox faith and the Law of Non–Contradiction: if they hold to the one they must despise the other. And according to an impressive number of these critics, Christians who cling to the traditional doctrine of the Trinity must despise the Law of Non–Contradiction. Augustine's statement of this doctrine poses the problem as poignantly as any.

The place of Christianity in a work such as the Encyclopedia of Religion is an uncomfortable one. The work is, after all, largely the product of Western scholars operating in a culture now widely thought to have abandoned much of its Christian inheritance. How does one in such circumstances fulfil the editorial desire to be evenhanded, to treat all religious phenomena as far as possible ‘objectively’? By giving Fairies a longer entry than Cyril of Alexandria, for example? Or, to take a more serious example, by seeing to it that the Eastern church gains a fair proportion of space, thus giving Cyril I, patriarch, 1570/7–1638, more space than Cyril of Alexandria, theologian and bishop? Such points are an indication of the immense difficulty facing editors of a work such as this.

The problem I want to discuss has to do with believing as distinct from perceiving, imagining, positing, resolving, and hoping, as well as from knowing. Since these distinctions are not always observed, we must remind ourselves what ‘belief’ means when it is deliberately preferred to other intentional descriptions, and we ought to characterize it in such a way that we can see why it matters immediately, not just consequentially, whether one believes in something or not. I propose putting it this way: Believing in X (where X is what a belief-proposition is about) means taking X to be real, which in turn means accepting X as something to be dealt with. (A further implication of ‘real’, precluding private fantasy zones, is that any real X is dealt with not in isolation but in connection with everything else one has to deal with. ‘Real’ implies ‘the world’.) Unlike knowledge, which is originally conceived, so to speak, from the object to the subject – given that X is there, if I come along and see it there, then I am among those who know it is there – belief is conceived from the subject to the object: given that I am looking about me, if I see X there, then X is among the things I believe in, unless I mistrust it for some reason.

A basic thrust behind Alvin Plantinga's position that belief in God is properly basic is an analogy between certain non-religious (and presumably justified) beliefs such as ‘I see a tree’ and theistic beliefs such as ‘God made this flower’. Each kind of belief is justified for a believer, argues Plantinga, when she finds herself in a certain set of conditions. Richard Grigg challenges this claim by arguing that while the non-religious beliefs are confirmed, beliefs about God are not. I wish to explore this challenge, clarify it and suggest that on one understanding it is irrelevant and on another it is false.

A comedy, unlike a tragedy which the experts maintain has to succeed greatly if it is to succeed at all, can be evaluated on a more or less basis. The former can likewise be great, but it can also be quite funny or only mildly amusing and remain a worthwhile comedy and it is this kind of relativist assessment that this writer believes is appropriate with regard to the sections of this encyclopaedia dealing with ‘traditional’ and ‘new’ religions. The former section, taken in the round, is impressive in terms of its range, the quality of the entries and the back-up or support material, the latter is somewhat less so in all of these areas but nonetheless worthwhile.

Stephen Sykes' The Identity of Christianity is a seminal contribution to the emerging literature on the problem of how Christians can tell whether a developing Christianity is remaining Christian. Because this work takes us in such interesting and fruitful directions I want to offer here some criticisms of one of its themes, which might otherwise frustrate progress in those directions. I would question the way Sykes characterizes Christian diversity and its inevitability.

The idea or indeed the possibility of self–change is rarely discussed in general terms, though many religious aims relate to it. I wish to introduce aset of concepts relevant to the understanding of the idea; and to exhibit the Buddhist path, as described in the Pali texts, as an example of radical self–change. The general concepts and the particular example will have muchto do with the senses in which, when a person acts or intends, the action or intention is truly his; and so will involve an examination of the notion of self–control.

It has often been suggested – recently again by Michael Goulder in a debate with John Hick – that what traditionally was called the problem of ‘particular providence’, the problem of God's selective interference in the ongoing affairs of the world, is so acute as to render any form of rational theism impossible. In the same debate Hick argues for a ‘minimalist’ position which allows divine intervention only in the form of a general, radiated, goodness and benevolence on which human beings may draw. In this paper I want to show that reason permits and some evidence suggests another (and richer) possibility – the possibility that God intervenes through the inner life and perhaps by establishing the cast of characters. I shall construct this alternative usingideas developed from Cardinal Newman and Matthew Arnold.

That God has acted in history has been, and usually still is, a central Christian affirmation. Its explication has been sought after in a number of ways: by investigating God's relationship to the world, by considering the nature of miracles, by poring over what might be called historiographical problems, by discussing the interrelation of divine and human wills. Each of these approaches has its own worthy place, as do several others. However, what seems to be the obvious preliminary task has often been given less generous space, and is sometimes completely neglected. For how can one use the verb ‘to act’ of God at all without first enquiring what we commonly mean when we use it in any other context? without gaining a prior understanding of what its use seems to imply and entail? This paper attempts to examine the concept of action. It does so with the conviction that such an examination will illumine our use of the concept in a theological context and that, further, it may offer hints as to the way we ought to use the word in such a context.

The religions of Indian origin occupy considerable space in the Encyclopedia. There are literally hundreds of articles, some quite extensive, that deal with the relevant material. Such a generous treatment need not come as a surprise. The editor in chief was the late Mircea Eliade, the author of a highly influential work on yoga; he himself honoured the Encyclopedia with the entry on the same subject. Moreover, in any global account of religion the Indian traditions ought to figure prominently, given their enormous influence all over Asia.

David Hume is widely known as a critic of natural theology. Hence he is referred to as ‘the great infidel’. Moreover, when one thinks of Hume's criticisms of natural religion one often thinks of Philo's criticisms of various theistic arguments presented by Cleanthes and Demea in Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. In his preface to the Hackett edition of the Dialogues Richard H. Popkin writes,

Many consider it the most decisive modern critique of some of the major arguments concerning the existence and nature of God.