The Religious Case Against Belief
by James P. Carse
In "The Religious Case Against Belief," James P. Carse argues that true vision transcends rigid belief systems and instead embraces the fluidity of poetic horizons. He posits that visionaries, likened to poets, illuminate possibilities beyond established boundaries without promising specific outcomes. Carse critiques the oversimplified interpretations of religious texts, likening them to concert programs that fail to capture the essence of the performance. He emphasizes that the true meaning of religious experience is found in the collective, symphonic nature of belief, which cannot be distilled into mere phrases or doctrines. Central to Carse's message is the idea that horizons define the limits of our understanding; what lies beyond remains unknowable. He warns against the stagnation of thought and the dangers of failing to view the familiar with fresh eyes, suggesting that without this dynamic perspective, life becomes predictable and devoid of wonder. Carse also reflects on Kierkegaard's "leap of faith," highlighting the inherent uncertainty of faith without the promise of solid ground. Ultimately, Carse asserts that when religion is reduced to civic authority, it loses its poetic essence. He calls for a recognition of the mysteries and complexities of existence, urging readers to embrace a vision that allows for continual discovery and wonder.
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...if vision is restricted to a belief system, or if it is divorced from all belief systems, it ceases to be vision. What is necessary is that it not restrict itself to a belief system but that belief systems always fall within the scope of poetic horizons... Visionaries (what we shall refer to as poets) do not destroy the walls, but show the openings through them. They do not promise what believers will see, only that the walls do not contain the horizon.
In attempting to say who Jesus is, the best we can do is to utter words provoked by the collective attempts to do so over the centuries-- a choral work we cannot possibly translate back into a few phrases, any more than we can assume that a concert is adequately described by its listing in the program, or that a painting is interchangeable with its title. Reading the program or the museum's catalogue, we have no notion of what actually was performed or displayed. We can extend the metaphor: a literal reading of the Bible amounts to little more than what we learn from a concert program, or even the score. It is the symphonic whole that bears the meaning that nothing less can remotely capture.
Because horizon is the end of vision, and because every move we make gives the field an aspect we couldn't have noticed before, what lies beyond the horizon cannot be known. (Otherwise it would be within the horizon.) As with the angelic messenger, there is no control over what comes into our vision... There are experiences and new information that will show the familiar as strange the comforting as dangerous, the adjacent as distant. Moreover, not every shift of the viewer will reveal something significant. It can be just more of the same, or nothing worth reflecting on. And yet without that shift, we begin to lose our vision altogether: what is seen over and over again ceases to be seen. What doesn't appear in a fresh way will be thought changeless and ordinary, no longer a stimulus to thought. Learning is reduced to mere repetition and can only confirm what has already been known. Friendships become static, empty of expectations of the future. The outcome of all our efforts become predictable. All mysteries can be explained. All dimensions and measurements hold. To be aware of our horizons is to live in wonder.
It is with this thought that many believers would call up Kierkegaard's famous phrase, the 'leap of faith,' pictured perhaps as a leap from here to there, leaving out the in-between... What is usually overlooked, however, is that Kierkegaard said nothing about a safe landing; there was only the leap, and no guarantee of solid ground beyond it.
