Problems of Metaphysics

Cosmological-Theological Problem

Critique of the Teleological Argument

A general observation regarding the significance of the teleological argument for religion and metaphysics may serve as an introduction to this critical analysis. In certain circles, there remains a persistent inclination to view this argument—which posits that the formation of the physical world cannot be explained without postulating some intentional cause—as a foundational element of theology or even as a necessary support for belief in God; hence, critiques of it are perceived as assaults on religion.

I contend that religion is entirely indifferent to these cosmological speculations. It is as little based on any hypothesis concerning the origin of living beings as it is on any particular conception of the astronomical view of the world. If it holds any interest in these matters at all, it is solely in the pursuit of objective truth and the subjective veracity of our knowledge. The alliance with delusion and falsehood is perilous for religion, as it is for all human affairs. From its unfortunate struggle against the new cosmology in the seventeenth century, the Church ought to have gleaned at least this lesson: under no circumstances should it enter into a solidarity with any scientific system. When the Curia declared the Aristotelian-Ptolemaic cosmology a symbol of faith, it effectively undermined the foundation of ecclesiastical belief; any blow struck against this false theory also fell upon the Church. A similar outcome must be anticipated if the Church declares a particular biological perspective a component of its doctrine. Indeed, such an outcome may already be occurring, as those who view Darwinism as the final blow to religion suggest. They believe that Darwin, by eliminating the Mosaic account of creation along with Adam and Eve, has simultaneously rendered the “hypothesis of God”—without which cosmology has long learned to manage—unnecessary for biology as well. Having been conditioned from youth to regard the existence of God as justified and solidified by theological arguments, they now reject the very notion itself, as the old proof has become suspect to them. There is nothing more dangerous for a good thing than poor arguments.

It seems that something akin to this occurred with Darwin himself: alongside his trust in Paley's Evidences, he also lost his faith. He states in one place: “The old proof of purpose in nature, which Paley presents and which once seemed so decisive to me, no longer reaches its aim; we can no longer, for example, conclude that the wonderfully beautiful construction of a bivalve shell must have been created by some rational being, just as door hooks are made by humans.” He continues, “At present, the basis for the proof of the existence of a rational God is drawn from deep-seated conviction and from feelings experienced by the majority of individuals themselves.” Previously, he too had these sensations, which led him to believe in God and immortality, fostered by the religious atmosphere of the primitive Brazilian forest. “However, now the most majestic sights would not evoke any such convictions or sensations in my soul. It could be rightly said that I resemble a person who has become incapable of distinguishing colors.” At another point, he notes that he has gradually lost his appreciation for poetry—a testament to the withering effect that incessant scientific inquiry can have on the soul. However, this situation was evidently prepared by the initial intellectualist orientation of his religious beliefs, as established by his education in youth; he senses that he has been misled by false theories and proofs, and thus he begins to approach all that is religious with skepticism. This, clearly, is a scenario repeated thousands of times among us. Therefore, it is vital for the Church to establish a proper relationship with science; it is perishing from the mistrust it harbors toward science and, in turn, from the mistrust it receives from science. The correct relationship does not consist of the Church constantly adopting the latest theories, but rather of it becoming entirely independent of scientific and philosophical theories. What I present, it must assert, holds true regardless of whether Copernicus or Ptolemy, Darwin or Agassiz is right. The Gospel exists and is devoid of any cosmological or biological system; it is a proclamation of the Kingdom of God, to be realized within the hearts and lives of people. It is grounded not in inexplicable phenomena of nature and miracles, but in the experiences of the heart that find peace and grace therein.

Indeed, I am convinced that there is scarcely anything so dangerous to faith in God and His Kingdom today—at least among scientifically educated individuals—as attempts to impose anthropomorphic theism as a scientifically necessary theory of the world through outdated arguments that obstruct natural scientific inquiry (in what sense anthropomorphism is possible and will always be preserved will be seen later). Ignorance is always a poor foundation; clinging to it represents a tendency toward obscurantism, which makes ignorance the basis of the dominion of a spiritual class: nam sciunt, quod sublata ignorantia stupor, h. e. unicum argumentandi tuendaeque autoritatis medium, quod habent, tollitur (Spinoza, Ethics, I, Appendix).

As little as the teleological argument, which seeks and clings to gaps in the explanation of nature from physical causes to highlight the necessity of assuming non-physical causes, serves to support religion, so too does it provide scant support for idealistic philosophy or teleological worldviews. It exclusively leads to the denial of goals in reality altogether. The philosophy of nature, which currently adheres to the belief in the impossibility of achieving a physical explanation, is merely an ally of that “lazy reason,” the eradication of which is of primary importance for scientific inquiry. The well-deserved triumph of Darwinism lies in its liberation of the realm of living phenomena—primarily regarded as its own domain—from the hands of “lazy reason” and in its opening up to investigation following new paths. No one could feel pleasure at the destruction of the idea of purpose in the world; however, every individual with a theoretical interest would feel joy at the defeat of “lazy reason.”

Let us not be deceived about the following: natural science cannot and will not allow itself to be diverted from its path of seeking purely physical explanations for all phenomena of nature. Let there exist thousands of things that it cannot explain at present; yet it will never relinquish its fundamental axiom that there is a natural cause for these things and consequently a natural scientific explanation. Therefore, any philosophy that asserts that some phenomena of nature cannot be exhaustively explained physically, necessitating the assumption of some metaphysical principle or supernatural agent, will have an irreconcilable opponent in natural science. The latter may coexist with such a philosophy only under the condition that it fundamentally refrains from interfering in the causal explanation of natural phenomena and allows natural science to pursue its path to the end. Or, in that case, would there be no further room left for philosophy? Would there be no more business for metaphysics? Would our theoretical interest in reality be exhausted with the completion of natural scientific explanations? I think—not in the least. On the contrary, a new question now arises: what does all this mean? If astronomy were to fully explain cosmic phenomena through physical laws, if biology were to likewise completely unveil the origins and mechanisms of organic life processes, the question would remain: what is the meaning of this entire interplay of forces, what is it that presents itself to us in these thousands of forms and movements of the physical world? Or is there really nothing more to discuss; is the physical world all of reality, and does physical explanation conclude everything? But we have already agreed on this matter in the previous chapter regarding the ontological problem. Perhaps one could assert: never has there existed nor will there ever exist such a person who would be content with that. Natural scientific thinking, in its materialism, actually seeks to eliminate not the existence of a broader, ideal content of reality beyond the physical composition but the application of this ideal content to physical explanation. In essence, there is no opposition between mechanical explanation and idealistic interpretation. Disagreement only arises when the idealistic interpretation seeks to replace causal explanation and render it superfluous.

To speak metaphorically, let us envision a sheet of paper adorned with printed symbols. Two questions arise: how did the symbols come to exist on the paper, and what do they signify? The first question is addressed by a description of the typesetting equipment and the manipulations involved in the printing process; the second question is tackled through an exposition of the thoughts conveyed by the symbols. Just as both answers coexist side by side, with one not substituting for the other, so too is it in the realm of natural knowledge. A physical explanation is indispensable, yet it does not resolve every inquiry; the question of meaning remains. Conversely, an attempt to interpret meaning cannot supplant causal explanation. If it endeavors to do so, the natural scientist will reject it, asserting that this is not what he inquires about; what he seeks to understand, as a natural scientist, is not the meaning of the laws but rather the mechanisms underlying their formation, akin to the mechanics of printing. It would be an egregious misunderstanding if a metaphysician were to respond to this with references to thoughts; indeed, it would be even more foolish if a natural scientist felt compelled to defend himself against this intrusion by entirely denying thoughts and the significance of symbols.

Thus, all must occur and be explicable physically, and all must be considered and interpreted metaphysically. Here lies the formula upon which physicists and metaphysicians may converge; yet, it may remain unresolved how significant the remainder is on both sides, and which is greater. The enmity between them arises from the tendency to overstep rightful boundaries. From the natural scientist's side, this manifests as a propensity to deny the metaphysical altogether: there exists only the physical; the actual has no other side than that which faces me. From the metaphysician's perspective, it appears as a tendency to appropriate some domain of nature for metaphysical explanation alone.

In truth, we must concede that metaphysicians have long exhibited a strong and nearly insurmountable inclination to interfere with physical explanation, thereby provoking an absolute rejection of metaphysics — manifesting as materialism, which posits the physical as absolute. This inclination is evident in the expansive and loquacious natural theology of the past century, where the demonstration of the "utility" or "intentions of the Creator" was meant to serve as a substitute for explanation. It appears in the arrogant disdain with which speculative philosophy regarded empirical natural science as a spiritual endeavor — albeit a lower one — but at times still deemed it fit to guide it toward truth and impart wisdom, claiming to grasp the essence of the matter; how could it not showcase the causal connections, provided it was worth the effort? This is also observed in philosophers who fundamentally grasp the relationship between physical explanation and metaphysical interpretation. For instance, Schopenhauer's overall view of the relationship between physics and metaphysics aligns with the aforementioned. Yet alongside this, he is ever ready to assume the role of the physicist, that is, to replace the lacking physical explanation with a metaphysical one. There is, in essence, no causal relationship between the physical and the metaphysical (will); such a relationship exists among objects but not between the thing-in-itself and phenomena. "To refer to the objectifications of will, instead of providing a physical explanation, is not permissible, just as one cannot invoke the creative power of God; for physics demands causes, yet will is never a cause." "The etiological explanation of nature and the philosophy of nature never obstruct one another; they run alongside each other, examining the same subject from different perspectives." Nevertheless, he ultimately returns to phenomena that the physicist cannot explain, such as vital phenomena; he expresses indignation at the "dull-witted denial of vital force" and the attempt to "explain the phenomena of life through physical and chemical forces, which in turn are derived from the mechanical action of matter, the positions, forms, and motions of imagined atoms." "Suppose this is so; then, of course, everything would indeed be explained and justified, even reduced to a multiplication table, which would be the holy of holies in the temple of wisdom." Thus, the metaphysician halts the physicist and the etiological study of nature, eager to engage in the matter herself.

I shall now offer several critical observations on the teleological argument. It posits that certain phenomena of nature, particularly organic formations, cannot be explained purely physically. Their resemblance to human artistic creations and intentions is so profound that they can only be understood as a system of means and ends, indebted to a rational being for their structure. Consequently, all of nature — as the mentioned formations are inextricably linked with it — must be regarded as a product of reason.

If this argument does not wish to merely stop at the simple denial of the possibility of a physical explanation, if it seeks to become a positive theory of reality, then it faces two tasks: 1) to elucidate the aim that this reason had in mind; 2) to demonstrate that nature constitutes a corresponding system of means for achieving that aim.

As for the aim, we shall presently content ourselves with the conclusion to which any teleology ultimately arrives: the aim is the welfare of living beings. "God created all things for the sake of the living, and the latter for their own good," so states the purpose of things as articulated by C. Reimarus in his teleological philosophy of nature, which garnered great respect in the last century.

Now, what of the means? Does nature, upon a casual glance, present itself as a system of means for this aim? I fear it would be a daunting task to prove this to anyone who does not bring a preconceived conviction. Let us first consider the manner in which nature operates in the production of living beings; does it resemble human purposive activity in form? If someone were to make a million shots with a rifle haphazardly in all directions to shoot one hare, would anyone call that a purposeful method for killing a hare? Yet the manner in which nature operates in producing living beings closely resembles this: it brings forth thousands of embryos to fully develop only one. A single female fish lays a hundred thousand eggs a year. If these embryos were to grow, develop, and leave behind corresponding offspring, in a few years all waters would overflow with fish. This does not occur; and in the same vein, the earth is not overrun with hares and rabbits, despite the calculation showing that the offspring of a single pair would grow to millions in a few years if they were to survive at all. The reason for this is that out of a thousand embryos, only one survives; the rest, although viable in themselves, perish at various stages of development due to the lack of favorable conditions for growth. Death is the rule, while survival and development are the exceptions. Ordinary observation tends to overlook this; it only sees the favorable instances, while the unfavorable ones remain hidden. What occurs here is akin to a lottery: for every grand prize, there are a thousand losses. But the losses do not warrant mention; it is the grand prize that captures the world's attention; thus, the prize seems so probable. If someone were to argue that participating in a lottery constitutes a purposive method for acquiring wealth, we would not regard such a person's logic with much favor. Yet this would be the same logic that surviving fish and rabbits, or their natural philosophy advocate, would have to employ to assert that nature represents a purposeful arrangement for producing fish and rabbits. The shipmaster recounted by Cicero was a better logician: when he was urged to secure himself against shipwreck by making a vow to Poseidon and was shown numerous images displayed in the temple as offerings from those saved, he countered with a question: where are the images of those who perished?

A defender of teleology, who has learned a thing or two from Darwin, might retort: the abundance of life’s embryos is essential for sustaining the struggle for existence, through which the perfection of form is achieved. Quite so. But now, let us turn our attention to the manner in which death makes its selection. A cholera outbreak emerges; it claims the old and the young, the wise and the foolish, the healthy and the sick, the strong and the disabled, making little distinction among them. Let us assume that the strong and prudent individuals are somewhat more capable of resistance on average. Nevertheless, one must admit: this is a very clumsy and unreliable, mechanical mode of operation, suited only for the average, whose formal teleological justification, when assessed on a human scale, proves to be of rather low quality.

Or consider the facts collected by Haeckel under the title of "Distelology": from where do such useless or harmful formations arise, such as the vermiform appendix, which serves no known benefit but brings untold suffering and death to thousands?

Moreover, consider the facts that might be labeled cosmic and geographical distelology. It is clear that if this teleological natural philosophy wishes to explain the structure and organization of living beings through the action of a world or transcendent reason, it must also derive from this the form of the earth, and ultimately—the entire cosmic system. Is there any teleological geography? Can it exist? Certainly, there are parts of the earth’s surface excellently suited for the habitation of living beings. Yet, there are equally extensive regions wholly unsuitable for this purpose. Let us set aside the vast polar belts or the immense oceanic expanses: the former might find justification in cosmic necessity, and the latter in teleological considerations regarding the climatic relations of continents; besides, there is still life therein. But what is the purpose of this vast belt of deserts that stretches across both great continents of the Old World? Could the Sahara not have been avoided? It seems not particularly difficult; if only the gulf cutting into the northern shore of Africa, opposite Italy, had been extended several hundred miles further and branched into a complex coastline, akin to a second Mediterranean Sea, for instance, like the Baltic Sea in Europe; if only the mountains of this ungraceful continent had been given somewhat different placements and configurations, then indeed a whole new world could have emerged. We admire the intricate coastlines of Greece and Europe, but does it not seem that all art and effort have been expended here, leaving vast expanses of Asia, Africa, and Australia with little or nothing to show? Perhaps a foresight more advanced than ours could unravel this enigma. Yet, this matter concerns proof, concerning theory, and such a theory cannot, as Hume remarks in one place, be constructed from what is unknown, but only from what is known.

And what about teleological cosmology? Are the other celestial bodies, even the remaining planets of our system, suitable to be abodes of life? Or have they been disregarded like the aforementioned continents? We possess no means to answer this question. But what if someone were to deny this, if he could render it probable that at least some of these bodies are incapable of sustaining life, that our Earth owes its advantage of life solely to its fortunate position in the system, and that the other planets, even if they, like our own, possessed abundant matter conducive to organization, could not produce life due to a lack of or an excess of solar warmth or other conditions? No one can prove this; the forms and conditions of earthly life do not constitute conditions for life in general; yet, neither can anyone prove the opposite, leading us to the conclusion that it is not rational grounds but whim that compels the assertion that the world is a structure designed for habitation by living beings.

If one were to expose a glass of plant infusion to the open air, soon an entire world of living beings, a world of infusoria (a term derived from the act of steeping), would develop therein. Biologists inform us that the embryos of such beings are dispersed throughout the air; upon finding a favorable medium, like the mentioned plant infusion, they attain life. Were these creatures natural philosophers, they might draw the conclusion: our existence is possible solely due to this composition and the temperature of the vast sea in which we are fortunate to dwell. Hence, one must concede that our sea and its surrounding environment, if it exists, were created by a Creator wishing for our life. But what if these creatures then learned that at the very moment they were fortuitously carried by the air into the glass of water, millions of equally viable embryos fell nearby and perished—would they still maintain their teleological philosophy? And if they did, would we commend their logic?

Such is the state of affairs regarding the resolution of this aspect of the problem, with the explanation of nature as a proportional system of means towards the goal of the existence of living beings. We now turn our attention to the proposed purpose.

In truth, no human teleology can seek it anywhere apart from the existence of living beings; without life, the world would be utterly indifferent and incomprehensible to us. Therefore, the task of teleology concerning intentions would now consist in demonstrating that this very gift of life, which lies before us, fulfills the highest purpose, representing the absolute good. It must show that all these thousands of forms of animals and plants are necessary for realizing the utmost value, the best of all worlds. Has anything like this ever been attempted, has there been even an endeavor in this direction? Have we been shown the internal necessity of each animal or plant species, akin to how an interpreter of a poetic work may elucidate the internal necessity of each character, each action, each scene, each line of a given drama? Have we grasped that if they did not exist, something would be lacking?

Or is there no necessity in this? Are the significance and value of each form self-evident, do we perceive it directly as an enrichment of reality? Obviously not; should one attempt to enumerate all the life forms whose value our intuition accepts without further questions, we would soon come to an end, at least in the animal kingdom. The number of species that we find pleasant and precious is small compared to the infinite multitude of beings that are utterly indifferent to us, or that we find objectionable or detestable. The disappearance of thousands of forms of those that crawl or fly would not disturb us in the least; those who are not zoologists would hardly notice it—even among zoologists, perhaps only a specialist would. Many forms of life we cannot regard without repulsion and horror; I need only mention parasitic beings that live in or on the body. How the greater part of the animal world presents itself to human perception is evidenced by the fact that its origin was once attributed to the devil. The ecclesiastical teaching sidesteps this by placing the Fall between God and nature, as it is now, through which evil entered into God's creation.

And thus, all those creatures that vulgar zoology encompasses under the term "vermin," a term devoid of high respect, are formed by nature with equal care. The sucking proboscis of a bug could, as the initiated assure, be a true marvel of technique. It is evident that the same conclusion must be drawn from its structure as from that of the human eye. Yet, it is equally evident that we are then faced with a new and immense mystery regarding how a spirit, of which we should form such a high opinion concerning technical reason, can ascribe significance to the existence of these beings.

Perhaps some may observe: it is not that we are incapable of comprehending these formations in their intrinsic value. Rather, it is a remnant of the narrow perspective of the old anthropocentric teleology, which derived the value of all things from their relation to humanity. Among discerning individuals, this perspective has long since been supplanted by another way of viewing—immanent teleology. This perspective does not inquire about the usefulness or value of any species for humanity but regards every creature as an end in itself. Since it exists for its own sake, its existence is justified if it is experienced by itself with a sense of satisfaction.

Assuming this is so, we must then demonstrate that the internal organization and external environment everywhere constitute a system of means to the end of rendering existence satisfactory and fulfilling for living beings. Has this been proven? Can it be proven? I do not think so. Indeed, it might not be difficult to present the facts in such a way that one could more likely infer the indifference of the creator towards this end.

The life of all animals represents a constant struggle for existence, that is, for the conditions of life. For the vast majority, this struggle likely ends in defeat long before the depletion of their internal vitality. Of a thousand embryos, perhaps only one reaches maturity, and of a hundred developed beings, only one achieves the natural conclusion of its life; the lives of all the others are violently cut short by some adverse external circumstances: by hunger and cold, various misfortunes, and primarily by the ensuing dreadful misfortune: they become prey to a predator. This is not an exceptional case that could be excused but a prevailing establishment; most animals are predestined to serve as food for others; their lives consist of a perpetual flight and defense against either stronger pursuers or smaller adversaries—parasites. Why such an arrangement if the goal was satisfaction or happiness? Why not facilitate sustenance for all in a different manner, whether through plant-based nourishment or direct assimilation of inorganic substances in suitable compounds? Why set them upon their fellow beings? Why turn the very living bodies into grounds for sustenance and vessels for those who live at their expense?

To the untrained eye of a biologist, these facts might appear in an entirely different light: pleasure and pain are not ends in themselves, nor evils, but means to the end of preserving life. Pain compels an animal to avoid harmful, destructive influences, while pleasure draws it towards the pursuit of beneficial, sustaining experiences. As far as one can ascertain, nature employs both of these means without favoring one over the other; yet, if one were to be preferred, it would likely be pain. Thus, the end pursued by nature appears to be the preservation of life, and moreover, the preservation of the species rather than of the individual. The generation and preservation of species types, from this perspective, represent the factual aim of nature.

With this, we once again confront the enigma: how can the existence of all these life forms be the objective of a spirit like ours? To respond to this question by asserting that each animal is an end in itself is merely to indulge in speculations that satisfy only the most dull-minded, content with mere words. If one were to set the absolute goal as simply reality as it is, then, of course, no artistry would be required to demonstrate that nature is precisely a proportionate system of means to achieve this goal. If the pebbles on the seashore are “ends in themselves,” then one could argue the origins of nature’s order stem from a spirit acting with intention; indeed, the entire earth must have been constructed in such a way: the wind and weather, the sun and moon must have stirred the sea in precisely such a manner that the waves struck each stone with these very forces and directions. Otherwise, it would never have attained the very appearance it possesses. I confess that the old anthropocentric teleology still seems to me to merit preference over the immanent one, which so self-importantly presumes to supersede it: here we still receive a coherent, albeit unsatisfactory, answer to the question of the world’s purpose; whereas the immanent merely attempts to dismiss us with the simple term: end in itself.

This leads us to the question: what is the situation concerning purpose and its realization in that domain of reality where we observe most clearly and judge most accurately: in the human world? Perhaps historical teleology will prove more fortunate in resolving the task than natural teleology? Nations and individuals have long discerned the actions of gods, the hand of Providence in the fates they experienced: in the victories they won, in the defeats they suffered, in the happiness and misfortune that befell them. Was it anticipated that the philosophy of history would transform this belief into scientific knowledge?

The task of teleological philosophy of history, in its form, coincides with that of natural teleology; it should, first, indicate the goal of historical life and then demonstrate that the course of history represents a direct path to this goal.

In response to the question of purpose, we receive general formulas such as the following: the goal of history is the complete development of the idea of humanity or humaneness, the unfolding of all its powers and capabilities in multifaceted and harmonious education, or the penetration of reason into nature, or a life filled with virtue, wisdom, love, and happiness—in a word, a terrestrial paradise. Very well, let it be so; but now we expect further elucidation, to present to us this perfect life in concreto, to fill the schematic outlines with a completed picture, to describe the formation of individual nations (for the perfect formation of humanity does not exclude multiplicity and diversity of nations), to provide us with a clear understanding of its religion, its philosophy and science, its literature and art, its social and governmental institutions, its family life and upbringing. Or is this an impossible task—not merely impossible due to a lack of knowledge and imagination but also because such goals in this form cannot exist at all, since life, at least life on earth, is in a constant state of flux rather than in a stable condition? Then the task would therefore consist of demonstrating that the historical process in all its parts is absolutely valuable, and showing how every part is meaningfully integrated into the whole, much like in an epic or drama, where each part is invoked by an internal necessity understandable to us. Thus, each particularity would simultaneously be both a means to an end and a part of that end.

It is evident that here, too, merely stating the task reveals its insolubility. Such a philosophy of history would have to show us how each nation ought to have lived in a given nature, in a given environment, in a specific proximity to other nations—not merely to endure what it endured and become what it became (for, of course, it is self-evident that the Greeks would have become different had they been transported to India, and the Mongols different had they been moved to the Aegean Sea)—but to demonstrate how precisely such an environment, such encounters with other nations, and such fates rendered its historical life as perfect and substantial as possible. It would have to illustrate, for example, how, for the perfect realization of German history, the highest development of German customs required proximity to the French and Russians, the Thirty Years’ War, and the partition of Poland, as well as the invention of printing and distillation, how from its essence emerged the necessity that the onset of the Reformation coincided with the accession of Charles V, with the appearance of Kant’s "Critique of Pure Reason" and Schiller’s "Robbers"—the death of Lessing.

If we set aside the speculative philosophy of history, which claims to have resolved the task by categorizing peoples and eras under schematic guidance and labeling each with a pronouncement to signify that it has traversed the dialectical process, then all that has genuinely been undertaken in this direction is merely the selection of individual significant events and their connection to their historical conditions, viewed as means to an end. It has become customary to consider the Roman state as a providential preparation for Christianity, or to see the humanist movement as a precursor to the Reformation. Luther himself philosophizes in this manner: no one until now has understood the purpose behind God's great migration of peoples; now the whole world can see that it occurred for the sake of the Gospel. Indeed, without such a correspondence, the course of history would have been different. Would this have been a misfortune? Was Luther's temporary agreement with Hutten and the other enemies of the "dark ones" a blessing? Who can assert such a thing? No one can construct the course of events that would have unfolded with a change in factors. We may state that the historical trajectory, as it indeed occurred, was not the only possible one; yet we cannot compare the possible with the actual and declare that among all conceivable paths, this one was the best.

Let us suppose that the Peasants' War took a different turn, that Columbus’s ships sank, that Charlemagne was defeated by the Saxons, or that the Strait of Gibraltar was closed while the Suez Isthmus proved to be a convenient passage—then the entire history of the European world would assume a vastly different appearance. Worse or better? No one can say. We may believe that things are well as they are, and our natural instinct nudges us to accept the actual as necessary and the familiar as good; but we cannot substantiate this belief. Only naive limitation can overlook other possibilities left behind in the realm of potential; or the self-satisfied confidence of the speculative method, which presumes that it possesses the driving forces of the world, termed "ideas," that, undeterred from their predetermined path, utilize the contingencies of reality, however those contingencies may manifest.

Remarkably, however, nearly all events that have produced significant historical upheavals are met with two opposing understandings: one perceives the event as good, the other as bad. Consider, for instance, the portrayal of the Reformation among Protestants and Catholics: to the former, it is a deliverance of the German people from slavery and decline; to the latter, it marks the inception of every tumult and decay, from which the Church now strives vigorously to rescue us. Or take the depiction of the French Revolution by Democrats and Royalists. Or let us assign the writing of history to the Canaanites for the Jews, to the Saracens for the Spaniards, and to the nations trampled and annihilated by the English throughout the world: the same events would unfold but would be endowed with opposite signs—an indication that in assessing worth, we are not engaging in objective knowledge but rather subjective feelings.

However, what introduces a certain consensus into our understanding is the fact that, in the end, history is predominantly written by one side, namely, the victors who remain alive; the dead are silent. This also pertains to those who fall in internal struggles. Had the Counter-Reformation succeeded, the history of the Reformation would, in people's memories, resemble that of the Anabaptist movement. Thus, it occurs that the historical trajectory, favoring the victors and realizing the present, appears as a series of determinations from the heavens. If, furthermore, the veil concealing the future is painted over with one’s own hopes and ideals, it is not surprising that events proceed smoothly and all of history is perceived as a straight path to a predetermined end. This very circumstance has led theological philosophers of history to overlook how peculiar the history of the Jewish people truly is. According to the old view, divine guidance is most evident precisely within this nation; in the Scriptures, we find even an authentic depiction of the path along which God led His chosen people. He preordains their land and the milieu of neighboring peoples. He calls judges and prophets for them and personally provides them with instruction; He constantly intervenes in the fate of the people with His saving miracles, at the Red Sea and in the camp of the Assyrians before Jerusalem; finally, for centuries, He sends them prophets and preachers of the Messiah, whom He intends to send. And ultimately, when the Messiah appears, this people rejects Him and is then itself cast off by God as irredeemable.

The impossibility of a teleological construction in the fate of individual lives becomes even clearer. At all times, the fabric of one’s own life serves as the last and deepest reason for an individual’s faith in guiding Providence. Significant turns in life are often associated with seemingly simple coincidences; an unexpected exit emerges from dire need and constraints, and even adverse incidents ultimately lead to salvific outcomes; one perceives that it is not oneself, with one’s prosaic reason, who has brought one’s life to a good conclusion, and one reverently declares: what is man that You are mindful of him, and the Son of Man that You care for him?

Yet, if you attempt to transform your faith into knowledge, a veritable mountain of difficulties and doubts soon accumulates. It is true that all that has occurred has contributed to the realization of the present state. But is it the best that could possibly be? Does your life, in its entirety, correspond to your ideal? Would it not be conceivable for its fulfillment to be more complete, more elevated, and purer? And what of those who have entirely failed in life? Or are there none such? To assert that would be to contradict the facts too sharply. What, then, is the reason for this? Did the guiding hand err in its own right? Or do you have the courage to say that life circumstances and fate were, for such individuals, the best they could possibly have; if they, despite this, did not attain a respectable and good life, then the cause lies within themselves; any change in circumstances, education, or society would have resulted in an even worse failure?

I do not believe there would be a willing defender of such a thesis. On the contrary, if we perceive anything in these matters, it is certainly the following: such hopeless natural dispositions are rarely encountered from which, under any arrangement of life conditions, a tolerable life could not be fashioned. In many instances, it seems clear that the reason those dispositions did not achieve proper development does not lie in will or essence, but in unfavorable circumstances—be it in harsh poverty and low status, or in luxury and the lack of serious, compelling, and encouraging tasks for the will, or in the dull indifference of the surrounding environment, or in the insidious temptation of corrupt companions.

Thus, there can be no discussion of grasping teleological necessity in this realm either. Let faith, reflecting on the many intricately interwoven life paths it has traversed, honor with gratitude the higher guidance found therein; but to speak of knowledge here would be a great audacity. So judges the religious sentiment. It proclaims: how unsearchable are His judgments and unfathomable His ways! For who has known the mind of the Lord, or who has been His counselor? But to the acknowledgment of ignorance, it immediately adds a recognition of faith: all is from Him, through Him, and to Him. To Him be glory forever! (Romans XI, 33, et al.).

There is no need to delve further into the question of whether historical teleology would have achieved greater success had it aimed for the universal happiness of humanity rather than the objective structure of life in terms of human perfection. This aim would require demonstrating how facts relate to this end as means to an end. To illustrate how poorly such a perspective aligns with the general sentiment of life—and thus with the truth—it suffices to point to a single fact: the two religions with the largest followings, Christianity and Buddhism, are, at least in their origins, religions of redemption. They promise not bliss but liberation from evil—not through culture and the satisfaction of all needs, but through the redemption of desires, the renunciation of the will to live, and the pursuit of earthly goods, wealth, honor, and pleasure. Regarding the value of life from the standpoint of enjoyment, they speak in unison: life is suffering; sin and misery pervade the life of the ordinary person. From the Christian perspective, earthly life is justified teleologically only insofar as it relates to the higher afterlife; it has meaning and significance not as an end in itself but as a period of preparation and testing for eternal life. This simultaneously suggests that the teleological structuring of human life through knowledge is deemed impossible; the afterlife is a matter of faith, not knowledge.

Of course, this did not prevent the emergence, later on, when Christianity adopted a more affirmative stance towards the world and when Christian philosophy arose, of a teleological philosophy of history that framed historical life as a pathway to that transcendent goal. The blending of the transcendent and the empirical is characteristic of the entire development of science under the predominant influence of ecclesiastical and religious life. It can also be acknowledged that, formally, historical teleology never attained a more sophisticated system than that which was held by ecclesiastical philosophy: paradise and eternal bliss constitute the great ultimate goal of historical life, while the earth serves as its earthly stage; its focal point is the incarnation of God and the establishment of the Kingdom of God on earth. All preceding time strives toward this central event, and all subsequent time is defined and fulfilled by it; the entire course of history is bounded, on one side, by the creation of the world and, on the other, by the second coming. Indeed, this presents such a simple and grand philosophy of history that we can, in our helplessness, look back upon it with a sense of envy. What are the meager abstractions of Hegel or Comte compared to this vividly concrete contemplation?! However, it no longer fits us. We lack the ease with which the Middle Ages fused faith and knowledge. We also lack the narrowness of their perspective. Just as their cosmic horizon was obliterated by the new astronomy, so their historical horizon, primarily determined by the history of the Old Testament and, with the passage of time, by the history of the church, was dismantled by the historical research initiated by humanism. The perspective has finally expanded infinitely, thanks to the most recent philological, historical, and biological investigations. It was not the caprice of human thought that shattered the confines of the old system, but rather the facts themselves; any attempts to reassemble its fragments into a ring of teleological proof are in vain.

To summarize: neither natural nor historical teleology possesses the merit of a scientific theory; since the cessation of geocentric and anthropocentric worldviews, no serious philosophy can afford self-deception regarding this matter. All arguments that aim to compel reason to recognize in the cosmic order the work of a spirit acting with intentions understandable to us remain infinitely distant from the task of scientific proof.

What, despite this, has inclined thoughts back in this direction for so long is, first and foremost, the absolute helplessness into which natural philosophy was thrust by the question of the first origin of living beings. That chance could ever arrange atoms in such a way remained, after all, incredible. Thus, seemingly, only the first means of escape remained.

It is true, however, that for the naturalist, this yields absolutely nothing. This means never possessed the merit of a satisfactory explanation or even a merely serviceable hypothesis. To explain a phenomenon in terms of natural science means to demonstrate it as a lawful action of known forces. Reason, of course, is a familiar agent, specifically in the form it takes in humans and animals. But as a cosmic agent, it is not known at all. Therefore, a naturalist who is told that plants and animals were originally created by reason will immediately respond: in that case, show me the nature and manner of action of this reason; show me where, when, and, above all, how it created organic beings. If you are unable to do this and do not move beyond the general phrase: the spirit participated in the order of the world, then it does not ease my burden in the slightest. Such a force, permitted for a singular action, of which nothing more is known regarding its nature and manner of activity, is a vis occulta in the truest sense of the word. In my view, therefore, it is absolutely indifferent whether you answer the question of the origin of living beings by stating that they were created by spirit, of which we do not know how, and know nothing more of its essence, or whether you say that we do not know how they came into being.

And you say, he might add, that blind forces of nature cannot create a living being; yet I see daily that they do just that. I place a seed in the ground, and from it, a stalk grows; a hen lays an egg, and after several weeks of incubation, a chick hatches from it. Indeed, I cannot present to you in detail all the forces and actions involved in this; however, I see, as it seems to me, that neither thought nor any other spiritual activity participates in this—neither in the formation of the seed, nor the egg and embryo, nor in the incubation and growth. If blind forces can now transform given matter into a living seed and produce, in turn, a living being from it, why could they not have done this initially? And if, at that time, the cooperation of reason was required, why is it not necessary now? In such a case, you must also say here: we cannot comprehend the growth of the chick in the egg; thus, we must posit the existence of some kind of reason—a spirit—that would so unite the parts of matter with intention in all the thousands of eggs and embryos produced daily that a living creation would occur. And then it will also be necessary for this same spirit to evoke the movements of the parts in the living body, since such an influence cannot be expected from blind forces, and the mental powers of the beings themselves, clearly, do not serve as the cause here: for what does the newly hatched chick understand about muscles, nerves, and digestion? Does even a physiologist understand much of this?