Introduction

The Relationship of Philosophy to Religion and Mythology

It is true that in everyday language, philosophy is understood somewhat more narrowly. We no longer speak, as was once common, of the history of philosophy before the Flood, nor do we call the contents of a catechism or the beliefs of primitive peoples regarding the cosmos "philosophy." We distinguish these as mythology and religion. I do not, of course, intend to erase or obscure this distinction; rather, I aim to clarify it and thereby outline the essence of philosophy more precisely.

This distinction can be established in two ways: a distinction in subject and in function. As for the first, the bearer or subject of mythological worldviews is the collective spirit, whereas for philosophy it is the individual spirit. Wherever we speak of philosophy, it is the product of individual intellectual work—there is no philosophy without a philosopher, which is why it is named after its creators: Platonic, Spinozist, Kantian philosophy. Mythology, on the other hand, like oral tradition and language, does not stem from the conscious work of an individual but is a product of the collective spirit. Just as there is no inventor of language, there is no creator of the primordial mytho-religious worldview, which in its origins is deeply intertwined with language and poetry. No one in our century speaks of the founder of Egyptian or Greek religion. Christianity or Islam may have founders, but even in these cases, the founders are not seen as originators of entirely new worldviews but rather as reformers, whose transformations pertain more to the practical than to the theoretical aspects of belief.

The distinction in subject corresponds to a distinction in function. Philosophy is created by the work of reason and reflection, while mytho-religious worldviews are the creations of poetic imagination, which combines, supplements, and interprets sensory data in relation to a transcendent world of its own making. All phenomena in the heavens and on earth are seen—not systematically, but often—as the actions of transcendent forces, either friendly or hostile to the self, promising support or hindrance to its goals. All explanations take the form of answers to the questions "why" and "for what purpose."

Philosophy, by contrast, begins with rational understanding, which seeks to grasp things as they are. Directed primarily at the questions "what" and "how," instead of "to what end," it strives first to establish phenomena as such and their relationships in space and time. Along this path, it attains knowledge of causal connections and, through these, increasingly perfects its attempt to construct an understanding of the world as a whole. This is the scientific method. Philosophy initially presents itself as nothing other than the scientific understanding of reality, in contrast or opposition to mytho-religious worldviews.

Thus, it becomes clear that the form in which philosophy and mytho-religious worldviews are present to the individual differs: in philosophy, one participates through thought, whereas in mythology and religion, through faith. Philosophy that becomes a matter of faith is an inner contradiction, just as religion born of reflection is. This applies even to the highest forms of religion, where the individual does not participate as a thinking, reflecting person but as a member of a people or a historical community, absorbing it as something given. Philosophy, on the other hand, even if its content was not originally created by the individual, presents itself as something that could have been developed through their own reflection.

This inner relationship between philosophy and religion sheds light on the remarkable historical fact that a hostile opposition often prevails between them. In its two great phases—Antiquity and the modern era—Western European philosophy frequently finds itself in tense relations with traditional religious worldviews, often culminating in open conflict. In Greek philosophy, the most famous example of such a clash is the condemnation and execution of Socrates, accused of corrupting the youth and dishonoring the gods. Yet this is not an isolated case. The history of modern philosophy recounts internal and external struggles on nearly every page. The pioneers of new ideas consistently provoked opposition and persecution from both official and voluntary defenders of traditional doctrines, while these pioneers themselves saw their role as opponents of the prevailing system. Recall only Bruno and Galileo, Descartes and Spinoza, Hobbes and Locke, Voltaire and Rousseau, Leibniz and Wolff, Kant and Fichte: all were treated as enemies, subjected to personal persecution, censorship, and even the burning of their works, or at least faced restrictions and suspicions in their teaching activities. The struggle persists, though the old methods have largely fallen out of use. To this day, any new philosophy is tested not only for its truth but also for its compatibility with the dominant doctrine. If it fails this latter test, it is condemned as harmful and dangerous.

The root of this hostility lies, evidently, in their close kinship. This is the conflict of rival siblings—or, in this case, sisters. The elder demands recognition of her authority, while the younger strives to free herself from it, no longer content to serve as ancilla theologiae but desiring to act freely and independently. Ultimately, this is a struggle of the individual for freedom against the collective spirit. Wherever philosophy arises, it encounters an older worldview born of collective thought. The collective spirit precedes the individual; in the early stages of development, the tribe is everything, and the individual is merely an instance of the tribe. Just as in action and judgment, the individual is bound by customs, so in thought they are bound by the religious beliefs of society. The very idea of having unique thoughts is far from them. Gradually, however, with development comes differentiation and individualization. The courage to be distinct emerges, along with the courage to have one's own thoughts. As Aristotle said, "wonder" and as Descartes said, "doubt"—both mark the beginning of philosophy. These are two expressions of the awakening of individual thought, previously weak or dormant under the pressure of societal views. Against this wonder or doubt, and their attempt to form new and distinct ideas about the world, rises the old collective thought, as if in response to an unheard-of audacity: "Why will you not be satisfied with the accepted thoughts handed down by your ancestors?" This is viewed as sacrilegious arrogance, and society feels it has the right and duty to suppress it, especially since deviation from shared beliefs might pave the way for moral transgression.

In the ancient world, efforts to defend against philosophy lacked coherence and consistency; mytho-religious worldviews had not been developed into a unified system and lacked the external organization needed for defense and resistance. Therefore, philosophy soon attained full freedom. In the modern era, however, the situation was different. Christianity, already in antiquity and through the Middle Ages, absorbed so much philosophy that it became a comprehensive system of doctrine, leaving no room for free and independent thought. The Church, with its system of governance and educational methods, provided the external organization through which any deviation in doctrine was immediately detected and opposed with all the authority it commanded. Hence the struggle was all the fiercer and more prolonged. It is not yet over, although today, at least in Protestant circles, the demand to subordinate philosophy to church doctrine is rarely raised. Still, there is a tendency at times, and if theological faculties were again brought under ecclesiastical authority, it is likely that attempts to bring philosophy back under control would soon follow. However, the chances of this seem slim at present.

How will this struggle end? Will it persist forever? Will it lead to a peaceful reconciliation, or will it culminate in the final defeat and disappearance of one of the adversaries?

In many spheres, the latter view prevails. Religion, it is thought, is in a state of decline; science and philosophy have undermined its foundations, and the future belongs to the sovereignty of knowledge.

I cannot entirely subscribe to this view. In a certain sense, it is correct: the old mythological understanding of nature is undoubtedly retreating. The belief in gods and demons as discrete entities that intervene arbitrarily in the natural order of things is dying and will never revive unless science and philosophy themselves die out in Western Europe. In this respect, there is little difference whether one believes in many such beings or only one.

On the other hand, I do not believe that religion will perish alongside the changes we witness. I do not think humanity will ever confine its inner relationship to reality solely to scientific knowledge. Were a person purely an intellectual being, they might be content with the fragments of knowledge gradually accumulated through scientific inquiry. But a human being is not merely reason; they are, first and foremost, a creature endowed with will and emotion. It is in this aspect of their nature that religion finds its deepest roots. The feelings of humility, reverence, and aspiration towards perfection, which fill one's heart when contemplating nature and history, shape their inner relation to reality more immediately and profoundly than scientific concepts or formulas ever could. From these emotions arises the conviction that the world is not a meaningless play of blind forces but a revelation of goodness and grandeur, which one joyfully recognizes as kindred to their own deepest essence. Indeed, this is the very core of religious faith—a confidence that what I revere and hold as the highest and best reveals to me the true essence of reality; a confidence that the good and the perfect, to which my will's deepest desires are directed, is the foundation and goal of all things.

This certainty does not stem from science, and therefore science cannot destroy it. It is rooted not in reason, but in will. Reason, in its pure form, does not judge by predicates such as good or evil, valuable or worthless; it merely distinguishes the real from the unreal, the true from the false. With respect to value and its absence, reason is but a neutral recorder of reality. Yet, a human being is something more than a mere registrar of facts; thus, alongside science, they also possess poetry, art, faith, and religion. At the very least, there is one point where everyone transcends mere knowledge and fact-gathering: in the meaning of their own life and future. They infuse their life with meaning and direct it towards something that does not yet exist but will come to be, through the exercise of their will. Thus, alongside knowledge, there arises within them faith: they believe in the fulfillment of the goal of their life, assuming they seriously strive for it. And since their life's goal is not isolated but intertwined with the historical life of their people, and ultimately with all humanity, they also believe in the future of their people and in the victorious future of truth, justice, and goodness in humanity. Anyone who binds their life to a cause believes in that cause, and this faith—regardless of their other confessional beliefs—always contains something akin to religion.

If, therefore, faith establishes—especially in history—an inner connection between the real and the valuable, if it perceives within history something like an inherent reason or justice, which commands allegiance to what is right and good and ensures its triumph despite all opposing forces, then the natural progression leads further. The historical life of humanity is not, after all, isolated; it is so intimately interwoven with the broader course of nature that it cannot be separated from it. If within history there prevails a law that, contrary to appearances, truth always prevails over falsehood, justice over injustice, and goodness over evil, then why not generalize this principle and believe in the overarching rule of goodness throughout all reality? It would seem that those who most insist upon the regularity of the world's course and the inclusion of history in the universal process of nature should be the least inclined to deny this. Whoever believes in the steady progress and the unfolding meaning of history, while simultaneously viewing human life as part of the greater life of nature, holds the very premises that—unless they wish to abandon one or the other—should lead them to faith in meaning within things at large. This is faith, not knowledge or proof, for the meaning of history and even of one's own life is not a subject of knowledge or proof.

What, then, stands in the way? Is it that poor arguments have made a noble subject so suspect that it is now considered a duty to reason to reject not only the arguments but the subject itself? For this would lead to the bizarre conclusion that, according to such a view, the ultimate purpose and task of science in the world would be to demonstrate that faith in the meaning and reason within things is nonsense and superstition.

In this lies the potential for reconciliation between knowledge and faith, between philosophy and religion—a possibility of genuine, lasting peace, not the rotten compromises often made at truth's expense, nor the indifferent and dismissive concessions of space. It is a peace grounded in free mutual recognition. The first step towards this is the clear delineation of tasks. Religion must cease its old practice of meddling in the affairs of science. It must grant science full freedom in the investigation of natural and historical reality, without imposing limits or prescribing results, for that would stifle scientific life. Religion can do this without fear of sacrificing itself, for science will never fill the human spirit, just as it will never exhaust the depths of reality. This will become clearer the more science is shielded from interference in its domain, and it will simultaneously acknowledge that it cannot replace religion, that there is room beside its task for another, one which it is incapable of fulfilling. Alongside the questions of 'what' and 'how,' humanity inevitably raises the question of 'why.' True, philosophy has long attempted to answer this final question as well. In its contemplation of life's whole, it seeks to determine its purpose or highest good; and in its contemplation of the whole of things, it endeavors to comprehend their relationship to this highest good. Yet it has increasingly realized that this endeavor cannot be achieved by means of scientific knowledge, for, as Goethe put it, existence does not yield to human reason without remainder. Thus, the task remains for religion: to interpret the meaning of things—not for the intellect, with its concepts, but for the soul, through sacred symbols.

The historical relationship between science, philosophy, and religion can now be expressed as follows: originally, they were one. Causal explanation, theoretical construction, and ideal interpretation of reality were united in religious mythology, where symbols of perfection simultaneously served as principles for explaining nature. Even in scholastic theology and philosophy, the two elements were inseparable: God was the highest good and, at the same time, the first cause, employed by all sciences—astronomy, biology, history—as the principle of explanation. The gradual differentiation that governs the development of both historical and organic life led to their separation here as well. Science parted ways with religion, pursuing its own goal—the description and causal explanation of reality—without concern for ideal interpretation. Religion offers its interpretation to faith, unconcerned with the possibility of scientific construction; the formation of dogmas, which aimed to be a kind of logical construction of faith, has ceased. Between the two stands philosophy, seeking from knowledge to answer the question of the essence and form of reality. If here already it encounters the limits of human knowledge, it becomes even more acutely aware of its inadequacy when addressing the question of meaning and purpose. It recognizes the impossibility of deriving form from supposed meaning, or conversely, deducing the singular meaning of reality from its form: the world is a mystery, whose hidden meaning it leaves to the heart to be revealed by the mistress of mysteries—religion.

On the other hand, I do not believe that religion will perish amidst the changes we now witness. I do not think humanity will ever reduce its inner relationship with reality to scientific knowledge alone. Were a person merely an intellectual being, they might indeed be content with the fragments of knowledge slowly amassed by science. But humanity is not mere intellect; it is, above all, a creature of will and emotion. Herein lies the root of religion. The feelings of humility, awe, and aspiration toward the infinite that stir the heart when contemplating nature or history forge a bond with reality that runs deeper and more immediately than any scientific concept or formula could. From these emotions springs the conviction that the world is no senseless play of blind forces, but rather a revelation of goodness and grandeur, kindred to one’s own deepest essence. This is the core of religious faith: a certainty that what I revere and hold to be the highest and best reveals to me the true essence of reality; a certainty that the good and the perfect, which my will seeks, form the foundation and final aim of all things.

This certainty does not arise from science, and thus science cannot undermine it. It is rooted not in reason, but in will. Reason, in its pure form, neither judges by the categories of good and evil, nor assigns value or worthlessness; it simply discerns the real from the unreal, the true from the false. Concerning value, reason is but a neutral observer. But man is more than a mere observer of facts; thus, alongside science, they also possess poetry, art, faith, and religion. In fact, there is at least one point where everyone transcends knowledge and factuality: in the question of their own life and future. They endow their life with meaning and direct it toward something that does not yet exist but is to be brought forth by their will. Hence, alongside knowledge arises faith: faith in the fulfillment of the goal of their life, provided they earnestly strive for it. And since the individual’s life-goal is not isolated but bound up with the historical life of their people and ultimately with all humanity, they also believe in the future of their people and in the eventual victory of truth, justice, and goodness in humanity. Anyone who binds their life to a cause believes in that cause, and this faith—whatever their confessional beliefs—always contains something akin to religion.

Thus, if faith establishes an inner connection between the real and the valuable, especially in history, if it perceives in history a kind of inherent justice that vindicates what is right and good, even against opposing forces, then it is only natural to take the next step. Human history is not isolated but so intimately intertwined with the broader fabric of nature that they cannot be separated. If within history there prevails a law by which, despite appearances, truth overcomes falsehood, justice overcomes injustice, and goodness overcomes evil, then why not extend this principle to all of reality and believe in the universal rule of goodness? It would seem that those who most stress the regularity of the natural world, who include history within the universal processes of nature, should be least inclined to deny this. Whoever believes in the progress and unfolding meaning of history, while regarding human life as part of the greater life of nature, holds principles that, unless they wish to abandon one or the other, should lead them to faith in meaning within the world at large. This is faith, not knowledge, for the meaning of history and of one’s life is not subject to proof or scientific demonstration.

What, then, stands in the way? Is it that weak arguments have rendered this noble subject so suspect that it is now deemed a duty of reason to reject not only the arguments but the subject itself? This would lead to the absurd conclusion that the highest task of science would be to prove that faith in the meaning and reason within things is mere superstition.

Here lies the potential for reconciliation between knowledge and faith, between philosophy and religion—not through the shallow compromises that sacrifice truth, nor through indifferent concessions, but through a peace grounded in free mutual recognition. The first step toward this peace is a clear division of labor. Religion must renounce its ancient habit of meddling in scientific matters, granting science full freedom to explore natural and historical realities without setting limits or dictating results, for this would strangle scientific vitality. Religion can do this without fear of losing itself, for science will never satisfy the human spirit, just as it will never exhaust the depths of reality. The more science is protected from interference, the clearer it will become that science cannot replace religion; it will acknowledge that alongside its own task, there is room for another that it cannot fulfill. Alongside the questions of “what” and “how,” humanity inevitably asks “why.” True, philosophy has long sought to answer this ultimate question. In contemplating life as a whole, it seeks to determine the highest good; in contemplating the cosmos, it endeavors to understand its relation to this good. Yet, more and more, philosophy realizes that this goal cannot be reached by scientific knowledge alone, for, as Goethe put it, existence does not yield entirely to human reason. It falls to religion to interpret the meaning of existence—not for the intellect with its concepts, but for the soul through sacred symbols.

The historical relationship between science, philosophy, and religion can now be described as follows: initially, they were one. Causal explanation, theoretical construction, and ideal interpretation of reality were united in religious mythology, wherein symbols of perfection also served as principles for explaining nature. Even in scholastic theology and philosophy, these elements remained inseparable: God was both the highest good and the first cause, the principle invoked by all sciences—astronomy, biology, history—to explain reality. Over time, however, the gradual differentiation that governs historical and organic development brought about their separation. Science parted ways with religion, aiming to describe and causally explain reality without concern for ideal interpretation. Religion, in turn, offers its interpretation to faith, disregarding the scientific construction of reality; the formation of dogmas, which once aimed at a logical construction of faith, has ceased. Philosophy stands between the two, seeking to understand the essence and form of reality through knowledge. Yet, even here, it encounters the limits of human understanding, and these limits become painfully clear when addressing the questions of meaning and purpose. It recognizes that the form of reality cannot be derived from its supposed meaning, nor can the singular meaning of reality be deduced from its form: the world is a mystery whose hidden meaning must be revealed by the heart through the sacred symbols of religion.