Faith – Lesson 12

Table of Contents

• Opening the survey of the paths to faith and Kant’s classification of proofs
• The ontological proof and its history
• Mockery of the argument, Russell, and the distinction between being ontological and being valid
• Logical argument, premises, and plausibility versus necessity
• Rationalism versus empiricism and Descartes
• The cogito as an example of an ontological proof and the distinction from “I am walking”
• A popular formulation of Anselm’s argument and the sense that it’s “fishy”
• Guided reading of the Proslogion: the source of the text and the translation
• The opening prayer: faith comes before proof, and the goal is “understanding”
• “Such as we believe”: the identity of the God being proved
• Anselm’s definition of God: “that than which nothing greater can be conceived”
• Setting up the atheist alternative: “The fool has said in his heart, there is no God”
• The atheist understands the definition, and the concept exists in the mind
• The painter example and a threefold distinction: exists, is perceived as existing, and is perceived as a concept
• The direction going forward and where the lecture stops

Summary

General Overview

The text opens a new stage in the survey of the possible ways to arrive at faith in God, and focuses on the first path in Kant: the ontological proof, which aims to derive a claim about God’s existence from conceptual analysis alone. The speaker presents the history of the argument from Anselm through Descartes and Spinoza to Kant’s critique, objects to the common ridicule directed at it, and adopts Russell’s assessment that it is easy to mock but hard to point to the precise flaw. He argues that in the end the proof is probably not valid as a purely ontological proof, because it relies on certain premises, but it may still be a good argument if its premises are reasonable. He then begins a guided reading of chapters 2–4 of Anselm’s Proslogion in Yosef Sarmonta’s translation, and emphasizes that every sentence in the text is constructed as part of a precise philosophical move that anticipates answers to expected criticisms.

Opening the survey of the paths to faith and Kant’s classification of proofs

The speaker moves from defining faith and presenting the basic possibilities to a systematic analysis of each path. The speaker adopts Kant’s division into three main ways of proving God’s existence: proofs based on conceptual analysis, proofs based on the mere fact that something exists at all (cosmological), and proofs based on the properties of what exists (physico-theological). The speaker states that there is no third or fourth possibility beyond these three options, and begins with the ontological proof.

The ontological proof and its history

The speaker defines an ontological proof as a proof that does not rely on facts but only on the definition of concepts and their analysis. The speaker notes that Anselm of Canterbury was the first to formulate the argument, that he was Archbishop of Canterbury and is regarded by many as one of the founders of scholasticism, and he describes scholasticism as a Christian phenomenon that later passed into Islam and from there also into Judaism. The speaker points out that Anselm’s lifetime almost overlaps with Rashi’s (1040–1105, with Rashi born seven years earlier and dying in 1109), and notes that the argument reappeared in Descartes and in a different form in Spinoza, and was criticized by Kant and other philosophers.

Mockery of the argument, Russell, and the distinction between being ontological and being valid

The speaker describes the common ridicule of the argument as though it were “hocus pocus” that pulls existence out of a definition, and says that the mockery is usually unjustified. The speaker quotes Bertrand Russell that it is harder to point to the exact problem than to ridicule it, and adds that in the end, in his view, the proof is not valid in the sense that it is not purely ontological. The speaker distinguishes between challenging the ontological nature of the proof and challenging its strength or validity, and argues that even an argument that is not logically necessary may still be plausible and strong if its premises are acceptable.

Logical argument, premises, and plausibility versus necessity

The speaker states that every proof relies on premises, including a proof that claims not to rely on any premises, and therefore proposes examining whether the premises are reasonable rather than being satisfied with the claim that the argument is not logically necessary. The speaker describes a tendency to refute arguments merely by exposing hidden premises, and emphasizes that this does not end the discussion, because an argument can still be persuasive if the premises are accepted. He sets a methodological goal of examining the premises and understanding their role, instead of dismissing the argument too quickly.

Rationalism versus empiricism and Descartes

The speaker presents rationalism as the view according to which a priori rational reflection can teach us about the world, and contrasts it with empiricism, which holds that observation is required in order to know facts. The speaker describes the rise of empiricism in the early modern period (15th–17th centuries) as connected to the birth of modern science, and cites Mark Twain’s saying, “The world owes you nothing; it was here before you,” as an illustration of the idea that the world is not subject to the structure of our thinking. The speaker presents Descartes as someone who tried to defend rationalism, and therefore leaned toward ontological proofs and toward a move that seeks to derive facts about the world from pure thought.

The cogito as an example of an ontological proof and the distinction from “I am walking”

The speaker describes “I think, therefore I exist” as an ontological argument because it analyzes the statement “I think” and derives from it a claim about the world without any observational premise. The speaker explains that “I am walking, therefore I exist” or “I am sitting, therefore I exist” rely on factual premises, and therefore they are empiricist arguments rather than rationalist ones. The speaker argues that what is unique about “I think” is that one cannot think the opposite without thinking, and therefore the statement “I think” is true by virtue of itself, as a result of logical analysis, even though the question remains of what exactly the “I” is.

A popular formulation of Anselm’s argument and the sense that it’s “fishy”

The speaker presents a shortened version of the argument: God is defined as “the being that possesses all perfections,” and existence is a perfection, so if God did not exist, one could conceive of a greater God who does exist, and therefore God must exist. The speaker notes that this is the version people tend to laugh at, and that it seems strange even to him, but he wants to show through a reading of the text that Anselm was much more sophisticated than that. The speaker declares that his goal is to examine from within the text whether this is really an ontological proof, and what remains of it “when all is said and done.”

Guided reading of the Proslogion: the source of the text and the translation

The speaker notes that the passage being studied is chapters 2, 3, and 4 of the Proslogion. The speaker says that the translation appeared in Iyyun in 1971, when he was 11 years old, and that it is Yosef Sarmonta’s translation, and he mentions a personal connection to Sarmonta’s son and to a visit to his home in Jerusalem. The speaker adds that the translation also appeared in the anthology The Question of Being, edited by Avraham Zvi Brown, and that he is using the version from there while noting the original source in the journal Iyyun.

The opening prayer: faith comes before proof, and the goal is “understanding”

Anselm’s text opens with the address: “Therefore, O Lord my God, who gives understanding to faith, grant me, insofar as You find me worthy, to understand that You exist as we believe, and that You are such as we believe.” The speaker argues that the prayer is not a poetic ornament but a methodological component that declares a starting point of existing communal faith and a search for rational justification for it. The speaker rejects the criticism that this is “begging the question,” and brings the example of Andrew Wiles and Fermat’s Last Theorem to show that one may believe the conclusion even before finding a proof for it, and one may also be ready to change one’s mind if contrary proof is found. The speaker emphasizes that Anselm is not asking for faith but for “understanding for faith,” meaning that faith should become the conclusion of rational reflection.

“Such as we believe”: the identity of the God being proved

The speaker explains that the key word “such” is meant to ensure that the proof concerns the same God in whom the community believes, and not some alien “philosophical God.” The speaker argues that in many debates people prove “something” but do not show that it is the God whose revelation obligates commandments, and therefore Anselm emphasizes from the outset that he seeks to prove “that You are such as we believe.” The speaker presents the view that every proof relies on some definition of the concept of God, and that without clarifying this, one may end up concluding that one has proved several different “gods,” in which case one could apply Ockham’s razor and argue that these are really just different facets of one object.

Anselm’s definition of God: “that than which nothing greater can be conceived”

Anselm defines: “And indeed we believe that You are that than which nothing greater can be conceived.” The speaker interprets “greater” as “more perfect in its attributes,” not physically larger, but notes that the term “greater/perfect” is not trivial and will be an important focus later on. The speaker explains that the definition comes from the tradition implied by the words “as we believe,” and takes the position that once the definition has been set, the next move is to ask whether the object so defined exists.

Setting up the atheist alternative: “The fool has said in his heart, there is no God”

Anselm adds: “Or perhaps no such nature exists, for the fool has said in his heart, there is no God.” The speaker interprets this as setting up two competing hypotheses: the existence of the defined object versus its denial. The speaker adds a translation note that “fool” here does not mean wicked but ignorant, and distinguishes between one who knows and does not worship and one who does not know.

The atheist understands the definition, and the concept exists in the mind

Anselm argues: “And yet there is no doubt that this very fool, when he hears what I say… understands what he hears,” and “what he understands is in his mind,” though “he does not yet understand that this thing exists in reality.” The speaker argues that this move blocks in advance the evasion, “the concept of God is not defined,” and forces the atheist to admit that he understands the definition, because otherwise even his statement “there is no God” would be meaningless. The speaker emphasizes that Anselm remains intellectually honest by not attributing belief to the atheist, but only acceptance of a concept in thought and a distinction between conceptual existence and existence in reality.

The painter example and a threefold distinction: exists, is perceived as existing, and is perceived as a concept

Anselm brings the example: “When a painter thinks beforehand about what he is going to make… it exists in his mind… but he does not yet think of it as a real thing, because he has not yet made it.” The speaker argues that Anselm adds a critical distinction here, not only between a concept in thought and an object in reality, but also between perceiving something as existing and perceiving that same thing merely as a concept that does not exist. The speaker presents three distinct states: X exists; a person perceives X as existing; a person grasps the concept of X without perceiving it as existing. He argues that this is a key point in the argument that will become clear later, and that it even fits distinctions that neuroscience today describes between imagination and perception.

The direction going forward and where the lecture stops

The speaker stops after the preparatory stage of the argument and states that the argument itself will begin later, in chapter 3. In response to a question, he says that at this stage the goal is to prove the existence of the being defined as perfect, without yet dealing with its relation to the world or with the religious God. In response to a question about intuition, he says that logical argument does not make intuition unnecessary, but rests on premises whose source is intuition. The speaker signals that Anselm’s unique problem is the claim not to assume any premises at all, and says that this discussion will take place after the presentation of the move is complete.

Now at this stage I want to begin and survey the different routes by which one can arrive at belief in God. That’s the next stage. Up to now I’ve talked about what belief is, and in principle what kinds of routes are possible. Now I’m going to go into each one of the routes and try to see what exactly it says. So the first route in Kant’s classification—I said that in Kant’s classification there are three or four routes. In the Critique of Pure Reason there are three, and there’s one more in the books on morality. Kant’s first route is the ontological proof. An ontological proof is a proof based on conceptual analysis. Meaning, it doesn’t assume any fact; it doesn’t proceed from factual premises, but rather from the definition of concepts and the analysis of the concept itself alone. And I said that Kant basically divides the proofs for God’s existence into proofs based on conceptual analysis, proofs based on the very fact that something exists—the cosmological proof—and proofs based on the character of what exists, on certain properties of what exists, which is the physico-theological proof. There really isn’t a third possibility—well, there isn’t a fourth possibility, really. Those are the three possibilities that exist.

So the first is the ontological proof, and the first person who formulated it was Anselm of Canterbury, who was the Archbishop of Canterbury at the end of his life. Many consider him the founder of scholasticism. Meaning, he essentially founded philosophical argumentation in the area of theology. Scholasticism is a Christian phenomenon; afterward it moved into Islam, and from there eventually to us as well. But in this context I think we were actually the last, not the first. In any case, he’s considered the first, or one of the founders, of this field.

By the way, his lifetime is almost exactly parallel to Rashi’s. That is, Rashi was born in 1040; he was born seven years earlier. Rashi died in 1105, and he died in 1109. Seven years earlier in birth, four years later in death. Really overlapping with Rashi, just on opposite sides of the English Channel. In any case, his argument later reappeared in Descartes and in a somewhat different form in Spinoza. It was criticized by Kant and by quite a few other philosophers, so this argument has had a long philosophical history.

There are quite a few people who deal with belief who like to mock this argument, laugh at it, because on the face of it it really does look strange—it does conceptual analysis and from that it extracts God’s existence without assuming anything, some kind of hocus-pocus. So many people mock this argument. But as Bertrand Russell said—indeed one of the prominent atheists of the twentieth century—he said it’s much easier to mock the ontological proof and say it’s incorrect than to put your finger on where the problem is. And I think these mockeries are generally very, very unjustified.

In the end—and I’ll jump ahead a bit here, or give the bottom line already now—it seems to me that this proof is not valid, but in the sense that it isn’t an ontological proof. Meaning, it isn’t true that what we have here is only conceptual analysis. The question whether this proof is persuasive is a different question. The question whether this proof is persuasive—it may be that it isn’t an ontological proof; it may well be based on factual assumptions or some assumptions of some sort. It isn’t just conceptual analysis. Still, it may be that the argument is a good argument. So there’s a difference between challenging its ontological character—ontological here meaning that it is based only on conceptual analysis—and challenging its validity or its strength. Those are two different things.

So I’m going to try to read Anselm’s text and draw from it, study it, and see what exactly is going on here: whether this is an ontological proof, and if not then what it is, and what in the end remains as the bottom line.

By the way, very often—and this is a rule worth adopting especially when dealing with these topics—when people present a proof for God’s existence, very often the objections to the proof only show that it isn’t logically necessary. But that’s not enough as an objection. Because the fact that the proof is not logically necessary doesn’t mean that it isn’t reasonable, or strong, or good. After all, every proof is based on some assumptions, including this proof, which pretends not to be based on assumptions. Right? And still, the fact that there are assumptions doesn’t mean there’s nothing to discuss in such a proof. If the assumptions are acceptable to me, then the argument can persuade me of the conclusion as well. So very often people have this tendency to point out that there are some assumptions here that you didn’t put on the table, or that it’s based on assumptions, it isn’t necessary, you can argue with the assumptions. True, I can—but let’s see whether the assumptions are reasonable or unreasonable. If they are reasonable, then the argument is good. So the fact that it isn’t logically necessary does not negate the discussion. Okay.

Now maybe one more sentence about ontological proofs. There are several philosophical arguments throughout history that basically aspire to do this kind of work. The most prominent and best-known among them is Descartes’ cogito argument: I think, therefore I am. Descartes, incidentally, himself offered another version of Anselm’s ontological proof; he generally liked conceptual proofs, ontological proofs. And there’s a good reason for that. Descartes, in the late sixteenth century and early seventeenth century, is basically at the end of the rationalist period. That is, in the history of philosophy, from Aristotle until the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the modern era, there was a belief that by means of logical considerations, intellectual considerations, I can learn about the world. That’s what’s called rationalism: using reason to learn about the world. And at the beginning of the modern era—fifteenth, sixteenth, seventeenth century and onward—empiricism arises. That is, the view that says: you can’t learn about the world out of your own reflections. You have to observe. And that’s what actually founded modern science and what basically continues until our day.

There was very strong criticism of rationalism, basically saying that it was an application of illusions, inner structures of our own thought, onto reality, and there’s no justification for that. To know what happens in reality, you need to look at reality. Right? Like Mark Twain’s favorite line: the world doesn’t owe you anything; it was here first. Meaning, the fact that you think in a certain way doesn’t mean the world works that way too. To see how the world works, you need to observe it. That’s the most fundamental example of modern science, and it really began with the empiricism of the early modern period. That’s also where modern science began. Or maybe science influenced philosophy and philosophy influenced science; of course it went both ways.

In any event, as part of the somewhat Don Quixote-like struggle of the rationalists against empiricist criticism—in other words, the rationalists who wanted to show that an a priori rational, intellectual consideration can teach us something about the world—Descartes was among them. He was basically the last of the rationalists who somehow tried to defend rationalism and present rational, logical arguments that would teach us something about the world, and thereby show the empiricists that they were wrong. Facts can be derived from pure thought without observation. And of course, a central tool in this matter is ontological arguments. So it’s not by chance that Descartes focused on and dealt with several ontological arguments. “I think, therefore I am,” Descartes’ cogito principle, is itself basically an ontological argument. It’s an argument that analyzes the statement “I think” and derives from it the conclusion “I exist.” And therefore you don’t assume any factual assumption in order to derive that conclusion.

And here maybe I’ll say one more word about this issue. In principle, one could also derive that I exist from the fact that I walk, not only from the fact that I think. I walk, therefore I exist—right? If I didn’t exist, how could I walk? So if I walk, therefore I exist; I sit, therefore I exist; I love, therefore I exist. Whatever I do—if I assume that I do something, then I assume that I exist. But here, notice, this is an argument based on a factual assumption: that I think, I love, I sit. All these are factual assumptions. To derive my existence from factual assumptions is no great feat. I can say, “I see that I exist, therefore I exist,” meaning I simply observe it and notice it, and that’s it; that’s a fact because I have an observation. That’s an empiricist argument, not a rationalist one. It’s an empiricist argument because it starts from empirical observation. I start from some fact that I saw through some observational means, and from that I derive a conclusion. That won’t help a rationalist like Descartes. A rationalist like Descartes wants to derive the conclusion that he exists without assuming a factual premise.

So what is special about “I think, therefore I exist”? How is it different from “I walk, therefore I exist”? It’s very different. Precisely “I think” is a good basis for Descartes. Why? Because the statement “I think” is a statement compelled by itself; it isn’t the result of observation. Why? Because even if I think that I do not think, I am thinking. That is, it’s impossible to think the opposite, because even if I think the opposite, it’s true. Either way, it’s true, and therefore the claim “I think” doesn’t depend on any observation; it is the result of logical reasoning alone. And that is what makes the premise “I think” unique as opposed to “I walk,” “I love,” or “I sit.” “I think” is a claim that is true by virtue of itself, the result of conceptual analysis alone. And if I derive from it that I exist, then I have in fact extracted a statement about the world—that I exist—from conceptual analysis. And that is how this claim differs from “I walk, therefore I exist” or “I love, therefore I exist.” That is why Descartes formulated this claim.

I devoted a column or two to this on the site once, I don’t even remember anymore, to show why he didn’t succeed, but that’s what he was trying to do. He was trying to produce a factual statement out of logical-conceptual analysis alone, without assuming any observational factual premise. And there’s something hidden in there, namely that I—okay, that’s true, but what is “I”? He doesn’t define what “I” is. Meaning, something exists—but what is “I”? But even if he reaches the conclusion that something exists, that is already a factual claim that he achieved from conceptual analysis. So for the purposes of the rationalist-versus-empiricist question, I don’t care if he didn’t prove the existence of the “I”; it’s enough that he proved that something exists in the world. That’s already a claim about the world. So for our purposes, that’s enough. We can discuss it, but the argument I’m talking about here, Anselm’s argument—which again had another version in Descartes, and in Spinoza, and others—but the first formulation was Anselm’s.

Let me first state it briefly. This is the popular version that everybody laughs at, just so you can see what it is. Basically he says this: I want to define God as the being possessing all perfections. The perfect being, okay? That’s a definition; I’m allowed to define whatever I want. I define such a concept. I don’t yet know if it exists or not; I define the concept “God,” and I say: it is the being with all perfections. He says: if I assume that He does not exist, then a God who does exist is greater than this God, because this one does not exist and what exists is greater than what does not exist. So that means this is not the being with all perfections, because there is a being with greater perfection than it. Therefore it is impossible that He does not exist; the conclusion is that He exists. That’s it, that’s the result.

So it turns out that we began with a definition and arrived at a result that is a factual claim: God, defined in this way, exists—that is, a claim about the world. Okay, so a lot of people have laughed at this, and truly, when you look at it, something here looks fishy, yes? Meaning, it’s not even so hard to put your finger on what. On the face of it, it looks very strange.

Now, this is the picture people usually present of the ontological proof. Now I want to read Anselm’s text with you and show you that Anselm was far more sophisticated. And what he said is an argument that, in my view, is really one of the exemplary philosophical texts in the history of philosophy. Truly impressive. And precise, built perfectly. In my opinion the man really was a genuine star. So I want to read this text together with you, and I’ll read sentence by sentence and explain what he’s doing in the course of the argument and what its significance is, and you’ll see that every sentence really has thought behind it; he built this text in an amazing way.

So this is a passage from the Proslogion, that’s the name of his book. And the translation appeared in Iyun in 1971, when I was eleven years old, in a philosophical journal, translated by Yosef Sermoneta, Professor Yosef Sermoneta, whose son was with me in the yeshiva high school, so I mention that—I was even at his home in Jerusalem as a child. So he translated it. Later it also appeared in a collection of translations called The Question of Being, edited by Avraham Zvi Brown, so it appears there too. I took it from there, but the source is actually the journal Iyun, a philosophical journal published by the Hebrew University. Okay, he was a professor of philosophy at the Hebrew University, Sermoneta. And this goes as follows—let’s start reading.

We’re talking about chapters 2, 3, and 4 of the Proslogion. So chapter 2 begins like this: “Therefore, O Lord, you who give understanding to faith, grant me, insofar as you know me fit, to understand that you are as we believe, and that you are what we believe you to be.” Okay, that’s the opening. I’ll read sentence by sentence and explain, because every sentence has a role here. On the surface this looks like some kind of poetic text, but it isn’t. It’s a completely precise philosophical text in which every sentence has a role.

So these first two lines can be called the opening prayer. He basically opens the text in which he proves God’s existence with a prayer to God. What does he ask of Him? To give him the ability to prove his belief, to prove that God exists. Of course, many people laughed at him for this; maybe this is the sentence people laugh at most in Anselm’s Proslogion. You’re basically addressing God in prayer before you’ve even proved that He exists at all. Meaning, you’re begging the question. You’re basically assuming that He exists before the proof, so spare me your proofs—you’re selling me nonsense. Your faith doesn’t depend on the proofs; it existed beforehand.

Now this criticism, satisfying as people may feel when they raise it, and clever as they may think they are, is completely foolish. Let me give you an example. Andrew Wiles, who proved Fermat’s Last Theorem not so many years ago. He sat—I don’t remember how many years, six years or maybe more—working on the proof of that theorem. Now you can understand—let’s stop the sharing for a moment so I can see you—you can understand that someone who sits for so many years on a proof of a theorem, especially when he still doesn’t have tenure and his academic fate isn’t yet secure and he has no time to waste, has full confidence that what he’s proving is probably true; now the only question is how to find the proof. Meaning, Andrew Wiles believed in Fermat’s Last Theorem before he proved it, and then he set out to prove it. Is there any begging the question here? Is there something methodologically problematic here? Not at all. Here too you have someone who believes in God, say, intuitively or for some reasons—tradition or whatever it may be—and now he’s searching for a way: is there a way to prove His existence? There is no problem with that.

I can believe that the sum of the angles in a triangle is 180 degrees but have no proof. Now I start searching, using the tools of geometry, mathematics, for a proof of the theorem that the sum of the angles in a triangle is 180 degrees. Until I had a proof, I also believed it, but I believed it from intuition, from other reasons, and now I want to find a proof. There is no problem in principle with that, and therefore I search for a proof of something I already believe to be true beforehand. That’s true in every context of reality, and there’s no reason it can’t be done in the context of faith as well. Same thing.

Rabbi, and if he finds a proof that there isn’t? I can’t hear. The question is: if he finds a proof that there isn’t, then what? Then he’ll have to give up his intuition. But his starting point in the search—isn’t it “let’s check”? What—if Andrew Wiles had proved that Fermat’s Last Theorem is false, what would he have done? Not just failed to find a proof, but actually proved it false, found a counterexample—what would he have done? He would have given up what he had thought before. Perfectly fine. What’s the problem with that? I assume thus because that’s my intuition, and I look for a proof. Either I find a proof, or I don’t find one, or I find a proof against it. If I’m intellectually honest, then based on what comes out, I need to be open to changing my initial position. That’s perfectly fine, there’s no problem there. It doesn’t mean I’m not supposed to have, or shouldn’t have, an initial position. I’m allowed to have one.

But two comments: first, he says “as we believe”; he isn’t referring to me, as an individual believer, but to a public that believes, as it were, yes? And second, he says “and that you are what we believe you to be”—what does “what” mean here? He doesn’t describe what that is. In a moment, in a moment—that word “what” has a very important role. We’ll get to it in just a second. But your first comment—on the contrary, that’s exactly the point. “As we believe,” meaning: we received a tradition. And I believe in this tradition together with my community, meaning all of us believe. And now I set out to look for a proof that will confirm that same tradition that I already believe in, by force of tradition. And that’s perfectly fine. Even if I had no proof and don’t find one, I’ll remain a believer. If I find proof against it, maybe I’ll give it up. But there’s no problem in principle here, even if it’s not just his personal faith but the faith of a community. What’s the issue? Why not? On the contrary, his personal faith too is probably based on the communal tradition, not just some personal intuition of his own. That’s usually how religious faith works, I think, and I don’t see any problem in that. As for your second comment, I’m getting to it literally in a moment, because it leads into the next sentence.

But notice one more point. He says, “who give understanding to faith”—“Therefore, O Lord, you who give understanding to faith.” You see? “Who give understanding to faith” means: I want to turn my faith, which is something intuitive, into the result of understanding, the result of logical reasoning. So he is aware that his faith exists even before he finds the rational argument. All he asks of the Holy One, blessed be He, is not to give him faith. He already has faith. Rather, to help him find a way to turn faith into something that has understanding in it. Meaning, to find the logical proof of the faith. So he is aware of all the criticisms of the wiseguys who came after him, and he puts the key phrases here in order to explain why they’re wrong, or what exactly his purpose is.

This prayer—look, Anselm, that morning when he wrote the Proslogion, I assume he also brushed his teeth after breakfast. He doesn’t describe that at the beginning of the Proslogion. He doesn’t describe everything he did that morning at the beginning of the Proslogion. Why does he include the prayer? I assume he didn’t even include all of his morning prayer. Why does he include this prayer in the passage? I think he includes it because he sees prayer as a component in the argument. He comes to explain that he sets out from a starting point of faith; it’s not that faith was born in him after the proof. He sets out from a starting point of faith. Therefore he describes it literarily by opening with prayer, and then going out to seek a proof.

And what’s the idea—why is it important for understanding the proof itself? It’s very important. It’s important especially for the modern critiques of the twentieth century, but also for critiques that existed throughout history. Why? Because with this he basically neutralizes most of the critiques raised against him, by the very existence of the prayer at the beginning of the book. Why? Because many of the critiques are critiques that basically tell him, “Listen, you’re begging the question. You’re basically assuming that there is a God, so of course your argument proves there is a God. You assumed it; you begged the question.” Anselm says to them: I beg the question proudly. Here, I’m putting it on the table. I pray to God before I set out to prove His existence. And what’s the idea behind that? All Anselm is looking for is an argument. A logical argument. A logical argument proving the existence of God. A logical argument—as I already discussed in one of the earlier sessions—a logical argument by definition begs the question. If he found a valid logical argument and people accuse him, “Listen, but this argument begs the question,” that accusation simply shows misunderstanding. Every valid logical argument begs the question.

That’s what Anselm wants to say. I assume the conclusion—I assume that God exists—and now I’ll show it to you by means of a logical argument. Now if you tell me, “But this logical argument begs the question,” yes, every valid logical argument begs the question. The best example of this is the yeshiva joke proving that every Jew needs to wear a hat. What’s the proof? It says, “And Abraham went”—there, there. A Jew like him obviously didn’t go without a hat, that’s clear. Now if Abraham went with a hat, then we, his faithful descendants who follow in his ways, also need to go with a hat. Which is what we wanted to prove. So we’ve proved that every Jew needs to wear a hat. What’s wrong with this argument? The problem is that it begs the question. What do I mean? When I say that when it says Abraham went, a Jew like him could not possibly have gone without a hat, I am implicitly assuming that every Jew needs to go with a hat, right? Otherwise how did I get from the fact that Abraham went to the fact that he had a hat? I assumed that a Jew doesn’t go without a hat, that every Jew must. So the conclusion that I supposedly proved was actually a hidden premise in the argument. I assumed what I wanted to prove. That’s why this argument is a joke.

But if you think about it again, you’ll see there’s no joke here. Every logical argument begs the question. Let’s take the logical argument we’re all sick of hearing, the canonical example of a logical argument: all human beings are mortal; Socrates is a human being; therefore Socrates is mortal. That’s a logical argument, right? Doesn’t this argument beg the question? Of course it does. Think of someone I’m trying to convince that Socrates is mortal, and I tell him: look, after all, all human beings are mortal. He says: true. And I tell him: and Socrates is a human being. He says: true. So then Socrates is mortal. There’s the proof—QED. Now why must he accept the conclusion? What is there in the premises that forces him to accept the conclusion? The answer is very simple: because the conclusion is contained within the premises. If you accepted the premises, then implicitly you also accepted the conclusion.

Where is it contained? Think about the sentence “all human beings are mortal.” Let’s break it down into components. “All human beings are mortal” means: Moses is mortal, Ahmad is mortal, Socrates is mortal, Yankele is mortal, and Bismarck is mortal. Okay? Among others. And in short we say: “all human beings are mortal.” You understand that one of the atomic statements that create this “all” is “Socrates is mortal.” Or in other words, this argument actually assumed the conclusion; it hid that assumption. But it assumed it, because if it had not assumed it, then it would have been impossible to prove the conclusion that Socrates is mortal. A proof is always showing you that the conclusion is in some way contained in the premises. That’s what a proof is. Therefore, if you accept the premises and I show you that the conclusion, in some way—sometimes a very sophisticated way—is contained within them, then I succeed in convincing you of the conclusion.

But understand: what does it mean to convince you? I talked about this also in this series. What does it mean to convince you? It means to show you that you already agree with it. Because when you accepted the premises, you already implicitly agreed to the conclusion. The proof merely shows you that. Meaning, every proof or every valid logical argument begs the question. If you accept the premises, I show you that within them you have in fact accepted the conclusion. So that means every logical argument begs the question.

Now understand that every argument—not only about the existence of God, though often it is also about the existence of God—someone raises an argument and proves conclusion X. Now the person standing opposite him does not accept conclusion X. What will the debate look like? Clearly the second person will have to show which premise he disagrees with, right? Because if he agrees with the premises, he must also accept the conclusion. But he will always find a premise he disagrees with. Why? Because if he disagrees with the conclusion, and the conclusion is a component found in at least one of the premises, then if he disagrees with the conclusion, obviously he’ll find a premise he disagrees with. Therefore no debate is ever decided by a logical argument. A real argument cannot be settled by a logical argument.

A logical argument has to be built on premises you agree to, and I show you that from those premises a conclusion follows. That’s how I can convince you. But if you don’t agree with the premises, then the logical argument I present to you has no value. You don’t accept the premises, so you won’t have to accept the conclusion either. But if the conclusion is always inside the premises, then someone who disputes my conclusion is always also disputing my premises. So what’s the point of presenting him with a logical argument? That’s what Anselm wants to say here.

Anselm says: look, I’m presenting you with a logical argument for God’s existence. I know that you wiseguys a thousand years after me will say, yes yes, you begged the question. You assumed there is a God, so of course you proved His existence. Anselm says: here I am praying to Him at the beginning; I’m putting on the table the fact that I assume there is a God. Since every logical argument begs the question, every logical argument assumes what you want to prove. So you’ll ask: then what’s the value in presenting logical arguments? What’s the point? So does it only convince the convinced? Someone who isn’t convinced you won’t succeed in convincing that way either? And the answer is that this isn’t correct. Why? Because many times a person doesn’t notice that from premises he accepts, a conclusion follows with which he disagrees. There is inconsistency within him.

Sometimes, if the inconsistency is simple, like Abraham and the hat, then yes, it’s a joke. But if Andrew Wiles proved Fermat’s Last Theorem from certain axioms that we all accept—when I present those axioms to you I assume we’ll all agree to them. I know them all; I didn’t read his proof, but I assume we’d agree—go all the way back with the axioms themselves, scan the axioms, we all agree to them. Okay, and then what? None of us imagined that from those axioms one could derive Fermat’s conclusion, let alone how. And therefore someone can come and say, “I don’t believe Fermat was right,” while accepting all these axioms. Now Andrew Wiles will come along in a very long and complex process and show him: listen, if you accept these premises, know that you are inconsistent. Because from these premises I can derive Fermat’s Last Theorem. That is the sole meaning of a proof. A proof can only show you that you are inconsistent.

If there are premises you accept, I can show you that the conclusion that God exists follows from them. You can always say, “Look, I don’t accept the premises, and therefore I also won’t accept the conclusion,” but then you’d be dishonest, because the truth is that you do accept the premises. You just won’t admit it because you don’t want to be inconsistent, and you don’t want to be a believer; you want to remain an atheist. But if you’re an honest person and willing to admit error, then let’s talk for a moment about the premises. Do you accept the premises? On the face of it, yes. So far I haven’t shown him where it leads, so it’s easy for him to accept them, right? So he accepts the premises. Now I’ll show him by a logical argument that this leads to God’s existence. Now of course he can be dishonest and say, “You know what? I retract it, I don’t agree with the premises.” But someone honest needs to say, “Okay, you’re right. So you showed me that my assumption that there is no God, or my position that there is no God, is inconsistent. I need to repent, accept the conclusion that there is a God.” That’s the only thing a proof can do. It can show a person that he is inconsistent.

And what Anselm is basically saying to the reader is: know that I am proving to you with a logical proof that there is a God. Now don’t expect to attack me by saying that this begs the question. I will show you that you are inconsistent, because the premises I present here you do in fact accept. After I reach the conclusion that there is a God, suddenly you say, wait, wait, wait—no no no, I don’t accept the premises. That’s dishonest. But if I show you—I assume this premise in advance, and now come with me all the way and remain honest—you will reach the conclusion that there is a God. Therefore I think there is a very important methodological value in placing the prayer at the beginning of this passage. Because he says: I am putting the begged question on the table, since I want to bring you a logical argument, a valid logical argument. A valid logical argument always begs the question.

Moving on, I continue to the next sentence, and here enters the word “what” that Daniel commented on earlier. What is this “what”? “Grant me, insofar as you know me fit, to understand that you are as we believe, and that you are what we believe you to be.” What does that mean? What is that last part doing? I want to prove that you are as we believe—not only that you exist, but that the one whose existence I’m now going to prove is the same one in whom we believe. And that too is an important point. Why? Because many proofs for God’s existence are proofs for the existence of something, but who says it’s the God we were arguing about? In every debate between religious and secular people you can hear someone say, “I bring an argument that there is a God.” Fine—but who says this is the God who was revealed at Sinai and told me to put on tefillin? It’s some philosophical God of one kind or another. Meaning, you need to claim, you need to show, that the God whose existence you are proving is the same God we were arguing about. It’s not enough to prove the existence of a god under some arbitrary definition. And this is a very, very important methodological point. Why? Because, as we’ll see in the later proofs too, every proof for God’s existence proceeds from a certain definition of the concept of God. And it’s a different definition. Every proof assumes some definition of the concept of God, and the definitions differ. Every proof has its own definition.

I talked about this and said that it is certainly possible that I am in fact proving the existence of several different gods. Each such argument proves the existence of a different object. Then I said that Ockham’s razor—another one of the Christian scholastics, yes—Ockham’s razor basically says it’s reasonable to assume that all these gods are different facets of one object. Fine. But in principle what Anselm is telling us here is: “First of all I need to explain to you who the God is whose existence I am coming to prove.” So Anselm says, “I want to prove that you are what we believe you to be”—that you are the same God in whom I believe. It’s not that I’ve proved the existence of some different object. I am proving the existence of the object in whom I, Anselm—and perhaps my community too—believe. Very important.

And this is a very common mistake in debates about God’s existence. We argue about God’s existence and then someone presents an argument that supposedly proves it, but in fact he proves the existence of some object, and who says that’s the God we’re debating. Okay, so I’ll return to this point later a few more times as well. But look how many subtle points there are in the first sentence that Anselm puts here.

Now look at the transition to the next passage—and again, it’s tied to the word “what.” That word has a key role here. You put your finger on the key word, Daniel. So he says that you are what we believe you to be, and now what is the next sentence? The next sentence explains who the God is in whom we believe, who this “what” is. You see? It’s all built magnificently. That is, I want to prove—to give understanding to faith—to prove the existence of God. I pray to Him because I believe in His existence; that is the begged question. Whom do I want to prove? The existence of whom? The existence of that same God in whom I believe. Look—every segment of this sentence contributes something to the methodology of the argument.

The next sentence is directly connected to the previous one: “And indeed, we believe that you are something than which nothing greater can be conceived.” That is the next sentence. What does that sentence say? What role does it play in the passage? This sentence comes to define God, the object whose existence I want to prove. And this is a very important point. A lot of people prove God’s existence without defining who the God is whose existence they want to prove. Anselm says no: I’ll define for you who God is, because I want to show you that I am proving the existence of the same God in whom I believe. So let’s see—who is the God in whom I believe? It is something than which nothing greater can be conceived. That is the definition. The definition of God is the perfect object, the object than which something more perfect or greater cannot be conceived. That is the definition.

What does “greater” mean? What? What does “greater” mean? Good—that’s a question, and it’s a stumbling block here. I’ll come back to it later. At the moment Anselm assumes that “greater” or “perfection” are things we understand. Otherwise, if you have to define every word in every sentence, you’ll never finish. I’ll define the word “greater,” but in that definition there are also words, so I’d need to define those too. But you’re right that the word “greater” is not trivial, and I would indeed expect some remark about what exactly counts as greater or perfect. But we’ll get to that later, because it is an important point in discussing the claim. It’s not just non-trivial; it’s important. Because the term “greater” in Hebrew can sound as though it means greater in size, and you mean that “greater” is—no no no, he’s not talking about physical size; he’s talking about perfection, perfection in qualities. “Greater” here is really better translated as perfect in its qualities. Okay, that’s the better translation. Great in a metaphorical sense, not physically large. Still, that’s not an exhaustive definition; we’ll discuss it.

In any case, notice. First of all, he says I want to prove the existence of the God in whom I believe. That’s the first step. The second step: now I’ll explain to you who the God is in whom I believe. And this is an important point, because you might ask where he got this definition from. He just made up a definition. So mathematicians will tell you that definitions aren’t taken from somewhere. A definition is something you can make as you wish. As long as it’s consistent and as long as it is fruitful—that is, one can prove all sorts of interesting claims about the concept—then as far as I’m concerned it’s a fine definition. But on the theological plane it’s not like that. Because I’m not looking for fruitfulness; I’m looking for claims about the world. Now if I prove the existence of God, I prove the existence of a God defined in a certain way. And the question, when I’m now on my way to prove His existence, is a good one: where did you get this definition from? And the answer: from the same source as my prayer. “That you are as we believe, and that you are what we believe you to be.” Tradition passed down to me a definition of the concept of God, says Anselm. The source of my definition is tradition. “What we believe you to be.” And what does tradition say? That God is the perfect being. That is the definition of God. Okay? Now that is his claim, and now I’ll prove to you that God, which is His definition, also exists. That is basically what Anselm is saying.

Now notice: one can argue over this definition, but here I will be the mathematician. You can’t argue with definitions. I define this definition. True, it comes to me from tradition, but that doesn’t matter. At the moment, that’s the definition. Now I want to prove to you that the object defined in this way really exists. That’s all. If I’ve managed to prove that to you, I’ve done the job. Afterward you can say, okay, you’ve convinced us that the object with that definition exists, but that’s not the God we’re talking about. Fine, that’ll be the next stage. But first let’s see whether I can convince you that the object as I define it really exists.

So that’s the second sentence. Third sentence: “Or is there no such nature, for the fool has said in his heart: there is no God?” What is the role of this sentence? The role of this sentence is to present the alternative. Like in statistics, there is H1 and H2—one hypothesis and the other—or H0 and H1, and you need to examine which hypothesis is more correct. So the next step Anselm takes is to place the two alternatives on the board. I claim that the object defined in the previous sentence exists. Or perhaps—the alternative I’m confronting is the fool’s alternative: “The fool has said in his heart: there is no God.” That is the second alternative: that this object does not exist. Those are H0 and H1. Now I want to raise an argument in favor of H0 and against H1. Okay? That’s basically—notice how every sentence is in place.

By the way, a note on the translation—this was pointed out by Brown, I think—that the term “fool” here doesn’t mean villain, but fool in the sense of an ignoramus. “The fool has said in his heart: there is no God” means he is ignorant; he does not know there is a God. It doesn’t mean wicked. A wicked person is someone who knows God and does not serve Him. Someone who does not know God is coerced, not wicked. He may be mistaken, but that isn’t wickedness. In our Hebrew today, “naval” or “menuval” means someone wicked. But here the meaning is ignoramus. In short, what he says is: I, the believer, believe that the object I defined earlier exists. The fool, the ignoramus standing opposite me, sets before me the thesis that God, under this definition, does not exist. Those are the two theses.

Moving on: “But surely that same fool, when he hears what I say—namely, something than which nothing greater can be conceived—understands what he hears.” This is the next sentence. What is the role of this sentence? Very important point. A great deal of ink has been spilled on every sentence here even independently of Anselm; he anticipates discussions that came later. Very often in debates over God’s existence, the atheist says: listen, the concept of God is not defined; I don’t even understand what you’re talking about. Before I argue whether He exists or doesn’t exist, explain the concept to me. As far as I’m concerned, the concept isn’t defined. You use concepts that have no content and play games with them. Anselm says: look, I defined the concept very well. The fool now has no option of saying that the concept is undefined. What can he say? Either that the concept defined in this way is instantiated in reality—it exists, this object exists—or that it does not exist. He doesn’t have the option of saying, I don’t understand this concept, because I defined it.

Meaning, in other words, when the fool says: look, I’m an atheist, I don’t believe in God’s existence—one thing he has to admit is that the concept God has a definition that he himself also understands. Because otherwise his own statement is meaningless too. When he says “there is no God,” he is saying a meaningless statement, just as I am when I say “there is a God.” If you argue with me and say there is no God because you are an atheist, you are a fool—“the fool has said in his heart, there is no God”—then you basically understand this concept; you accept its definition. We won’t have an argument over the definition. If we do have an argument over the definition, that empties the very possibility of speaking of content. So Anselm places his opponent here opposite him in the sharpest possible way. He says to him: listen, I am now arguing with a person who declares himself an atheist. Spare me all the other chatterboxes—people who don’t understand the definition, an agnostic, all kinds of things of that sort. I am arguing with the atheist. Who is the atheist? The atheist is the one who says: that same concept you defined, I understand it well, and I claim that it does not exist. That is the atheist. Anselm says: I am arguing with him. Don’t bring me straw men now—someone who doesn’t understand the concept, someone who has no clear position. I am coming to prove to the atheist that he is wrong. So the one standing before me is the atheist. That is my H1. H0 is the believer; H1 is the atheist. There may also be H2 and H3—the agnostic, or someone who doesn’t understand the concept, or things like that. I’m not arguing with them; I’m arguing with H1. Okay?

And every sentence here saves whole books of discussions that took place throughout history. Because every claim I’ve shown here that Anselm rules out is a claim that appears on every atheist website, in every argument about belief in God. There’s nowhere it doesn’t come up. It’s amazing how precise Anselm was in this text. How every sentence is exactly in place and performs a role without which you can’t do. And anyone who skips one of these sentences condemns himself to endless arguments that will never end. Not that someone who adopts all these sentences is exempt from that, yes? That’s another discussion. It’s just a smaller infinity than the other infinity.

Okay, so that’s the next sentence. Now moving on: “And what he understands exists in his understanding.” Rabbi? Yes. When he writes “understands what he hears,” I understand that the Rabbi explained why he understands when he hears, but Anselm himself didn’t explain it, right? Why? He did explain: “something than which nothing greater can be conceived”—that’s the definition of God. Right, no, but he didn’t explain whether the one who hears understands or doesn’t understand. Rabbi explained that because he says “there is no God,” then he understands that there is no God, he understands that there is God—otherwise what does “there is no God” mean? No, he doesn’t understand that there is God. He understands the definition of the concept God, even though he thinks it doesn’t exist. No, no—the atheist believes there is no God, but the concept God itself, meaning the definition “something than which nothing greater can be conceived,” that definition he too agrees with. That’s the definition of the object we’re arguing about. If you’re arguing about it, that means you understand the definition. We’re talking about the same object, otherwise it’s not an argument. Okay? He isn’t putting words into the atheist’s mouth; he maintains intellectual honesty. But the atheist has to agree to the definition and understand it. And now let’s begin to argue.

Now he says: “And what he understands exists in his understanding.” When you understand something, that concept—as a concept, not as an object—that concept exists in your understanding. In your mind. It is present in your mind. “Even if he does not understand that this thing exists in reality.” Again, notice: he is very careful to maintain honesty. He won’t put words in the atheist’s mouth. He won’t crudely show the atheist that he believes in God. No, no. I understand—you’re an atheist, you don’t believe in God. But the concept of God exists in your head, right? That’s clear. Because you understand that concept. And when you understand a certain concept, then God as a concept exists in your head. You only claim that as a concept it is not instantiated as an object in reality, right? So he is making a distinction here between a concept that exists in my head as a concept, that I grasp as a concept, and an object that exists in reality. Our argument is not about what happens in the head. It is about what happens in reality. In our heads the same thing is happening. I hold the definition of God, and you hold the definition of God. We have an argument about what happens in reality—whether the definition of this concept is instantiated and there is an object in reality that realizes it or not.

“For it is one thing for a thing to exist in the understanding, and another to understand that the thing exists.” You see? He is now explaining exactly what I explained. That is, he says: notice, atheist—you hold the concept God in your understanding. You understand it; it’s a concept that exists in your understanding. You only claim that it does not exist in reality, that it is not instantiated. Okay—but the concept exists. The idea, if you like, exists. And therefore you too, as an atheist, have to admit—and notice, here the argument itself is already beginning—you as an atheist have to admit that the concept God exists in your head as a concept. It doesn’t matter that it doesn’t exist in reality, but it exists in the head. And indeed, this is a very important point, and that’s why he sharpens it further so there won’t be an argument about it. In a moment you’ll see that from this point comes the next stage, the crushing stage of the argument.

“For when a painter first thinks of what he is going to make, he has it in his understanding.” Yes, the painter plans a painting. So the painting doesn’t yet exist in reality, but in the painter’s head the concept of the painting already exists. He may even see it visually. He doesn’t see a painting that exists in reality, but the idea of the painting, the concept of the painting, exists in his mind. “But he does not yet understand it to exist, for he has not yet made it.” Yes, he hasn’t made it yet, so of course he does not understand it to exist. And notice, this sentence is very important. It seems to us like repetition, but it isn’t. A new player enters the arena here. Why? Because Anselm is making a distinction here between the question whether the thing exists, and the question whether I grasp it as existing.

In other words, there are three claims, not two. One claim: object X exists. That’s where I’m trying to get, yes? God exists. A second claim: I grasp God as an existing being. That is a claim about me, not about the world, but about my grasp of God as existing. And a third claim: I grasp the concept of God without imagining it, without saying that it exists. That is a third thing. These are three different claims. And this is perhaps the key, devastating point of Anselm’s argument—the point everyone missed.

Can you repeat the three? I can’t hear you. Can you repeat the three? It’s cutting out, I can’t hear. Can you repeat the three? Let me—give me a moment to continue because we’re almost done, and afterward there can be questions and whoever wants can stay for questions.

Look, the point is that Anselm is now making a distinction here that is ultra-modern. In neuroscience today we know that I can imagine Grandma Frieda in front of me and I can see Grandma Frieda in front of me. The two states activate the same neurons in my head. And yet there is a perception in me that says: here I’m seeing Grandma Frieda, and here I’m imagining Grandma Frieda, despite the fact that the same image is in front of me in my head. What’s the difference? The same neurons are activated in both states, but there is some part, some kind of “feeling neuron” let’s call it, that signals to me: this image is an image that exists in reality outside of you. When I imagine, that neuron doesn’t operate. The neurons that create the image exist. But the perception that this is an image from reality outside of me is not there. Anselm is talking about the difference between those two, and this is a key point in his argument. It’s very important to notice it.

He says this: there are three states. One state: X exists—and that’s where I’m aiming to get, yes? God exists. A second claim: I grasp God as an existing being. That’s a claim about me, not about the world, but about my perception of God as existing. And there’s a third claim, which is my grasp of the concept of God, without imagining it, without saying that it exists. That’s a third thing. Anselm says this: when the painter imagines the painting before he created it, then the painting exists in his head as a concept. When the painter paints the painting, I can say two things. A: the painting exists, because he already painted it. B: when the painter looks at the painting, the image in the painter’s consciousness is an image of an existing painting, unlike the image of the painting before the painting was created, where it was an image of the painting not as existing but as an abstract object, as a concept. When the painting exists, I’m still speaking about consciousness inside me, but this is a consciousness of an existing object, not consciousness of a merely mental object, but as an ontic object, an object in reality itself. Okay?

It’s like in Pirkei Avot: “Beloved is man, for he was created in the image; an extra measure of love was made known to him, that he was created in the image.” Ah… interesting. I need to think about that. It could be.

Anyway, I need to stop here. We’ll continue Anselm next time. I’ll summarize what we reached so far at the beginning of next time so that we can continue. I’ll try to do that briefly, because now his actual argument begins. Up to now these were the preparations. Okay, if anyone wants to comment or ask, please.

He doesn’t talk about the connection between God and the world. It could be that there is a God, but like the Greeks who… Just one second. He proves the existence of the God he defined. The God he defined is the perfect being. That’s it. He will prove His existence. After that, whether this is the religious God, or a God with this or that set of attributes—that’s another story. That’s not what he is dealing with here.

What’s going on? Can you hear? Yes. I’m saying that I don’t really understand Anselm’s move in light of the classes up to now. After all, in the end we arrived—you arrived in your guidance during the classes—at the conclusion that belief in God is the result of intuition, a kind of cognitive awareness. And all this while analyzing throughout the classes why one cannot reach that conclusion by other paths. And the intuition… What? You’ll have to ask that after we finish Anselm’s proof. At the moment I’ve only done the preliminaries. No, but how can one… how can one arrive, starting from the conclusion that God’s existence is intuition? You even said that when someone comes and asks you, is there a God, you say yes, because that’s the intuition. Now that’s the definition of belief, of intuition. And now suddenly we take that definition, which has as an inseparable part of it the fact that it isn’t analyzed either by logic or by other things… No, if you analyze it by logic, that doesn’t render intuition unnecessary. It only clarifies what your intuitions are. The problem with this argument is that it claims not to assume any premises at all. And we’ll discuss that after we finish describing it. But if it does assume premises, then the fact that you make an argument does not eliminate intuition. How do you know the premises? Premises come from intuition, and the argument proves from the premises that God exists. The problem with Anselm is that, at least by his own claim, he doesn’t assume premises at all. That really does contradict what I said earlier, but we’ll get to that after we describe what he is doing, his argument. Okay.

Basically in the first sentence, in the prayer sentence, he prays that the Holy One, blessed be He, will help him on the plane of faith. Divine assistance! He asks for divine assistance in discovering the proof. Andrew Wiles too could have asked for divine assistance to discover a proof of a true claim.

Rabbi? Yes. This matter of whether he can understand the concept intellectually or cannot understand the concept intellectually—does that parallel the idea of possible existence and impossible existence? As though one of them is impossible existence and one is possible existence? No, no. We’ll get to that in chapter 3 of the Proslogion; there he goes into that issue. For now I’m not talking about anything necessary. It could be that He doesn’t necessarily exist. I only want to show that He exists. The question whether He exists necessarily is an additional discussion. No, I meant the idea of whether you can grasp the idea in the intellect or you can’t grasp the idea in the intellect, that distinction. No, I can grasp in the intellect ideas that are not necessary. Impossible existence you can’t grasp in the intellect; possible existence you can grasp in the intellect? No, I can grasp in the intellect ideas that are not necessary. I can grasp in the intellect the idea that this phone exists. That’s not necessary; it could have not existed. It’s not a necessary being, and still I can grasp it in the intellect. Things that are impossible—can you grasp them as a concept in the intellect? No, but we’re not talking about impossible existence. No, just asking. If God were impossible, then He would not exist, that’s true. Understood. Anyone else?

Okay, so we’ll stop here. We’ll meet—goodbye.