Faith – Lesson 13

Table of Contents

• The ontological proof and the pretension of an argument without assumptions
• Prayer as a philosophical framework and the believer’s point of departure
• Defining God: “that than which nothing greater can be conceived”
• Presenting the antithesis: “The fool has said in his heart, there is no God”
• Understanding the concept and its existence in the mind: what the atheist is committed to
• The distinction between three existence claims and the example of the painter
• The central move in Chapter 2: from “in the mind alone” to “also in reality”
• An alternative formulation of the conclusion and the criticism that “it’s only in the head”
• Exposing assumptions in the argument and the discussion of existence as a perfection
• A partial response to the criticism: Anselm compares two states within consciousness
• Kant’s critique of ontology itself and the claim that it’s “not fair”
• Questions from the audience: the stone paradox, “the perfect island,” and Chapter 3
• A translation note: “fool” as a term for the atheist
• Conclusion: the purpose of the exercise and continuing after the holiday

Summary

General Overview

The lecture continues with the ontological proof, as Kant calls it, and presents Anselm’s ambition to construct a proof for the existence of God from definitions alone, without any factual assumptions about the world. The lecturer rereads Chapter 2 of the Proslogion and shows how each sentence in it plays a precise logical role, emphasizing that Anselm is trying to turn faith into understanding and to prove not only that God exists, but that this is God “as we believe.” Throughout the analysis, several central criticisms are also raised: that the argument actually relies on psychological assumptions, that its leap from cognition to reality is far from self-evident, and that “existence” itself is not a property or perfection in the usual sense. Even so, it is argued that Kant cannot dismiss the argument merely by saying “it’s impossible” without pointing to an internal flaw. Toward the end, questions from the audience are discussed, including the stone paradox, the criticism of “the perfect island,” and the distinction between Chapter 2 and Chapter 3, where Anselm moves from existence to necessary existence.

The Ontological Proof and the Pretension of an Argument Without Assumptions

The ontological argument is presented as an argument that tries to derive a factual claim from an analysis of definitions alone, similar to arguments of the type of Descartes’ cogito. Anselm is presented as someone trying, almost by “hocus-pocus,” to prove the existence of God without assuming anything, and Kant is presented as a sharp critic of that very ambition. The lecturer emphasizes that the goal is to turn faith into understanding, not to produce new faith from a proof.

Prayer as a Philosophical Framework and the Believer’s Point of Departure

Anselm opens with the prayer “grant understanding to faith,” and the lecturer argues that the criticism that this is a “rigged game” is mistaken, and that Anselm places the prayer there deliberately, “to poke people in the eyes.” The point of departure is an already existing faith, and the argument is meant to give it intellectual grounding without turning the proof into a condition for faith. Anselm sets a double goal: to understand “that You exist as we believe” and also “that You are such as we believe,” in order to avoid proving some abstract being that is not “the religious God” of Torah and commandments.

Defining God: “That Than Which Nothing Greater Can Be Conceived”

The sentence “And indeed we believe that You are something than which nothing greater can be conceived” is presented as a necessary philosophical definition for opening the discussion, because without a definition it is unclear what the object is whose existence is under dispute. The lecturer states that every argument for the existence of God rests on some definition that does not necessarily overlap with other definitions, and here the definition is the point of departure from which the proof itself will be built. The definition is described as playing a double role: both delimiting the concept and providing the raw material for the inference.

Presenting the Antithesis: “The Fool Has Said in His Heart, There Is No God”

Opposite the definition, Anselm presents the possibility that “there is no such nature,” and attributes it to “the fool,” following the verse “The fool has said in his heart, there is no God.” The lecturer describes this as a systematic presentation of two hypotheses—there is a God and there is no God—in order to decide between them. “The fool” here is identified with the atheist who denies the existence of the being defined as “that than which nothing greater can be conceived.”

Understanding the Concept and Its Existence in the Mind: What the Atheist Is Committed To

Anselm argues that the fool, upon hearing the definition, understands what he hears, and therefore what is understood exists in his mind, even if he does not “understand that that thing exists in reality.” The lecturer adds a discussion about the subject of the sentence “God does not exist,” and suggests as a plausible possibility that the sentence deals with the concept of God and the claim that it has no realization in reality, which commits the atheist to understanding and accepting the definition of the concept for the sake of the debate. From here the claim is built that one can admit the existence of the concept in the mind without committing to existence in reality.

The Distinction Between Three Existence Claims and the Example of the Painter

The lecturer attributes to Anselm a distinction between three different claims: existence in reality, conception in the mind as existing in reality, and the existence of the concept in the mind without reference to reality. The example of the painter clarifies that before the painting is made, the thing “exists in his mind,” but it does not yet “exist in reality”; after the painting is made, the thing is present in his mind and he also “understands that it exists in reality.” The lecturer emphasizes that Anselm is comparing two different cognitive states, not a state of awareness with an object in the world, and illustrates this even in neurological language by means of the difference between imagining a figure and actually seeing it, and the need for a “signal” that marks sensory truth as opposed to imagination.

The Central Move in Chapter 2: From “In the Mind Alone” to “Also in Reality”

Anselm concludes that the being “than which nothing greater can be conceived” cannot exist “in the mind alone,” because if it existed only in the mind, one could conceive of it as “existing in reality,” and that would be “greater.” The lecturer interprets this as an argument on the cognitive plane: if the atheist holds the concept of God as non-existent, he can conceive of that same being as perceived to exist, and from this it follows that the initial concept is not the greatest that can be conceived, contrary to the agreed definition. Anselm ends with the conclusion that “therefore, without doubt, something than which no greater can be conceived exists, and it exists both in the mind and in reality.”

An Alternative Formulation of the Conclusion and the Criticism That “It’s Only in the Head”

The lecturer suggests that a more precise conclusion would be that a person “must imagine it as existing,” not necessarily that existence in reality has been proven, because throughout its length the argument deals with cognitive images. He presents the criticism that only a psychological-consciousness-based necessity has been proved, not a fact about the world, and then argues that such a reservation weakens the atheist by pushing him toward general skepticism. He states that Anselm is dealing with an atheist who says “there is no God,” not with a skeptic who says “I don’t know,” and therefore someone who accepts rational discussion about reality cannot escape into a skeptical claim in the style of “who says that’s true in reality?” only when it comes to God.

Exposing Assumptions in the Argument and the Discussion of Existence as a Perfection

The lecturer argues that despite Anselm’s pretension to proceed “without assumptions,” the argument does contain assumptions, chiefly psychological ones—for example, that one can conceive of an object “as existing” even if it does not exist. He presents an additional assumption for which Anselm is criticized: that what is perceived as existing is “more perfect” than what is perceived as non-existing. He explains the analytic criticism that existence is not a property like “made of wood” or “red,” but a claim about the realization of a concept in reality. He brings Leibniz’s principle of the identity of indiscernibles to illustrate how confusing a “property” with a meta-ontological statement like “not-this” generates a faulty proof, and compares that to the point that “exists” as well is not part of the property-content of the concept.

A Partial Response to the Criticism: Anselm Compares Two States Within Consciousness

The lecturer argues that the criticism that “existence adds no content” is not a trivial objection against Anselm, because Anselm is not comparing a concept with an object in reality, but rather two concepts or two states of perception within consciousness: imagination versus perception as existing. He says that in that case, the dispute becomes whether a concept perceived as existing is indeed “more perfect” than a concept not perceived as existing, rather than the claim that Anselm “simply got confused.” He adds that even if one rejects the assumption, there is still value in presenting a model of a rationalist argument that tries to generate a factual conclusion without factual assumptions about the world, something that marks a novelty vis-à-vis Kant.

Kant’s Critique of Ontology Itself and the Claim That It’s “Not Fair”

Kant is presented as claiming that it is impossible for an argument without factual assumptions to yield a factual conclusion about the world, and the lecturer states that this is not a serious criticism so long as one does not show where the internal flaw in the argument lies. He compares this to Achilles and the tortoise and argues that the intuitive feeling that something “smells fishy” is at most a trigger for looking for the flaw, not a refutation. The lecturer states that in order to reject Anselm, one has to point to a specific failure and not merely announce, “it can’t be.”

Questions from the Audience: the Stone Paradox, “the Perfect Island,” and Chapter 3

The lecturer replies that the paradox of “the stone that the omnipotent one cannot lift” relies on a meaningless concept within the definition of omnipotence, similar to a “round triangle,” and therefore it is not a valid question within the believer’s assumptions. He presents Gaunilo’s criticism in the form of “the perfect island,” and its extension to “the existing lion,” as a structure meant to show that one can “prove” anything from a definition, and refers listeners to a detailed treatment in his book The First Trust. He reads from Chapter 3 of the Proslogion and emphasizes that there Anselm is not repeating Chapter 2, but trying to prove that God is “necessary existence,” while distinguishing between “it is necessary that I reach the conclusion” and “His existence is necessary” as a metaphysical property.

A Translation Note: “Fool” as a Term for the Atheist

It is said that the use of “fool” is that of the translator, Professor Sarmonta, and that the intention is not “fool” in the modern sense of a villain or evildoer, but rather an ignoramus, a simpleton, or someone mistaken. It is said that Anselm reads the verse this way, and a possible connection is hinted at to the expression “a base and unwise people,” without deciding the precise biblical interpretation.

Conclusion: The Purpose of the Exercise and Continuing After the Holiday

The lecturer presents the discussion mainly as training in philosophical thinking, more than as a practical route that would lead a person to faith in God. He wishes everyone “may you be sealed for a good year” and “a good year,” and notes that he will not necessarily return to Anselm in the coming lectures, while referring those who want a deeper treatment to his book.

Okay, last time I began discussing the proof, what Kant calls the ontological proof. Let’s mute here, yes. I started with what Kant calls the ontological proof, and I said that this is basically a proof that at least purports to be an argument that is not based on premises, an argument that really proceeds only from definitions. You don’t need to assume anything, and through some kind of hocus-pocus you get the conclusion that God exists. This, of course, received harsh criticism from Kant, and also before him and after him, precisely because of that hocus-pocus. Before even putting your finger on what exactly is problematic in the proof, if anything, there’s already this claim that such a thing just can’t be. Okay? But that, in essence, is Anselm’s ambition. I think I spoke a bit about the meaning of ontological proofs or ontological arguments like Descartes’ cogito, “I think, therefore I am,” and various arguments of that kind that try to derive a factual claim from an analysis of definitions alone. But that’s what Anselm is trying to do. We began reading chapter two of the Proslogion, the first of three chapters dealing with this proof, and I explained that every sentence in this chapter plays a role in the logical movement of the proof. It’s a text constructed in a truly exemplary way. So I’ll read it again, this time not in full detail, but just to get us back to where we were. I’ll just briefly explain what each sentence says, and then we’ll continue. “Therefore, Lord, you who grant understanding to faith.” We talked about the fact that the purpose of this proof is really to turn faith into understanding, as opposed to all the criticism Anselm got from all sorts of people, saying that he was starting from the standpoint of a believer anyway, so what is this whole game of proofs? He prays before formulating or seeking this proof, so it’s basically a rigged game. And I explained why that criticism is wrong—not only is it wrong, I tried to argue that Anselm was actually aware of it and deliberately put it on the table to show that the criticism is wrong. He puts the prayer front and center, almost in your face, to show that this really is his starting point and that there is nothing philosophically illegitimate about it. Yes, “you who grant understanding to faith, grant me, insofar as you deem me worthy, to understand that you exist as we believe, and that you are such as we believe.” And here again there is a very clear definition of his goal. What does he want to achieve? He wants to prove that God exists, but it’s not enough just to say that God exists—“that you exist as we believe,” and again the assumption is that we do believe; I’m only trying to turn faith into understanding, to give understanding to faith. It’s not that I become a believer only after I find this proof. So first, I want to prove that He exists as we believe, and second, “that you are such as we believe.” What does that mean? Well, in arguments about the existence of God, after you prove that God exists, they immediately ask: yes, but who says He also gave the Torah at Mount Sinai—meaning, that He is the God you religious people are talking about? You proved the existence of some object defined this way or that way, but what does that have to do with the religious God in the sense in which we speak about Him in the context of Torah and commandments, say in the Jewish context or, similarly, in a Christian context. So Anselm is really saying here: I want to prove not only that God exists, but that this is the God we are talking about when we believe in God. It’s not just that I proved the existence of some abstract object, end of story. And now he begins… So this is the prayer, and within the prayer itself several very important points have already come up, points that frame the argument. And now he begins the argument itself: “And indeed, we believe that you are something than which nothing greater can be conceived.” This sentence—as I said before—performs a philosophically very important move. It tries to define the object under discussion, and again this is something that comes up a lot in discussions about God’s existence: define for me the object you’re talking about. Who says there even is such a thing as a defined object, and in what sense have you proven God’s existence? You’ve proven the existence of some kind of made-up universe. In other words, give me the definition of the object, and then we can discuss whether it exists or does not exist; otherwise, after I prove that it exists, you’ll immediately say, no, no, but that’s not the object we were talking about. So the first thing is to try to define whom we are talking about. So he says, let me define it for you. And we said, we discussed, that every argument for the existence of God has some definition of the concept “God” operating in the background, and every argument has its own definition, and these definitions do not overlap. I spoke about the fact that they can still refer to the same object, the same being, but these are different definitions. Here he presents the definition that God is “something than which nothing greater can be conceived.” That is the definition he gives. Of course, defining is allowed—there’s no problem with that. A definition is completely legitimate. There’s no point arguing whether this really is the definition of God or not; he says: as far as I’m concerned, this is the object whose existence I want to prove. If I succeed, I succeed. Afterward you can argue with me whether its name is God or Jacob our forefather. It really doesn’t matter. But this object—this is the object whose existence I want to prove. But this sentence plays a double role, as will become clear only later. Right now we can’t know that, but I’m already anticipating what comes next so you’ll notice the astonishing structure of this text. So he says: first of all, this sentence gives the definition of the concept under discussion, and that’s the ABC of any discussion—you have to define the concepts you’re dealing with. But as we’ll see later, this definition is the point of departure on which he will build his proof of existence. That is, this definition plays an active role in the inference itself; it’s not just groundwork that defines the concepts so that we can start talking. I remind you again: this is an ontological proof. An ontological proof is a proof without premises. It’s a proof that takes concepts, definitions of concepts, analyzes the definition, and suddenly—hocus-pocus—a statement about the world comes out: that God exists. That is basically Anselm’s whole idea. You have to understand that when he places a definition at the beginning of the discussion, it’s not only because the logical order of philosophical discussion should begin with definitions. That’s true, but that’s not all. Here the definition is the point of departure for the argument. He will analyze this definition, and from it he will show that one can derive, prove, that God exists. So the definition here is actually the first step in the argument itself. Usually in logical arguments, in philosophical arguments, definitions are not part of the argument. Definitions define the concepts, and then the premises begin the argument—I put down a premise, and from it I derive a conclusion or conclusions. But here there are no premises; I begin with definitions and jump immediately to the conclusion. That is the whole idea of an ontological argument—that it has no premises, only definitions. So here the definition has a different role from what we usually know. Here the definition is not only there to clarify what we are talking about—it is the first step of the argument. And I’m saying this now: someone reading the text at this point still can’t know that this is what the continuation holds for us, but we’ll soon see it, and then you’ll notice it. So remember what I’ve said, and let’s continue. “Or is there no such nature, since the fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God’?” What is this? This sentence serves to present the antithesis. Yes, there is hypothesis testing—hypothesis H0 and H1: there is God, and there is no God. And I want to decide which of the two hypotheses is correct. So to conduct an orderly discussion I need to place them opposite each other. So against whom is he arguing? What is the second hypothesis? It is the hypothesis of the fool: “The fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” That is, the alternative he wants to examine is that there is no such nature—that is, this being does not exist. Which being? The being than which nothing greater can be conceived, the being we defined above. Fine. So up to this point he has defined the object he’s talking about, he has set up the hypothesis he wants to examine or attack—the fool’s hypothesis—and now he continues. “But surely that same fool, when he hears what I say—namely, ‘something than which nothing greater can be conceived’—understands what he hears.” Fine, first datum. That fool who says “there is no God,” when he talks about God, says that He doesn’t exist. But when he talks about God, clearly he has to understand the concepts he’s talking about. Even when you say that God does not exist, you’ve uttered a sentence whose subject is God. By the way, this is an interesting question in analytic philosophy. Some claim that the subject of that sentence is actually the world, not God. The world contains no object such as God. The subject is the world, because the subject cannot be a non-existent object. So who is the subject? What are you talking about? You can’t talk about something that doesn’t exist. When you say that something does not exist, your subject is not that thing but reality. Reality is empty of that imaginary object; it is not instantiated in it. Fine, that’s a question in analytic philosophy. But for now, back to us. So he says that the fool basically understands the concept he is talking about, even if it isn’t the subject, even if it’s only some concept or maybe an indirect reference—I don’t know exactly. Still, the fool has to understand what he is talking about, because otherwise even to say “there is no God”… This comes up a lot in arguments about faith in God. The atheist attacks the believer by saying he doesn’t understand what he’s talking about. But when the atheist says there is no God, for some reason nobody attacks him for not understanding what he is talking about. Yet to say there is a God and to say there is no God, you need an understanding of the concept God. Both statements revolve around that concept, or that object, or that concept. But you need to understand what you are talking about. Therefore Anselm argues that first of all we need to know this: if the fool is arguing with me, then there is one thing he has to admit—that he understands the concept God. When I said that I define it as “something than which nothing greater can be conceived,” we both agree on that definition. You also agree to that definition. You only claim that it’s an empty definition, that it has no realization in the world. It’s a concept; it’s not a being, not an object. But the definition of the concept—you too understand it and accept it, because that’s what our discussion is about; otherwise we’re simply not talking about the same thing. Okay, so up to this point it sounds entirely innocent. Fine, yes, it’s obvious: the fool too understands the definition and defines God exactly as I do. Now we can conduct the discussion whether this object exists or not. Right? Whether this concept, which we have defined in this way, is realized in reality or not realized in reality. Okay? When we ask whether the concept is realized in reality or not, I said earlier that there are two possible ways to understand what this sentence is about. When I say, for instance, “God does not exist,” one possibility is that the subject of the sentence is God. But if He doesn’t exist, then there is no subject for that sentence. So what is it about? Then I said it may be that the sentence is about the world, not about this being called God, because there is no such being. It is about the world being empty of such a concept as God, of such an object corresponding to the concept God. So the subject is the world. There is a third possibility, and by the way, I tend toward it. The third possibility is that the subject of the sentence is the concept God—not the being God but the concept. And the sentence basically says that the concept God has no realization in reality. That is really the more precise way to say this sentence. And then the sentence is about the concept. Why is this discussion important? Because if that is indeed the meaning of the sentence, then it is obvious that the fool—the atheist who talks about the concept God—has to agree to its definition. Otherwise, what are you talking about? What are we arguing about? If the subject is the world, then you can say: there is nothing in the world except tables, chairs, birds, human beings, and clouds. Fine? Anything else—I’m not obligated to accept the definitions you offer for all sorts of imaginary objects. Maybe I don’t understand them at all; maybe they have no content; maybe I don’t understand the definition. But one thing I do know: what exists in the world. What exists in the world is tables, chairs, birds, and clouds. Okay? That’s it. There’s nothing else in the world. To say that, I’m not sure I need to understand and agree to the definition of the concept God. Because I’m not saying anything about it; I’m saying what does exist, and from that it follows that nothing else exists, whatever its definition may be. But if I claim that the dispute here is about the concept God, not about the object God, not about the being, but about the concept, and the question is whether the concept is realized in reality or not. Okay? And the argument is really about the concept. If that’s really the case, then Anselm is right to say that the fool too has to agree to the definition of the concept and understand it. Otherwise, what is the subject of his sentence? So now there is already an escape route. Anselm is assuming something here—namely, that the subject of this sentence is the concept, not the world. But I think this is a very reasonable assumption. Notice, it is an assumption. We’ll come back to this. He does have assumptions in the argument, even though he feels that he doesn’t—but he does. Why do I think this is a very reasonable assumption, a very reasonable interpretation of the sentence? Because if the subject is the world, then it is very hard to understand how the atheist can determine that in this world there is nothing except clouds, chairs, tables, and human beings. What, have you looked at the whole world and seen that there is nothing else? You haven’t seen the whole world; you can’t know that. Maybe there are abstract objects that you can’t see at all. So that’s not really a serious claim. By contrast, if you say: look, I examine the concept God because I understand it and its definition, and I’m telling you that such a thing does not exist in the world. If it existed, I would have such-and-such indications of its existence—never mind that right now—but then you’re making a claim not about the world but about the concept, and you’re saying that the concept is not realized. I think that is the reasonable interpretation of the atheist’s claim. And if so, then Anselm is right in saying that if that is your claim, before we even know whether you’re right or not, then you have to understand my definition of God and agree to it. That is the definition of the concept, and now let’s fight it out, let’s argue whether it is realized or not realized. Now I continue. So in short, he understands the definition. Look how every sentence here has a clearly defined and essential role. I mean, remove any sentence from this structure and the whole structure collapses. I don’t know a more precise text than this one. This text is amazing; every time I’m amazed anew by the precision it contains. And “what he understands,” I continue reading, “is in his understanding.” That is, if you understand this concept and you accept the definition I have proposed, that means this concept is in your mind. Again, according to you it does not exist in reality—you say there is no God—but the concept is present in your mind; it exists in your mind as a concept. Okay, that seems like an identity, right? What you understand is in your mind. Later we’ll see why this sentence is so important, even though it looks like it is just repeating the same thing in different words. “For one thing it is for an object to be in the understanding, and another thing to understand that the object exists.” And this is a super-important point for the argument. I know I say that about every sentence, but it’s true—every sentence is very, very important to the structure of the argument. When you say that the thing is in the mind, you have not said that the thing exists in reality, because then this would simply beg the question, and in any case it wouldn’t be true, it wouldn’t make sense. So he wants to block criticisms that could arise against his argument. Notice, he says to the reader: I am not claiming that the fool assumes that God exists in the world—obviously not. Rather, He exists as a concept in the fool’s mind. That is all I want to claim. Why? Because to say that the thing exists in the fool’s mind is not the same as understanding that the thing exists in the world, exists in actuality. “For it is one thing for a thing to be in the understanding, and another to understand that the thing exists.” And indeed, when a painter first thinks of what he is going to make, that thing is in his mind, but he does not yet understand it to exist in actuality. Since he has not yet made it, he still does not think that the painting exists. But the painting exists as a concept in his mind. But after he has painted it, then that thing is both in his mind and he also understands that it exists in actuality. He distinguishes here—and this is what many of his critics miss when they read him—between three different existence claims. Each one is different from the others. One claim: the object exists in reality. Second claim: I grasp it as existing in reality. That is, it exists in my mind as an existing object. Do you see the point? I’ll say the third and then it’ll be clearer. The third notion is that the concept exists in my mind, with no relation to reality at all. Like the painter who is about to paint the painting but has not yet done so—he has a plan, okay? So the painting as a concept exists in his mind. But what exists in his mind is the concept. By contrast, after he paints the painting, then two things change. First, the painting also exists in reality; the object of the painting exists in reality. Second, its presence in my mind is also now different. Because when I look at a painting, that is not the same thing as imagining a painting. What happens in my consciousness is different between those two situations. In my consciousness there is a difference between imagining a painting and seeing a painting. Even though seeing a painting is, in a sense, still only an image found within my consciousness. That is not yet a statement about the painting itself; it is a statement about how I apprehend the painting in my consciousness. But that differs from the apprehension of the painting before it was painted, when I imagine it, when it exists in my head as a concept. And this is a very important distinction for what follows, because many people think he is making a comparison and jumping between the first and third notion. Not true. He deals only with the first and second. He does not touch the third at all, and that is a very important point. In other words, he is not dealing at all with what happens in the world. Throughout the whole thing—you’ll see this—he isn’t dealing at all with what happens in the world. He is dealing only with two forms of existence in the mind or in consciousness. There is something that exists in my mind as a concept—I raise it up, imagine it in my head as a concept, an imagined bird, okay? And there is a state in which I see a bird in front of me. Now the bird exists in reality, but when I speak about the image of the bird that exists in me, it’s not the same thing as imagining a bird. Even the image that exists in me is not the same thing as imagining a bird, because this is seeing a bird. And there is a difference between the appearance of a bird and the imagining of a bird. Both exist within my consciousness, but there is a difference between them. This is acquaintance of a different type, or images of a different type in consciousness. If we speak in the language of neuroscience, I’d put it this way: neuroscience has known for quite a few years now that when I imagine a certain person, say, the same neurons are active as when I see that person in front of my eyes and identify them. I see my grandmother, okay? If I see her with my eyes, there is a set of neurons in my brain that help me identify that this is my grandmother. They create in me some sort of image of my grandmother, such that I understand that the person standing before me is my grandmother. Now suppose she has passed away, and now I imagine her figure in my mind. Those same neurons are active there. The very same neurons. The imaginary image and the practical image are the same image. Now I’m going to say something I infer on my own; I haven’t read it in neuroscience, but it seems obvious to me that it must exist there—it can’t be otherwise. After all, we are all aware of the difference between a state in which we imagine our grandmother and a state in which we see her, right? We all know how to distinguish those two conscious states. Here I see Grandma, and here I imagine Grandma. How can that be if neurally it’s exactly the same operation? There must be, call it some kind of sensory neuron or something, I don’t know what it’s called—again, I haven’t read about it there, but surely it also has some name—a neuron that signals to me that this is a real image and not an imagined one. Besides the set of neurons that draws the figure for me and causes me to identify it, there is some additional signal that tells me: here, know that this is not imagination; this is a real image. Now notice that all of this happens inside my brain. I’m not talking about the world at all; I’m talking only about what’s happening in my neurons. Even what happens in my neurons has to be different between the state in which I imagine my grandmother and the state in which I see her. It’s not different only in the sense that there is also a figure of a person, of my grandmother, in front of me apart from the image in consciousness. Anselm’s claim is that in consciousness itself there are two different images, and that is the punchline of his whole proof. So many people have fallen in their criticisms of this point that it’s really amazing. And Anselm is acutely aware of it. Look how many sentences in this distilled text he devotes to clarifying this point. Let’s go back and see it. Yes, look here. All these sentences I marked. “And what he understands is in his understanding, even if he does not understand that the thing exists in actuality. For it is one thing for a thing to be in the understanding, and another thing to understand that it exists. And indeed, when a painter first thinks of what he is going to paint, the thing is in his mind, but he does not yet think it to be an actual existing thing, because he has not yet painted it. But after he has painted it”—notice what he says—after he has painted it, it is not that he says: after he has painted it, then there is also a painting in front of him. That’s obvious; it’s a tautology. Rather: “after he has painted it, that same thing is in his understanding, and he also understands that it exists in actuality, because he has painted it.” Do you see? He is comparing two cognitive images. He is not comparing a cognitive image with an object in reality, but two cognitive images: the cognitive image generated when I see the painting, and the cognitive image generated when I imagine the painting. And these are two different cognitive images. Okay, up to here. Onward. “Therefore even the fool must be convinced,” I continue reading, “that at least in the understanding there is something than which nothing greater can be conceived.” Notice what an Olympic leap this is. Up to this point he has said things that many people even wonder whether they say anything at all. Fine, he has said trivial things: yes, obviously, that is the definition. A definition—you can define whatever you want. Obviously if the fool and I are arguing, then we both agree on the definition of the concept, otherwise the argument has no meaning. And after that he makes a definition that at first glance looks very innocent: if you understand that this is the concept, then the definition of the concept exists in your consciousness. Okay, that’s really just saying the same thing. To say that you understand the definition and to say that the definition exists in your mind—that’s the same thing. When he says “exists in the mind,” it does not mean “exists in reality.” You’re an Epicurean, right? You don’t believe that God exists, but He exists in your mind as a concept. So up to this point he has done things that seem completely trivial. Now look at this lightning strike. This first sentence I just read is the conclusion. He says: that’s enough for me from everything I’ve said until now. From what I’ve said until now it necessarily follows that the fool must agree with me that there is a God. But apparently he has said nothing—how does this Olympic leap happen? Look. “Therefore even the fool must be convinced that at least in the understanding there is something than which nothing greater can be conceived. For when he hears this, he understands it, and whatever is understood is in the understanding.” Notice that this is still not the conclusion that God exists in reality. I said earlier: he will never actually reach that conclusion. What he says is that in the fool’s mind there is something than which nothing greater can be conceived. Right? That is only a summary of everything he has done up to now. Because he understands the definition, and what is understood is in the understanding. And what is the definition? A thing than which nothing greater can be conceived. Boom—so the concept of a thing than which nothing greater can be conceived is in the fool’s mind. Now look. “But that than which nothing greater can be conceived cannot exist in the understanding alone. For if it existed in the understanding alone, it could be conceived to exist in reality also—and that would be greater.” This is really his argument. What is he saying? He says this: you say that you have in your mind, you understand the concept, a being than which nothing greater can be conceived. You understand that, and it exists in your mind, right? Let me show you that as an atheist you don’t really understand that. Why? Because if that were present in your mind, then really what you now have before your mind’s eye is, according to your view, some imaginary figure—a being than which nothing greater can be conceived—and according to you it does not exist. Now I say to you: you know what, let’s think of another conscious state of yours, fool. Suppose you grasp it as existing. Not that it exists—it doesn’t exist; you’re a fool; this is all some turkey story. You’re a turkey, a turkey in clothes, a turkey sitting on a chair eating with knife and fork—you’re an atheist, you don’t believe in its existence, that’s all fine. But can you imagine a state in which it exists? Yes. What’s the problem? One can imagine a state in which it exists, right? But if I imagine a state in which it exists, that means that the image of the non-existent God that I had before in consciousness is not the greatest being that can be conceived. Because after all, one can conceive of a greater being than that. Which one? Exactly that same being, only with this extra neuron, as it were, indicating that it exists. Again—not about reality; all in the head. The whole argument deals with cognitive images, not with reality itself. But as far as cognitive images are concerned, if you hold in your head an image of a non-existent God, then necessarily that is not the image of the greatest being that can be conceived. But that contradicts the definition of the concept God, which you too agreed to and understood. Why? Because if that being doesn’t exist, then you can imagine in your mind a being—that same being, with the same definition—that also exists, and that would be a greater being than the previous one. But how can that be? After all, the previous being is God, who is the greatest being that can be conceived. So how can there be a being that can be conceived as greater than Him? That contradicts the concept. Right? That is what he is saying. “But that than which nothing greater can be conceived certainly cannot exist in the understanding alone.” In other words, you can’t refer to God as a non-existent God, merely a concept that exists only in the mind but does not exist. Why? “For if it existed only in the understanding, it could be conceived as existing in actuality.” Notice: many people formulate this proof stupidly and then shoot it down. They say: if it’s the greatest possible being, then if it existed it would be a greater being. No, that is not his claim. His claim is entirely on the plane of consciousness. The being that exists in my consciousness is the greatest being I can conceive. We’re not talking about the greatest real being, but the greatest being I can imagine. And he shows you that according to your own view, that being is not the greatest being you can imagine. Because you can imagine that same being as also existing. Imagine it—not that it really exists. And that would indeed be a greater being. But that contradicts the definition that said God is the greatest being that can be conceived. And therefore he says—and this is the “therefore”—“therefore, if that than which nothing greater can be conceived exists only in the understanding, then that than which nothing greater can be conceived is something than which a greater can be conceived.” According to you, the atheist. That being whose definition we agreed upon is the being than which no greater can be conceived. I have shown you that you can conceive of a greater being than it. Well then, that contradicts the definition we agreed upon at the beginning. “But this is impossible. Therefore, without doubt, there exists something than which nothing greater can be conceived, and it exists both in the understanding and in actuality.” That’s it. That’s the claim. Now it sounds fishy, tricky, I don’t know what to call it, but the truth is that it’s a super-sophisticated argument. To put your finger on what exactly is wrong with it—as Bertrand Russell said, I already mentioned this, yes, the atheist—he said it’s much easier to ridicule this proof and say it’s false than to put your finger on exactly what is problematic about it. Because at first glance, this is an argument built to perfection. He is not dealing at all with what goes on in reality. By the way, one of the criticisms of this proof—and here I’m cutting some corners because I want to finish the ontological proof today, so I’ll do it a bit more briefly. There’s a long discussion here; anyone who wants can see it in my book The First Faith, where I deal in great detail with the logic of this proof. But one criticism says that all he has shown is that I can hold God in my mind—or rather, that I must hold God in my mind—as a being that is an existing being. As an atheist, I cannot hold the concept God in my mind and attach to it the claim: yes, but this is not an object that exists in reality. Because then it would not be the greatest being that can be conceived. And since I too agree that the definition of God is the greatest being that can be conceived, then I have not conceived of God, because I have conceived of a being such that a greater being can be conceived. Therefore, if you imagine God, you must imagine Him as existing. That is really the more precise conclusion from Anselm’s argument here. Then critics come and say: okay, so you have proven to me that I must imagine Him as existing—but what does that have to do with reality? Who said He really exists? They say: one way or another, why are you jumping to reality? The whole discussion is about the mind. But they haven’t understood his argument properly. His whole argument deals only with what exists in my mind; it does not deal with reality at all. Therefore his conclusion really ought to be formulated this way: the conclusion is not “God exists.” The conclusion is: the greatest being that can be conceived is also conceived as existing. It appears to the mind as existing, because otherwise a greater one could be conceived. Not that a greater one could actually exist—that’s not Anselm’s argument—but that a greater one could be conceived. Within what exists in my mind. What does “greater” mean? More perfect. Greater in physical size? No, no, no—perfect. I said perfect. Yes, the being with all perfections. In just a moment I’ll address that point because it is important here. So the reverse criticism says: okay, I understand that Anselm is talking entirely about what’s inside consciousness. If he’s talking entirely about what’s inside consciousness, then he has not proven God’s existence. He has shown that once we agreed to his definition—that this is the greatest being that can be conceived—we also have to hold it in our minds as an existing being. We cannot think atheistic thoughts. But that is a statement about us, not about the world. It does not prove that He exists. This objection seems, at first glance, to follow naturally from the precision I introduced into his formulation. But notice that this objection is actually very weak. Why? Because the atheist is then basically turning into a mere skeptic. It’s like asking: look, you see a shelf in front of you. Who says there really is a shelf there? Maybe it’s an illusion. Or you arrive at the conclusion that 2 plus 3 equals 5—who says so? Maybe you’re mistaken. You can raise skeptical arguments like that against anything. As far as I’m concerned, if Anselm proves that I myself have to arrive, in my own consciousness and thinking, at the conclusion that God exists, because He is an idea, then he has proved what needed to be proved. Why? Because of course every proof ultimately deals with our reasoning and with what we think. And if you ask: fine, that’s what you think, but who says it exists in reality? That’s just a skeptical question. There is no way to deal with radical skepticism. But if the atheist entrenches himself in that criticism, then he has really cornered himself into having to be a skeptic—I mean a substantive skeptic. A skeptic who says that he casts doubt on every logical conclusion we reach, not only on the conclusion that God exists. If Anselm succeeded in showing that the atheist is identical with the skeptic, then he has done the job. Because obviously you can’t really deal with skeptics. The fool is not a skeptic. The fool said, “There is no God”; he doesn’t say, “I don’t know.” He is dealing at least with the fool who says, “There is no God,” not “I don’t know”—that would be an agnostic. Fine, I’m talking about a skeptic—sorry, an atheist—someone of whom it says, “The fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” He set up the figure against whom he is arguing. Now, if you say there is no God, you are making a claim about the world. That means that as far as you’re concerned, the field of thought, philosophy, logic—that field is relevant for examining what goes on in the world. If I arrive at the logical conclusion that God exists, then you won’t tell me: okay, that’s in logic, but who says He exists in reality? That’s a skeptical claim; we removed that from the discussion. I’m not dealing here with skeptics; I’m dealing with atheists. If the atheist is also a skeptic, then that is a completely different level of discussion. Then my argument with him has nothing to do with God at all. My argument with him is also about the existence of this table here, or his own existence, or mine, or the air conditioner here, or whatever. That has nothing to do with God; it’s just skepticism. When I’m talking with an atheist, I’m not talking with a skeptic. I’m talking with someone who believes in our ability to arrive at conclusions about reality. And on that basis he says: yes, but God does not exist. Against that Anselm says: if you accept that a logical conclusion applies to reality—you are not raising skeptical claims—then let me show you that at least within your own logic I can bring you to the conclusion that God exists. When you think about Him, you think of Him as existing. That’s all. Now you can say to me: okay, that’s what I think, but who said He exists in reality? Fine, I think many other things too—2 plus 3 equals 5—who says that is true in reality? Yet you don’t cast doubt on that. Or when I see something, I assume that it exists in reality; and on that too you don’t cast doubt. So we are not dealing here with skepticism. Anselm did not come to attack skeptics. This is not an argument against skeptics; it is an argument against atheists. On the contrary, the assumption here is that neither side is skeptical. And if we reach a logical conclusion, both of us will accept it. We won’t say: well, that’s in logic, but what about reality? No. That is why this is the field of discussion, and that is why he brings the verse “The fool has said in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” Because the fool he is confronting is not a skeptic but an atheist, someone who says there is no God. So he is willing to accept intellectual discussion, philosophical discussion, as a tool for clarifying whether there is or is not a God. Anselm says: ah, if that is what you are willing to accept, then I’ll knock you out. Because bringing you to the logical conclusion in your own mind that God exists—that I can do easily. From there on, what happens in reality—you decide for yourself. But in your mind you have reached the conclusion that God exists, just like I have. Now you can only become a skeptic and say: okay, that’s what my mind says, but who says that’s true in reality? Those are skeptical claims. We don’t deal with skeptics. Go ahead, yes. Who—look, maybe he can conceive of this concept but not believe that it is real. Meaning, he can say: there is such a concept, that there is something than which no greater can be conceived, and it exists—but I truly don’t believe that this concept exists. But if you imagine it as existing, then your current concept of God, namely non-existent God, is not the greatest being that can be conceived. Yes, there is a greater concept, but in that concept too I don’t believe that it is really… I can conceive of a concept that there is something existing, yes, just as I can conceive of a whole world that nobody dreams of, everything—I can conceive of that. I understand, I understand, but his argument has an extra wrinkle. He says: what is your ordinary concept of God? You tell me. No, leave me out of it. You say to me: God is the being possessing all perfections. Agreed—that’s the definition. And I claim that He does not exist. So when He stands before your mind’s eye, you surely see Him as a hypothetical object that isn’t actually realized in reality, right? That’s your picture of the world. So let me show you that what you see before your eyes is not the greatest being that can be conceived. But wasn’t that the definition of God according to what we agreed before? That means that when you hold Him before your eyes—true, in principle I can imagine something as existing even though it does not exist, I agree—but when you imagine God, and He is the being possessing all perfections, then by definition you also imagine Him as existing. So from your standpoint it’s built into the concept God that He also exists. So now only the skeptical step remains: if, from the perspective of my conception, God exists, then why assume that in the world He does not exist? It could be—but why assume that? Once you say that my conclusion is that God exists, then as we always say: okay, if that is my conclusion, then it is probably also true—if we are not skeptics. How is this any different? You’re right on one point, I think: another hole in Anselm’s argument is exposed here, in the sense that Anselm says he has done only conceptual analysis. But that’s not true; there are assumptions here, not only definitions. For example, the assumption that one can conceive of a certain object as existing even when it does not exist. That is an assumption. It may be true, but it is an assumption. You assumed it. So don’t tell me this is an argument without assumptions. By the way, there is another assumption here too. In my detailed discussion of this in the book, I expose several assumptions in Anselm’s argument. By the way, they are all psychological assumptions, not assumptions about reality. So it is still a very surprising and very powerful argument. Because true, he does assume things, but they are not assumptions about reality—they are assumptions about our psychology. And once those are assumptions about our psychology, and from them I learn something about reality itself, that is a fascinating philosophical move. You can’t say it’s worthless. True, it’s not an ontological argument in the strict sense, but it’s still a fascinating philosophical move. There is another assumption here, for which Anselm was also criticized: namely, the assumption that what exists is more perfect than what does not exist. And here I want you to pay close attention. Critics often say to him: take the concept of a fairy. A fairy is a concept that does not exist. It’s a concept, but the concept exists; it simply is not realized in reality. If there were fairies in reality, would the concept then be more complete? What’s the connection? Whether the concept is realized or not realized does not change the concept itself. It changes the world—whether it is realized in the world or not realized in the world—but the concept is the same concept. When you compare the two concepts, what difference does it make whether it was realized? Why does that make it more complete? After all, he assumes that a God who exists is more perfect than a God who does not exist. But it’s the very same concept. The question is only whether it is realized or not realized. As I said earlier, when I say “God exists,” who is the subject of the sentence? Remember the analysis I gave at the beginning? What is the sentence about? Who is its subject? The subject of the sentence is the concept God, not an object God but the concept God. And when I say “the concept God is realized,” I have not said anything that adds some element to the concept. All I have said is that the concept—as I understood it before—is also realized in reality. That’s all. I have added nothing whatsoever to the concept. When I compare those two things, it is not correct to say that “existing God” is a more complete concept than “non-existing God.” This is a very common criticism of Anselm. There are more analytic forms of this criticism, and basically it can be put this way. The claim that God exists, or that a certain object exists, is a claim fundamentally different from almost any other claim I can make about it. When I say it is made of wood, or that it is kind-hearted, or red, or tall, or fat, or short, or creative, or whatever—then I’m saying something about the properties of the thing. I have pointed out or described properties of the thing. When I say that this object exists, I have not said anything about one of its properties. Existence is not one of its properties. Properties are part of the definition of the concept. Here we are talking about the realization of the concept, not about what the concept contains, not about the content of the concept itself, but about the question whether the concept is realized in reality or not. Here I have not described the concept. I’m not talking about the features of the concept, the content of the concept’s definition. I am talking about the question whether the concept is realized. In effect I am talking about reality, not about the concept. Therefore Anselm’s assumption—that the being has all perfections, and therefore the perfection of existing must also be included there—is not correct. Because existing is not a perfection. Perfection means possessing all properties in a perfect way. But existing is not a property. Or in other words, every statement I make about the object is a statement about its form, its characteristics. The statement that it exists is a statement about the object itself, not about its characteristics. If we use Kant’s distinction between the thing in itself, the noumenon, and the phenomenon, the thing as I grasp it—every statement you make about an object is really a statement about how I grasp it. But the statement that it exists is not a statement about how I grasp it; it is a statement about the object itself, that it exists. It is not a question of what I see when I look at it. Therefore the claim that an existing being, or a concept that is realized, is a more complete concept than one not realized—that is another assumption of Anselm’s. There you have another assumption. And not only is it an assumption, but it is an incorrect assumption, and that is already a problem. Exposing assumptions is not terrible—every argument has assumptions—but here it is also an incorrect or implausible assumption. Let me show you one implication of this, by way of the illustration I usually use here, namely Leibniz’s principle of the identity of indiscernibles. Leibniz argued that if there are two objects that have exactly the same set of properties or characteristics, then they are the very same object. Then it is one object, not two. And he has a proof of this—a proof by contradiction. Let us suppose it is not so. Suppose I have objects A and B, which are two different objects—again, not different in the sense that there is a difference between them, but in the sense that they are not one object, they are two. Okay? But in terms of their properties they have exactly the same set of properties. Suppose that could happen. Leibniz claims it cannot happen. But he says, let’s prove it by contradiction, so for the sake of discussion let’s assume it can happen. Then object A has the property that it is not B, and object B has the property that it is not A. So it follows that their sets of properties are not… contrary to our assumption. We assumed they are two objects, but their sets of properties are identical. But if they are two, then their sets of properties are not identical. Conclusion: they are not two but one—which is what had to be proved. Where is he mistaken? More precisely, he begs the question. He is mistaken because saying that object A is not B is not a property of A. Being not-B is, like existing, not a statement about a property. To be not-B says nothing about you. What can I say about you? That you are fat, thin, made of wood, kind-hearted, tall, short—I don’t know. All the properties I can say about you describe you. To say that you are not him does not describe anything about you. It is only a statement from my point of view, that you are not him. Okay? What does it add to the content, to your characteristics? Nothing. In other words, the statement that you are not him is also a statement about the noumenon, not the phenomenon—just like the statement that you exist. And these are exceptional kinds of statements, because most statements are statements about the properties of objects, whereas these are statements about the objects themselves. Therefore, just as the statement “you are not B” is not part of your characteristics, your definition, your content, your substantive dimension—what you contain—so too the fact that you exist is not part of that substantive dimension. And therefore this is really a strong criticism of Anselm’s argument. But notice: even this criticism is not entirely simple, for two main reasons. First point: I return to the precision I made earlier. Anselm nowhere claims that an existing object is more perfect than a non-existing object. He is not comparing the first and third existence claims. He is comparing the first and second among the three I mentioned. What do I mean? He is not talking about the existing object; he is talking about my image in my head of the object as existing. He is talking about a concept existing in my head. That is basically a neural state, as I described earlier. In other words, he is comparing two neural states, not a neural state and an object. It is already trickier to say that this is an irrelevant comparison, that he is comparing two incomparable things. No—not necessarily. Because once I see my apprehension of the object as existing—again, the apprehension within me—when I imagine Grandma, I understand that the image of her exists in my head but she is not really in front of me. When she is standing in front of me, then I understand that I am not imagining her. So the image in my consciousness also differs from the illusory image. I am not talking about reality; I am talking about the image in consciousness, just as he illustrated with the painter. When I compare these two images in consciousness, I’m not sure it is so easy to say that this is not a comparison between two concepts. Because they are concepts; both are in my consciousness. They are not objects; they are not in reality. And if this is a comparison between concepts, then there is room for Anselm’s claim that the second concept is more complete than the first. You can say maybe not, but then it is no longer as trivial as I said earlier—that it is not more complete simply because this is not a comparison between concept and concept, but between object and concept. There it is obviously a category mistake. The fact that it exists adds nothing to its content as a concept. But here I am in fact talking about differences in conceptual content. I am not comparing a concept with an object. I am comparing two concepts. Now at this point you can say: fine, but the concept as I grasp it to exist is not more complete than the concept as I don’t grasp it to exist. Then you are disagreeing with Anselm’s assumption. I have nothing to say to that—perhaps you are right, and then indeed Anselm’s proof falls. But you can’t claim against him that he simply made a mistake. You can say: I disagree because I don’t think that assumption is true. My earlier argument said: you simply made an error, Anselm, you got confused, you compared an object and a concept. Such a comparison can’t be made. That is the first point. Second point: I dealt with this proof a bit in a series of columns on my website, where I tried to define what philosophy is, and in that framework I discussed ontological arguments. I wanted to show that I can, using rational means alone and without observation, arrive at conclusions about the world. That is basically an argument in favor of rationalism—the idea that reason is a tool by which I can know certain elements of the world; I don’t necessarily need observation. Now, even if I accept that this assumption of Anselm’s—that the thing I perceive as existing is not necessarily greater or more perfect than the thing I do not perceive as existing—even if I compare two concepts, and I just don’t accept that the second concept is more complete than the first, still one thing must be admitted: Anselm succeeded in constructing an ontological argument, or let’s call it a rationalist argument, not an ontological argument. That is, an argument that does not assume factual premises about the world, yet has as its conclusion a claim about the world. Because if you accept the assumption that the object perceived as existing is more complete than the object not perceived as existing—sorry—if you accept that assumption for the sake of discussion, you agree with me that the conclusion “God exists” follows, right? So it turns out that there is an argument whose premises are all non-factual, yet whose conclusion is a factual claim about the world. And that itself is Kant’s central challenge to Anselm’s argument. Kant says it cannot be that an argument with non-factual premises yields a factual conclusion about the world. So here I show that even if that objection is right, namely that Anselm assumed that the perfection of something existing is greater—fine, I don’t assume that. But if I did assume it, do you agree that I could arrive at a factual conclusion? That itself is already a novelty against Kant, because it shows that there can be an argument that does not assume factual premises and yet reaches a factual conclusion about the world. In the book I qualify this further, because he also assumes factual premises. He assumes factual premises about our psychology, not about the world. That’s more moderate, but there is still something very interesting here. And one final sentence about Kant’s criticism. I see that I only got through chapter 2 out of his three chapters. Fine, we’ll see whether we continue or just leave it, because after all this is more philosophical pilpul than an argument that would really convince someone. For me this is mainly an exercise in philosophical thinking more than a real path to faith in God. I don’t think anyone will actually come to faith in God in this way. Never mind for now whether he is right or not, but practically I don’t think that will happen. I’ll just make one final remark about Kant’s objection. Kant essentially attacks Anselm on the ontological character of the argument itself—on the very idea that an argument which assumes no factual premises reaches a factual conclusion about the world. “Impossible,” says Kant. Now that’s not a fair criticism. Because as long as you haven’t shown me exactly where the flaw in the argument is, then what does “impossible” mean? Here—I’ve shown you that it can be. I’ve placed before you an argument where you can’t point to any flaw in it. It began from non-factual premises and reaches a factual conclusion. And you have not managed to point to any defect in the argument. Well then, I’ve proved that you are wrong. Why insist on your prior assumption that such a thing is impossible, and on that basis reject the argument…? You could say, fine, it’s impossible that God exists, therefore the argument is false. But that’s nonsense; it’s intellectually dishonest. If you agree that there is no flaw in the argument, then here—I’ve shown you that there can be an argument that begins from premises that are not factual claims and reaches a conclusion that is a factual claim about the world. And you say: I assume such a thing can’t be. Then you assume wrongly—here, I’ve shown you that your assumption is false. It’s like someone saying: yes, the paradox of Achilles and the tortoise. So I show a person, in a proper argument, that Achilles can never overtake the tortoise in a race between them. “Come on, nonsense—we all know Achilles always overtakes the tortoise when they race.” That’s not a solution to the paradox. Show me what is wrong in my calculation. That’s the answer. The fact that you see Achilles overtaking the tortoise may indicate that somewhere in my argument there is a flaw. But until you show me where the flaw is, you haven’t really answered or solved the paradox. Same here. As Kant, you can tell me: wait a second, something smells fishy here. It cannot be that there is an argument with non-factual premises whose conclusion is a factual claim about the world. Okay—that can be a trigger for you to search with a magnifying glass, to look carefully for where the flaw in the argument is. But that cannot itself be an argument. After searching, you will have to show me where the flaw in the argument is. You cannot criticize an argument in which you have found no flaw simply because “something like this cannot be.” That is not a serious criticism. Yes, but today’s question reminds me of the eternal question whether God can create a stone so heavy that He Himself cannot lift it. What does that have to do with this? What? What does it have to do with this? It’s just a mistake, but what does it have to do with…? Why is it a mistake? If we’re talking about the greatest thing, the most… I don’t understand. Okay, one second—I’ll answer in a moment. I’m stopping here. Anyone who wants can ask, comment, leave. I’m stopping here. So let me answer you briefly. When you come to convince me that there is no God—you, as an atheist—you use this argument. You tell me, Mister Believer: can your God create a stone that He Himself cannot lift? So either way: if He can, then there is a stone He cannot lift, so He is not omnipotent. If He cannot, again, He is not omnipotent. So either way He is not omnipotent. That’s the argument, right? Right. Good. Now I say: think about the fact that you, as an atheist, raise this argument against me when I am a believer. You ask me: can God create a stone He cannot lift? And my definition of God is an omnipotent object—a being of unlimited power. For me, “a stone that God cannot lift” is just a string of words I do not understand; it is meaningless. It’s like a square triangle. What is “a stone that the omnipotent cannot lift”? There is no such stone; it is not defined. You are speaking about an empty concept. That’s from your point of view. From your point of view, since you think God is not omnipotent, no problem—from your standpoint there may be a stone He cannot lift. Or I don’t know if there is, but at least the concept is defined. But according to my view—and when you attack me, you have to attack me according to my assumptions, not according to yours, or according to my definitions. And according to my assumptions and definitions, God is the omnipotent object. Once He is omnipotent, then a stone that the omnipotent cannot lift is, for me, like a square triangle. You might as well ask me whether God can make a square triangle. What would I answer you? There is no such thing as a square triangle. I don’t understand your question. Explain the concepts in your question, and then I’ll think about what to answer. Same thing here. A stone that the omnipotent cannot lift is like a square triangle. Yes, okay, food for thought. Okay. Rabbi, yes, what if I go along with his method of proof and say this: I say that God is the greatest being that can be conceived, but not in thought—in reality. Then I’ve proved that God exists. I didn’t understand. I’m saying that instead of defining God as a being than which no greater can be conceived, I define a being in reality… What are you saying? If He doesn’t exist in reality, that contradicts the concept, because by definition I’m talking about a God who exists in reality. Exactly. That parallels an objection by a monk named Gaunilo in Anselm’s time. He corresponded with Anselm and sent him various objections to his argument, and Anselm has a response to Gaunilo’s objections. It’s an interesting correspondence. One of Gaunilo’s objections is this. Today people formulate it in that language. You can prove in the same way the existence of the perfect island. The perfect island must exist, because if it doesn’t exist then it’s not perfect. And the perfect island, and the perfect lion, and the perfect person—you can prove in this way the existence of infinitely many beings, not only God. Or others formulate it the way you did before—not the perfect island but the existing island. Let me prove to you that lions exist, even if I’ve never seen one in my life. How? Let’s define the concept of the existing lion. Now this lion must exist, because if it doesn’t exist it contradicts its concept. Therefore it exists—which is what had to be proved. Okay, fine. This is a whole series of objections, all really revolving around the same point: that there is here… it cannot be that you can jump from a definition to a result that is a factual conclusion. Fine, on this point I’d prefer to refer you to the book, because I deal with these objections there. There are subtleties here, and getting into them takes a bit of time. I think that… and I also need the next chapter of the Proslogion, chapter 3—not “Proslogion,” I mean there he proves in chapter 3 something that Anselm’s critics and interpreters often fail to understand: what the difference is between chapter 2 and chapter 3. In chapter 3 he almost repeats the same thing. Here, look at it. Look at chapter 3: “And it exists so truly that it cannot even be conceived not to exist. For something can be conceived which cannot be conceived not to exist, and that is greater than something which can be conceived not to exist. Therefore, if that than which nothing greater can be conceived can be conceived not to exist, then that very thing than which nothing greater can be conceived is not that than which nothing greater can be conceived—which is a contradiction. Therefore there truly exists something than which nothing greater can be conceived, and in such a way that it cannot even be conceived not to exist.” Many interpreters of Anselm claim that this is the same argument in different words. That is, of course, a mistake. What Anselm proves here is that God is not only the perfect being, but that He is necessary existence. And that he did not prove in chapter 2. In chapter 2 he proved that He exists, but he did not prove that He exists necessarily. He did prove that necessarily He exists, but he did not prove that His existence is necessary—and those are not the same thing. “Necessarily He exists” is a claim about me: I necessarily have to arrive at the conclusion that He exists. But “His existence is necessary” is a property of Him: that His existence cannot fail to be. Not that I cannot arrive at the conclusion that He does not exist. That is not an epistemic claim; it is a metaphysical claim, an ontic claim. And that is chapter 3. That is obvious; it is not just a repetition of chapter 2. Why am I bringing this up here? Because it relates to my answer to your earlier question. The perfect island is not an island whose existence is necessary. And God differs from all those other beings I illustrated by the fact that His existence is necessary, in the ontic sense. Not merely that I necessarily reach the conclusion that He exists. But again, it’s hard to go into it here; there are a lot of subtleties. Look in the book—I deal with it there. Thank you. Fine. Avichail, sorry—somewhat related to the topic: why does the book call an atheist or someone who doesn’t believe a “fool”? I hear very weakly. I’m asking, Avichail, Rabbi Avichail: why does the book call an atheist or someone who doesn’t believe a fool? “Fool” has a negative connotation. Can we also look at it from this week’s Torah portion? I noted this in the previous class. I said: that’s already Meir Sarmonta the translator, Professor Sarmonta—that in his translation, “fool” doesn’t mean what it means in modern Hebrew, a vile or wicked person. Rather, “fool” means an ignoramus, a simpleton, or something like that—someone mistaken. He doesn’t mean the modern Hebrew sense of “fool” as villain or evil person, yes? Wicked. Okay, fine, because I heard it without the “b” maybe… He also takes it from next week’s Torah portion, Ha’azinu, with “a vile and unwise people,” basically. So I really don’t know. I’m not sure that is truly the meaning of “fool” in Psalms and in the Torah, but that is how Anselm read the verse. He is talking about that kind of fool. Anyone else? Okay then, may you all be inscribed and sealed for good, a good year to all of us, health, and with God’s help we’ll see each other after the holiday. And then I probably won’t return to Anselm, even though there are still a few interesting points here. Anyone who wants can look in the book; I deal with his arguments there in much greater detail. Okay then, goodbye, a good year, and may you be sealed for good. Thank you very much. Goodbye, thank you very much.