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The Anxiety of Nature and The Difficulty of Grace

While taking the exposure module of philosophy four years ago, I learned that one of the most enduring debates in the philosophy of religion is the problem of evil. The problem states that if there exists an omnipotent, omniscient and omnibenevolent God, why is it that God still allows evil and suffering to prevail. The problem questions the nature of evil and why people suffer despite their goodwill. The most poetic and affecting response I gathered in the past few years comes from the film The Tree of Life (2011). Watching the film again amid the recent COVID-19 outbreak, I realise that the film communicates two contrasting worldviews to cope with suffering. In this essay, I reflect on how the film gives me liberating perspectives and strength to confront the current pandemic and an unpredictable future. Instead of solving the problem of evil as a logical puzzle, the film commemorates the possibility of grace beyond good and evil. 

In a module titled Life, Universe and Everything, the lecturer Prof. Loy Hui Chieh introduced some basic debates in different branches of philosophy. The problem of evil stood out as a fundamental problem in theology. Analytic philosophers often treat the problem of evil as a logical fallacy that classical theists commit to. Using precise, succinct language, they rewrite the problem in terms of its premises and conclusion while checking whether premises necessarily lead to the conclusion and whether all premises are indeed true. If the argument is sound, it demonstrates the logical impossibility in the coexistence of God and evil. My first intellectual encounter with the problem of evil was therefore an exercise in logic. 

Fig.1 Lecture Slides From GET1029 Life, Universe and Everything, on the (Logical) Problem of Evil

 

Two years after taking Life, Universe and Everything, I took a summer course about Søren Kierkegaard at University of Copenhagen. The instructor of the course, Prof. Brian Söderquist, recommended the film The Tree of Life (2011) during a session on Kierkegaard’s take on the problem of evil. The film recounts how a modern American couple (the O’Briens) deal with the sudden death of their son R.L., and how their eldest son, Jack, deals with the death of his brother and, as a middle-aged man, reconciles his relationship with his parents. The film also integrates a cosmic documentary narrating the beginning of the universe to the birth of life and morality on earth.

Stylistically challenging, the film is not like anything I have watched. The quivering camera follows the O’Briens as the two faithful Christians struggle to accept the death of their son. I did not really understand the film when I watched it for the first time, but its opening voice-over has stayed with me: 

A man’s heart has heard two ways through life: the way of nature and the way of grace. You’ll have to choose which one you’ll follow. Grace doesn’t try to please itself. It accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. It accepts insults and injuries. Nature only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. It likes to lord it over them, to have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it, and love is smiling through all things. 

In the film, the way of nature is embodied by Mr O’Brien who finds the world unsympathetic and competitive, and, if necessary, one has to act against Christian morality to get to the top. A tough father, he teaches his sons to fight and to be among the fittest to survive those competitions. The way of grace is embodied by Mrs O’Brien who raises her sons with warmth and unwavering love. She keeps her faith in God’s benevolence despite her suffering and treats others with quiet compassion and elegance. Although the film leans towards the way of grace, it does not force a correct way through life, and audiences have to choose between the two. 

 

Fig.2 A Screenshot of The Tree of Life showing the O’Briens

 

I find that the film provides a more satisfying visual experience and intellectual stimulation than the lecture on the problem of evil. The film teaches me that the problem is more than a logical fallacy; it is an aching experience and existential puzzle that everyone encounters. With the analytic method, I position myself as a distant, indifferent observer separated from the problem of evil. I reduce the complexity of evil to its logical essence. But that reduction does not help me appreciate the relevance of the problem in my life. As the world suffers from the COVID-19 pandemic, I find myself drawing strength from the film but not the reductionist, logical exercise. Perhaps suffering demands to be felt. People seek hope beyond evil instead of a logical rejection of faith that leads to nihilist despair. Although the film does not suggest a solution to evil, it embodies a therapeutic message that empowers me with hope beyond good and evil. 

Following the latest development of the pandemic, I realise that people are acquainted with the way of nature. Resources are limited, and survival is one’s first instinct. Panic shoppers around the world rush to supermarkets, and the New York elite have a higher chance to be tested and treated than residents in an Indian slum. Political alliances turn against one another, and world leaders take the opportunity to strengthen their political narratives. Some see the recent stock market crash as a prelude to an unprecedented recession, others view it as an exceptional investment opportunity. The way of nature is the way of opportunism, anxiety and despair. Large-scale sufferings like the recent pandemic have convinced some to give up their faith in not just God, but also secular benevolence and goodwill. People have been harshly reminded of the competitive nature of survival, and they have had no choice but to prioritise their own interests. Rejecting the meaning of suffering, they have chosen a life of fear and constant struggle to avoid evil. 

But there is also the way of grace that accepts suffering as an inevitable part of life and withstands evil as a test of one’s benevolence. Those who follow the way of grace embrace life in its totality, including its absurdity and constant test of faith. Despite their suffering, those who choose the way of grace find happiness, love, and ultimate reconciliation with evil because they are no longer lost in a harsh, mindless process of natural selection. They celebrate the miracle of life and honour the divinity of morality. Still, the challenge associated with the way of grace is its difficulty. The way of grace, if anything, is against human nature. One has to teleologically suspend human calculation and rational doubt to seek solace beyond their imminent suffering. When the extent of suffering is beyond measure, like the death of one’s child or the massive disruption of life due to a coronavirus, grace becomes nonsensical if not impossible. 

As I enter the next phase of life, I also ask myself which way I shall choose, not just to face the recent pandemic, but also to prepare for more inevitable sufferings in the future. I realise that I cannot make the choice. If I choose the way of nature, I will maximise my chance of survival but live with constant anxiety and nihilist despair. I wish I could say that I choose the way of grace, but my graceful actions may appear naive and not make logical sense to many. Perhaps the way of nature and the way of grace are by no means settled choices in life; people oscillate between the two options. The anxiety of nature propels them to look for grace that transcends their suffering, but the difficulty of grace pushes them to return to the convenience of nature.


Fig.3 The final scene from The Tree of Life, as Jack finds his parents, brothers and childhood friends on an imaginary coast

 

I find strength in the last scene from The Tree of Life. Jack, then a middle-aged businessman, journeys to an imaginary coast only to find his younger parents, dead brother and childhood friends. In an impossible family reunion, everyone looks happy and peaceful. In an evocative scene, Jack kneels down and whispers his prayer. He reconciles his guilt for his brother and his strained relationship with a grumpy father. It takes Jack decades to find his peace, but even so, I doubt that he transcends evil once for all. The strength I draw from the film is not a solution to evil or suffering, but some hope for the possibility of grace and a cinematic experience of grace. Although it takes time, hard work and determination, I am happy about the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. 

The spiritual transformation of the O’Briens gives me liberating perspectives on evil and suffering beyond the recent COVID-19 pandemic. Although I live in a world that often appears to follow the way of nature, I realise that nature is not the only choice, and one day I may find my own resolution to suffering and make peace with the world. The Tree of Life reaffirms my faith in benevolence and goodwill. Although this post ends without me making a settled choice in life, I find some peace with evil and some perseverance to carry on. The problem of evil is not solved, or perhaps it is not meant to be solved. That existential struggle has been the world’s source of strength and hope. Love, generosity, grace. These words must mean something, and they are worth fighting for. 

 

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Rationalist Philosophy and Wounded Women

The Mathematics and Phenomenology of Infinity

The Mathematics and Phenomenology of Infinity

Perhaps surprising to many, infinity comes with different sizes. While mathematicians can establish this generic result, they cannot always calculate or pinpoint different sizes of infinity. Such incapability demonstrates that mathematics is still an incomplete logical system. To me, the incompleteness of mathematics has an existential overtone echoing the finitude of human existence in contrast to people’s pursuit of eternity, meaning and purpose for their lives. That contrast, or paradox of life, reveals the pain of finite human existence, which I understood more in a creative writing workshop organised by USP. In this post, I explore how the desire to reach the infinite and the pain of finite existence inspire mathematicians and artists in their pursuits of truth and beauty. I reflect on how encountering infinity profoundly changes my perception of death, mathematics and writing. 

Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. I first encountered this unintuitive conclusion when watching the teenage-romance film The Fault in Our Stars (2014). Set in contemporary America, the film is about two terminally ill young adults falling in love and cherishing their limited time together. To them, death is imminent, and oblivion is inevitable in a secular cosmos. The film ends with a poignant note. When the pair decide to rehearse their funerals for each other, the girl tearfully confesses in her eulogy that although they have had limited time, or a “very small infinity” together, she will forever be grateful for it. Even though death will soon separate them, she finds solace in their little shared time which nevertheless encompasses infinite possibilities. That is an evocative scene for me to watch because the message transcends one’s death and oblivion by alluding to the eternity of grace beyond human mortality. 

Fig 1. The script of Hazel Grace, the female protagonist, in her eulogy (Note: the Mathematical reasoning is flawed)

 

Although I watched the film before studying mathematics at NUS, the eulogy scene and that bizaare mathematical conclusion stayed with me. I learned to formally establish the conclusion when I was a third-year student of mathematics. In my Set Theory class, I learned that there can be infinitely many sizes of infinity. The lecturer of Set Theory, Prof. Yang Yue, often cited Georg Cantor, the German mathematician who pioneers transfinite mathematics. Cantor famously claims that if mathematicians can sort infinities according to their sizes, that ordered sequence will pave their stairs to God. To Cantor, God is probably not a concrete entity or actual existence, but the feeling of being more than human and articulating the universe with the highest precision. The religious reference in Cantor’s words reveals that transfinite numbers are not merely a mathematical concern but also an existential quest expanding the limit of human knowledge and the significance of human existence. 

Modern mathematicians have been working hard on calculating exact sizes of infinite sets. But instead of paving the stairs to God, mathematicians realise that Cantor’s task is beyond the mathematical system. That is, some sizes of infinity cannot be unequivocally established by standard mathematical proofs. That incapability establishes the incompleteness of mathematics, one of the most important results in the twentieth century. 

 

While learning Set Theory, I participated in a creative writing workshop organised by USP in the same semester. The writer-in-residence was Ms. Gita Kolanad. Gita wanted us to write something without lifting our pens everyday, even if we might end up writing a personal diary. One day, I wrote about my disillusionment when learning the incompleteness of mathematics. As I wrote, the scene from The Fault in Our Stars came back to me since it was the first time I wondered about different sizes of infinity as well as the significance of my death and oblivion in a likely indifferent universe. 

When I read my “diary entry” on the incompleteness of mathematics and The Fault in Our Stars, Gita asked me to remember that feeling of pain. To her, every creative writing manifests an intimate feeling of pain, and writers tell stories to express what cannot be endured or what can only be endured. A good writer always keeps her pain. That pain is not physical; it is the unease, the disillusionment and the despair of encountering life’s ultimate finiteness. With Gita’s words, I realised that The Fault in Our Stars is a story of pain, an elegy to love and death. It is not merely a story of teenage romance. It also embodies the irreconcilable conflict between human finitude and their aspiration to grasp eternal love. As Gita expressed her interests regarding transfinite mathematics, she cited a passage from the Sanskrit classic Mahabharata. “People are mortal, but they live their lives as if they are immortal”, she cited, “and that is the greatest wisdom of all time”.

Fig 3. The writing exercise where I wrote about vocabularies of pain

 

As I glue pieces of my experiences together, I realise that Gita’s writing workshop helped me make better sense of the film and provided an existential context for the incompleteness of mathematics. While the mathematics of infinity consists of a series of logical propositions comparing the sizes of abstract sets, the embodied phenomenology of infinity is the pain, the paradox and the struggle of living one’s mortal life as if it is immortal. Infinity is not merely a mathematical concern, it also represents an existential struggle. Hazel appeals to different sizes of infinity in her eulogy because her little shared infinity with her boyfriend gives her comfort beyond the pain of their imminent separation. I choose to study mathematics because I want to grasp something eternal in a volatile universe; the incompleteness of the subject reminds me of the pain of my finitude and the ultimate limit of my knowledge. After Gita’s creative writing workshop, I realise that human beings are storytellers; they narrate stories of love, death and hope. Most importantly, their stories and characters embody the pain of mortal existence amid the pursuit of eternal truth and beauty that defy oblivion. 

Most importantly, I learn that people are all united by their desire to reach the infinite and their pain of realising its impossibility. Still, I should not just accept life’s finitude and nihilist outlook in a secular cosmos. Watching The Fault of Our Stars again while writing this reflection, I try to reconcile the irreconcilable, to search for hope beyond the finite. I realise that I, like everyone else, have been stuck in the cycle of meaning-making and being reminded of the finitude of life and knowledge. But as Hazel has taught me in her eulogy, one can still be grateful beyond death. She finds hope and resolution to the puzzle of infinity by affirming her love, wilful choices and memories. I realise that beyond my life and its ultimate oblivion, I am free to choose the person who hurts me or remembers me, the cause that I commit to, and the way I embody my pain of finite existence in my writing. In my negligible infinity shared with this world, there is still reason to embrace its infinite possibilities, to affirm the significance of my wilful choices, and to be compassionate towards the pain of other finite beings. Some infinities are larger than other infinities. To me, that mathematical conclusion now strikes as an earnest prayer.

 

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Rationalist Philosophy and Wounded Women

The Anxiety of Nature and The Difficulty of Grace

Rationalist Philosophy and Wounded Women

Cogito, ergo sum. René Descartes famously claims after meditating on the certainty of human knowledge. Upholding the rational, thinking self, Descartes pioneers modern rationalist philosophy which believes that reason is the most effective, if not the only method of acquiring knowledge. I confess that reason, with its promise of universality and objectivity, enticed me into studying philosophy in university. But as I encounter more complex situations in life, I increasingly find reason incapable of representing reality and guiding my moral decisions. Reason seems to detach me from everyday life and trivialise ambivalent moral situations that do not immediately make logical sense. I have been internally conflicted regarding rationalist philosophy and the superiority of reason in everyday life. Recent classroom and out-of-classroom experiences also propel me to reflect on the limit of reason and what reason cannot explain. In this post, I reflect on what lies beyond reason and how to adequately access a moral situation.

My internal conflict reached its peak during a class on animal ethics. When the South African writer J.M. Coetzee was invited to give a lecture on the topic at Princeton University in 1997, he presented a fictional story. It is about a female writer who, just like Coetzee, is invited to lecture on animal ethics in a renowned American university, in front of professional philosophers. Instead of limiting the discussion to the ethics of meat consumption, the protagonist challenges whether reason is sufficient to establish the superiority of humans. Debunking Cartesian rationalism, she argues that reason was a vast tautology and a manifestation of human arrogance. She proposes a more radical egalitarianism emphasising embodied compassion towards animals. She even compares animal factory farms to concentration camps during the Holocaust. The fictional lecture is not well-received; most noticeably, her opinions are dismissed by her fictional daughter-in-law, a professional philosopher of mind, as “shallow relativism that impresses freshmen”.

 

Fig.1 Snapshots of J.M. Coetzee’s Fictional Lecture and Cora Diamond’s Response (Highlights Mine)

 

Philosophically engaged, Coetzee’s story has attracted considerable interests from contemporary philosophers. It is difficult to respond to Coetzee, given how the fictional form complicates his arguments. The instructor of the animal ethics class, Dr Chin Chuan Fei, shared Cora Diamond’s essay after discussing several responses from rationalist philosophers. Diamond notices that rationalist responses to Coetzee have treated his protagonist as a vehicle of arguments. That is, they reduce the story to its argumentative essence and access it with reason, overlooking what puts the protagonist in that situation. Diamond thinks that Coetzee’s story is first and foremost about a woman wounded by her reality and rational calculation in moral discourse, a woman whom her family refuse to support. The story conveys more personal struggle than its argumentative essence. Subsequent rational assessments of her lecture are precisely the mode of thinking that wound her in the first place. Diamond argues that the literary form is Coetze’s ultimate argument problematising the rationalist mode of thinking in contemporary philosophy which brutally reduces complex, conscious lives to abstract, argumentative essence.

I could not fully appreciate Diamond’s essay until I encountered a social media phenomenon last year. When the pro-democracy protests in Hong Kong became more violent in October, one female student leader was interviewed by Deutsche Welle. When the interviewer asked whether she condemned acts of violence, she refused as she was afraid of further dividing student protestors in Hong Kong. Facing critical questions she did not know how to respond, the student leader ended up smiling with much awkwardness.

 

Video of Joey Siu being interviewed by Deutsche Welle

Interestingly, the video of the interview went viral on mainland social media which usually censor voices from Hong Kong. The image of the student leader typified mainland people’s imagination of the semi-autonomous region – polished, ungrateful, submissive and unreasonable. My parents also forwarded the video to me, believing that the interview demonstrated that pro-democracy movements in Hong Kong were organised by rebellious children. I almost judged the student leader in the same way as my parents. But I was reminded of Diamond’s essay regarding Coetzee’s fictional lecture. The student leader was reminiscent of Coetzee’s protagonist. She was also a woman wounded by her reality. I wondered what put her in such a desperate situation in the first place. Was it the civil arrest in Hong Kong? Was it her pursuit of liberty and social justice? She must have grown up in a very different political narrative. I hesitated to reduce her to an argumentative essence. Although she might fail my logical checks, reason is not the only faculty I rely on when I interact with others. Eventually, as a human being instead of a rationalist philosopher, I suspended my critical judgement while trying to imagine and sympathise with her woundedness.

 

Fig. 2 Screenshots of mainland online commentaries on the interview. Besides mocking her facial expressions, online commentators criticised the student leader for being childish, illogical, and submissive. Using phrases like “female terrorist” and “the ignorant have no fear”, such online commentaries went rival on the mainland Chinese social media.

 

Both Coetzee’s protagonist and the Hong Kong student leader are women wounded by their realities and rational human calculations. They feel estranged, frightened and helpless in a rationalist, patriarchal world that dismiss them with hostility, acrimony and bitterness. They both stand desperately in front of the powerful, hoping that their woundedness could at least be acknowledged. They vividly embody their woundedness and refuse to be assessed as a contextless argumentative essence. Neither wins much sympathy after they are responded with reason, a seemingly self-reinforcing, excluding thought process that actively anticipates its enemies and defames them. Thanks to Diamond, I realise how unprepared and detached my rational self was when assessing a moral situation that involved woundedness. I realise that these women have to be sympathised in totality, and their woundedness intrinsically resists my rationalisation. I am, for a moment, reminded of my humanity that precedes my rationality. I will remember these wounded women, as they demonstrate the limit of rationalist philosophy and the ostracist nature of my moral community.

I am not sure whether, as Coetzee writes, reason is indeed a vast tautology, but it has been undeniably used to consolidate power, order and political narrative. Rationalist framework constructs a subject-object relationship whereby a person in a complex context can be reduced to an object of study accompanied by a disinterested but clever subject. What I have learned from the sequence of events, if anything, is to suspend my belief formation for a while and wait to hear more perspectives. I do not mean to reject reason once for all and fully embrace subjective emotions or irrational impulse. Although reason will remain incredibly useful for my learning and my role as a responsible, reasonable global citizen, I realise that reason has its limit. I have been exposed and trained in my reasoning capabilities, but only to realise its inadequacy and incompleteness. Reality is multifaceted, and once in a while people are wounded by how unsympathetic it seems. Sometimes, I need to listen to my compassionate instinct and pre-reflective intuitions to access a moral situation. Moral judgements based solely on rational assessment may result in skewed perspectives and biases.

 

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The Mathematics and Phenomenology of Infinity

The Anxiety of Nature and The Difficulty of Grace