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First, Tell Me What You Mean by God

William Blake, The Ancient of Days (1794).
William Blake, The Ancient of Days (1794). Is Urizen what Blake meant by God?

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

In February 2012, three of the world’s most distinguished intellectuals gathered in Oxford’s Sheldonian Theatre to discuss the origins of human beings and, tied with that, the existence of God. There was Richard Dawkins, evolutionary biologist and celebrated atheist; Rowan Williams, then Archbishop of Canterbury; and the philosopher Sir Anthony Kenny, a former Catholic priest who professed to be ‘ignorant’—that is, an agnostic. Kenny, who died in August 2026 at the age of 95, was a philosopher of exceptional range and clarity, and perhaps the ideal person to sit between the other two.

Here, apparently, were the three great positions in the God debate: belief, disbelief, and quiet uncertainty. But there was a problem. What did each man mean by ‘God’?

This is no minor philosophical quibble. Before asking whether something exists, we need, surely, to establish what that something is. Yet people routinely declare themselves theists, atheists, or agnostics without first defining the object of their belief, disbelief, or doubt. You cannot meaningfully ask whether something exists until you have some idea of what you are looking for. And ‘God’ can mean radically different things to different people.

Which God?

At one end of the spectrum is the God that Dawkins principally attacks: a supernatural intelligence who created the universe, designed living things, listens to prayers, judges our actions, performs miracles, and otherwise intervenes in human affairs. Millions of people believe in some version of this God, so it is perfectly reasonable for Dawkins to argue that such a being does not exist.

But it is far from the only conception of God. Aristotle’s God, for example, is the unmoved mover: the ultimate cause of change in the universe, itself unchanging. Aristotle’s God did not create the universe, which Aristotle believed to be eternal, and certainly does not sit in heaven listening to our prayers. Instead, he is the ultimate introvert, described by Aristotle as noesis noeseos, ‘thought thinking itself’.

Spinoza went even further in collapsing God. For him, God and Nature are one and the same: Deus sive Natura, ‘God or Nature’. Everything that exists is in God, because God is the single infinite substance of which everything else is a mode—a recognised position also in Indian philosophy.

Now ask the atheist: ‘Do you believe in Spinoza’s God?’ What would it mean to say no? That he does not believe in the rock that he is kicking? Unless the atheist wishes to deny the existence of Nature, the disagreement is no longer about whether something exists. It is about whether we ought to call that something ‘God’.

What Does an Atheist Not Believe In

When someone says, ‘I don’t believe in God’, what they really mean is, ‘I don’t believe in a particular idea of God.’

This becomes increasingly apparent as soon as we begin stripping attributes from God. Suppose we start with a personal creator who designed the universe, answers prayers, performs miracles, rewards virtue, punishes sin, and promises an afterlife. There is plenty here to believe or disbelieve. Now progressively remove the afterlife, divine intervention, answered prayers, God’s personality, and even the act of creation. With each subtraction, there is less for the atheist to reject. Eventually, we might arrive at God as the order of nature, the ground of being, Nature itself, or some such.

The less we say about God, the harder God becomes to disbelieve in.

At the limit, the atheist and the believer may agree completely about what exists. The disagreement is only about whether to call it ‘God’. Indeed, the atheist who tells Spinoza, ‘I don’t believe in your God’, may really be saying, ‘I believe in exactly the same thing as you, but I don’t think you should call it God.’ More commonly, Spinoza was himself accused of atheism, on the grounds that identifying God with everything amounted to believing in nothing.

The Problem with Agnosticism

The same problem applies to agnosticism. An agnostic typically says, ‘I don’t know whether God exists.’ But again: which God?

It makes perfect sense to be agnostic about a supernatural creator. Perhaps such a being exists; perhaps not; perhaps we cannot know. But what would it mean to be agnostic about Spinoza’s God? ‘I don’t know whether Nature exists’ is hardly a coherent position.

Like atheism and theism, agnosticism depends upon some prior conception of God. Until that conception has been supplied, saying, ‘I am an agnostic’ tells us surprisingly little. The familiar spectrum—theist, agnostic, atheist—is not really a spectrum of attitudes towards God. It is a spectrum of attitudes towards a particular—some might say quasi-mythological—conception of God. Change the conception and you may change your position without having altered a single belief about reality.

Is Dawkins Attacking a Straw Man?

This helps explain something peculiar about the modern God debate. Dawkins is not attacking a straw man when he attacks the supernatural, interventionist God. Millions of people believe in precisely such a God.

But difficulties arise when an argument against that concept of God is treated as an argument against God tout court.

The God of philosophy and theology can be much more elusive. God may be described not as a being but as Being itself; not as one cause among others but as the ground of causation; not as something within the universe but as that upon which the universe ultimately depends. Dawkins’s arguments against a supernatural designer may have considerable force without touching these concepts at all.

The atheist can reasonably reply, ‘You have defined God into existence.’ The theologian can equally reasonably reply, ‘You have been attacking a God I don’t believe in.’ And there, in miniature, lies the problem.

The more concrete and anthropomorphic God becomes, the easier God is to attack. But the more abstract and deflationary God becomes, the less obvious it is what atheism could mean—and, eventually, why we need the word ‘God’ at all.

Why Does the God Debate Persist?

If the problem is so simple, why do some of our most distinguished intellectuals sit there arguing about God without first agreeing what they mean by the word?

One reason may be that belief and disbelief are about far more, and far less, than metaphysics. For many people, religion is bound up with family, community, culture, morality, and personal identity. When someone starts questioning their idea of God, they are also questioning their idea of who they are.

Atheism can function in much the same way. For some, especially since the rise of the New Atheism, it can signify reason, science, intellectual independence, or emancipation from religious tradition. People on both sides may therefore be defending not merely propositions, but identities and the ego defences that buttress them. This may account for the extraordinary heat surrounding the debate. Once people start agitating, it is no longer simply about the facts.

Another reason is that the God debate has acquired the status of the ultimate intellectual question. It seems to encompass the origins of the universe, the meaning of life, morality, death, and our place in the cosmos. To call oneself a theist, atheist, or agnostic is not only to take a position in the debate but to take a position on reality itself—even if said position happens to be incoherent.

The ambiguity that makes the question philosophically troublesome may be precisely what makes it so attractive. Everyone thinks they understand the question, and even ‘I have no clue’ counts as a valid answer. All in all, the God debate makes for excellent theatre—hence the Sheldonian for the venue, while virtue ethics is for the basement.

A more rigorous debating approach would begin by defining God, fragment into more precise questions, and attract smaller audiences.

Three Clever Men in the Sheldonian

Which brings us back to Dawkins, Williams, and Kenny. Perhaps the most striking thing about their discussion is not that three exceptionally intelligent men could disagree about God, but they could appear to disagree before establishing whether they were talking about the same thing.

Dawkins was principally rejecting a supernatural creator. Williams resisted treating God as another object or explanatory cause within the universe. Kenny, sitting between them, professed uncertainty. All three positions are perfectly intelligible in themselves. The difficulty arises when we treat them as answers to the same under-defined question—as though Dawkins were saying no, Williams yes, and Kenny maybe.

Perhaps, then, there is no single God debate. There are only debates about particular conceptions of God, some more substantial than others. Once those conceptions are made explicit, apparent disagreements may sharpen into real ones—or disappear altogether. As things stand, everyone can leave feeling that they have won. In a properly defined debate, some people might have to accept that they are wrong.

Of course, none of this says whether God exists, or does not exist. It makes a simpler point: neither statement means very much until we know what ‘God’ means.

So before you tell me that you are a believer, an atheist, or an agnostic—or worse, ask me whether I am one of those—there is something else I need to know.

What do you mean by God? —And, do you know your Aristotle and your Advaita Vedanta?

What I mean is that the familiar God debate is culturally provincial. It tends to assume a conception of God shaped by Christianity: a personal creator, separate from the world, who takes an interest in human affairs. But Aristotle’s unmoved mover already unsettles that picture, while Advaita Vedanta can dissolve the distinction between God, ultimate reality, and the deepest self.

Once we step outside the familiar Christian frame, the apparently simple opposition between belief and disbelief begins to break down.

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If this essay spoke to you, you might look into The Gang of Three: Socrates, Plato, Aristotle.

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His Life, Character, and Philosophy

Descartes by the cocklestove
Modern philosophy began in the warmth of a cockle stove, with three visions.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

René Descartes (1596–1650) is often called the father of modern philosophy. The title owes less to any single doctrine than to the ambition of his project. As the old Aristotelian worldview collapsed under the weight of the Scientific Revolution, Descartes set out to rebuild human knowledge from the ground up, in a way that could accommodate God, the soul, and human freedom.

A World Crying Out For a Philosopher

The demise of the Aristotelian system, brought about by the Copernican and Scientific Revolutions, left a void that needed filling—ideally by some all-encompassing metaphysical system on the scale of the old, Aristotelian one. If the Earth no longer stood at the centre of the cosmos, was man not the glory of creation, as affirmed in the Bible (1 Corinthians 11:7)? In this new mechanistic, atomistic world of matter in motion, where might God and the immaterial soul fit in? Where freedom and justice? And where, even, heaven and hell?

As recently as 1588, Galileo, qua mathematician, had been invited to address the Florentine Academy on the location, size, and arrangement of hell as described in Dante’s Inferno—underscoring the scale of the mind shift required. Even that paragon of the Scientific Revolution, Newton, albeit in secret, dedicated the larger part of his life to alchemy and the search for the fabled philosopher’s stone.

The three seventeenth-century philosophers who rose to the challenge of formulating a comprehensive metaphysics are René Descartes (1596–1650), Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677), and Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz (1646–1716), who sometimes inserted, with little to no justification, the nobiliary particle von in front of his cognomen.

Three Visions in a Stove-Heated Room

Descartes categorically rejected the substantial forms and primary matter of the mediaeval, Aristotelian schoolmen. In a letter to his friend Marin Mersenne dated 28 January 1641, he writes that his Meditations on First Philosophy ‘contain all the foundations of my physics. But please do not tell people, for that might make it harder for the supporters of Aristotle to approve them. I hope that readers will gradually get used to my principles, and recognise their truth, before they notice that they destroy the principles of Aristotle.’

Two decades earlier, Descartes had been serving in the army of Duke Maximilian of Bavaria. On 10–11 November 1619, while stationed near Ulm or else Neuberg an der Donau, he found refuge in a room with an ‘oven’ (probably a cockle stove) to escape from the cold and reflect on his thoughts. That night, he had three dreams which determined the course of his life. To repay these visions, he vowed to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of Our Lady of Loretto in the Italian region of Marche—and, in 1623, fulfilled his vow.

What Descartes had seen or grasped on that eve of St Martin’s Day 1619 is the unity of the sciences under mathematics: if a concrete problem could be abstracted into mathematical form, it would become clearer and more amenable to solving. Thus, in the course of his life, he contributed several mathematical innovations. In his La Géométrie (1637), he introduced the modern exponential notation which is taught in every contemporary school. He established the convention of using the letters x, y, z to represent unknown variables in equations, and a, b, c to represent known variables. If that were not impressive enough, he bridged algebra and geometry by transforming numerical relationships into geometrical shapes, plotting these lines and curves on a coordinate plane, and showing how they could be represented in the form of algebraic equations—a field now known as analytic, coordinate, or Cartesian geometry.

Descartes sought to carry the certainty of mathematics into philosophy itself. The culmination of that lifelong project was the Meditations on First Philosophy, which laid the foundations of his new metaphysical system while quietly dismantling that of Aristotle.

The Method of Doubt (Dubitatio methodica)

The closed-in stove-heated room later came to symbolise Descartes’ famous method of doubt, by which he systematically dismantled the edifice of his beliefs to rebuild on a more secure foundation of indubitable truths, to be arrived at through a predetermined set of logical rules.

In this climate of radical doubt, he could doubt the existence of the outside world, even the existence of his own body—but not that he was the one doing the doubting. This insight is encapsulated in his famous dictum, Cogito, ergo sum (‘I think, therefore I am’). The very act of doubting presupposed a thinking self to do the doubting.

Although Descartes knew that he was thinking, and so that he was, he could not be sure that his thinking bore any relation to the outside world. So he introduced an a priori proof (a proof derived from thought alone) for the existence of God, and argued that such a benevolent being would not deceive his favoured creation, man—so long as man had employed his (Descartes’s) method of doubt and taken every precaution to have ‘clear and distinct’ ideas and not to be deceived.

Dualism and the Piece of Wax Analogy

The Cogito also transformed Descartes’ understanding of reality. The indubitability of the thinking self led him to conclude that mind and body must be fundamentally different kinds of substance. The defining attribute of the mind (or soul, or res cogitans) is thought, while that of the body (or res extensa) is extension. It is by the knowable mind, rather than the deceptive senses, that the physical can be apprehended.

Descartes illustrated this point with one of the most famous passages in the Meditations: the wax analogy. When a piece of wax is heated, all its sensory properties change. Only the mind grasps its underlying essence, which consists in extension (as well as flexibility and movability in space), and recognises it as the same piece of wax. The physical, being extended, is divisible; but mind is indivisible, and therefore not physical. Since it is not physical, mind is beyond the laws of physics, and free and immortal.

[T]here is a great difference between the mind and the body, inasmuch as the body is by its very nature always divisible, while the mind is utterly indivisible. For when I consider the mind, or myself in so far as I am merely a thinking thing, I am unable to distinguish any parts within myself; I understand myself to be something quite single and complete… By contrast, there is no corporeal or extended thing that I can think of which in my thought I cannot easily divide into parts; and this very fact makes me understand that it is divisible. This one argument would be enough to show me that the mind is completely different from the body. 

The Soul of Animals

Descartes’s mind-body dualism is commonly taken as the starting point of modern philosophy. His method is indeed revolutionary, but the substance of his philosophy is in fact an attempt to shelter God, man, and his immortal soul from the new mechanism. Thanks to Descartes, those who embraced the Copernican revolution could remain good Christians, or claim as much.

But in solving one problem, Descartes created several others, most notably the place of animals and the mind-body problem.

Under the Aristotelian system, all living things had a vegetative (or nutritive) soul; animals, in addition, had a sensitive soul; and humans, on top of that, had a rational soul.

For fear of granting them immortality and a place in heaven, Descartes denied souls to the animals. Animals, he claimed, are mere automata, whose functions ‘follow from the mere arrangement of the machine’s organs every bit as naturally as the movements of a clock or other automaton follow from the arrangement of its counterweights and wheels’.

For Descartes, it is not merely that animals do not reason, but also, contra common sense, that they do not feel, perceive, or sense. Clearly, he did not have a cat. According to lore, he once threw a cat out of a window in an attempt to demonstrate that the poor thing lacked consciousness.

The Mind-Body Problem

If mind and body truly are incommensurate, how is it possible for them to interact? How might my mind move me to write these words without violating, or else submitting to, the laws of physics? Conversely, how might my eyes and ears relay sense experience to my mind?

Descartes responded to this so-called mind-body problem in two ways. At times, he said, literally, ‘Only God knows.’ At other times, he suggested that mind and body interact at the pineal gland, on the grounds that this structure is mobile and central in the brain. But this only puts the problem at one remove, for the question then becomes, how is it possible for the mind to interact with the pineal gland?

The Philosopher’s Daughter

Although France’s most famous philosopher, Descartes spent the greater part of his adult life in the relative safety of the Dutch Republic. There, he met a servant called Helena who became the mother of his illegitimate daughter Francine (b. 1635), whom he passed off as his niece. When Francine died, aged five, of scarlet fever, he called it the greatest sorrow of his life, even stating that it was not unmanly to cry. Later, a legend arose that he—the philosopher who had compared living bodies to machines—constructed an automaton in her likeness.

The Tree of Life

The name René derives from the Latin Renatus, ‘born again’—fitting for the man who sought to rebuild philosophy from first principles. But although remembered as a philosopher, Descartes looked upon himself first and foremost as a natural philosopher (scientist) and physicist.

In the preface to his Principles of Philosophy (1644), he compared philosophy to a tree, with metaphysics as its roots, physics as its trunk, and the other sciences as its branches—and it is, of course, the branches that bear the fruit. 

The ‘other sciences’ could be reduced to three principal ones, medicine, mechanics, and morals—which is why, in 1649, he published a book on the emotions, The Passions of the Soul.  He sent a copy to his penfriend Queen Christina of Sweden, who was so impressed that she invited him to join her court.

In October 1649, he left Holland for Sweden. But the northern winter did not agree with him, and the frenetic Christina insisted on taking her lessons at five in the morning. He did not live to see the spring.

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If you enjoyed this article, you might also enjoy The German Greeks, which traces the development of modern philosophy from Descartes to Nietzsche, via Leibniz, Kant, Hegel, and Schopenhauer.

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800 Pages in One Simple Essay

Immanuel Kant, the Becker portrait
Immanuel Kant, shortly before isolating himself for ten years to excogitate the Critique of Pure Reason.

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason is one of the most important—and difficult—books ever written. Its central idea is surprisingly simple: the mind does not merely observe the world, but helps to shape the world as we experience it.

In 1781, after a decade of introspection, Immanuel Kant published a book so difficult that even leading philosophers struggled to finish it. Kant’s friend and rival Moses Mendelssohn described the Critique of Pure Reason as a ‘nerve-juice consuming book’. Yet, buried within its more than 800 pages is one of the most influential ideas in the history of thought—an idea that Kant himself compared to the revolution begun by Copernicus in astronomy.

Previously, everyone believed that the Sun revolved around the Earth. Copernicus (1473-1543) turned the tables by asking how it would be if, instead, the Earth revolved around the Sun. Kant believed that human thought itself required a similar reinvention. It had always been assumed that human knowledge must conform to the world, that the human mind was just a passive observer. But what if it was the other way round? What if it was the world that needed to conform to the structures of the human mind?

Why Kant’s Revolution Was Needed

Since Descartes (1596-1650), a debate had been dominating philosophy. On one side stood the rationalists such as Descartes, Spinoza, and Leibniz, who believed that the senses were deceptive and that reason was the only secure source of knowledge. On the other side stood the empiricists, especially Locke and Hume, who argued that the mind starts as a blank slate and that all knowledge is founded in sense experience.

Hume (1711-1776) pushed the empiricist position to its logical conclusion, which is that there are only two kinds of human knowledge: ‘matters of fact’, which are founded in observation, and ‘relations of ideas’, such as logic and mathematics, which are true by definition. Anything that is neither—including God, the soul, and free will—belongs to the realm of illusion and speculation.

This scepticism deeply troubled Kant. Hume’s position undermined many of the concepts on which science and social life depend, not least causation. We assume that causes produce effects, but never—according to Hume—observe causality itself: all we do is observe one event regularly following another. Kant fully acknowledged his debt to Hume: ‘I freely confess: it was the objection [to the principle of cause and effect] of David Hume that first … interrupted my dogmatic slumber…’

The Synthetic à Priori

Kant’s response was to seek a new foundation for knowledge, based on a distinction between different kinds of judgement.

Some statements, such as, ‘All bachelors are unmarried men’, are analytic, in that their truth is contained within the meanings of the words themselves. Other statements, such as, ‘The cat is on the mat’, are synthetic, in that they carry new information. Most of the claims that we make are synthetic, because, unless you’re a pedant like me, new information about the world is a lot more useful and interesting than tautologising.

Kant also distinguished between knowledge that is à priori (acquired independently of sense experience) and knowledge that is à posteriori (acquired from sense experience).

Whereas analytic truths are à priori, synthetic truths are à posteriori. But could some synthetic truths be à priori? If so, we could learn something genuinely new about the world independently of sense experience.

Kant believed that mathematics, geometry, and, indeed, causation are prime examples of synthetic à priori knowledge.

But how could reason alone provide us with new knowledge, independently of sense experience?

Kant’s Categories and the Active Mind

Kant’s answer was revolutionary. The human mind is not a passive recipient of information, but actively shapes experience.

The mind possesses built-in structures that organise raw sense data. Among these ‘categories of understanding’ are concepts such as causality, substance, unity, plurality, and necessity.

Whenever we experience the world, these categories are already at work. They are not learned from experience; rather, they make experience possible in the first place. They package raw sense data into forms that are graspable to the human mind. If, as per Hume, we never observe causality, this is because causality is a feature of the human mind.

The same is true also of space and time, which are not features of the world, but ‘forms of intuition’ by which the human mind organises sense experience. Space is the framework by which we perceive external objects. Time is the framework by which we order events and mental states.

That space, time, and causation are in the mind does not make them subjective fantasies. Because all humans share these cognitive structures, they provide a common framework for objective experience. Simply put, there is, for a human being, no other way of seeing the world.

And here lies the price of Kant’s solution: the same structures that make knowledge possible also place limits upon what we can know—for we can only know what it is possible for a human to know.

The Limits of Metaphysics According to Kant

So here we have it. The mind does not conform to an independently structured world; rather, the world as we experience it conforms to the structures of the mind. Thus, we can know some things about the world by knowing about our mind. This is what underlies and enables the synthetic à priori. This is, in other words, what makes it possible for reason, working outside of sense experience, to arrive at new knowledge.

Causation and mathematics arise from the very conditions that make human experience possible. But the flipside is that we cannot know what lies outside of human experience. We cannot know how the world is in itself. Unlike the phenomenal world of human experience, this noumenal world is closed to reason, science, and knowledge.

Thus, metaphysical questions about God, the soul, and freedom are outside the scope of human knowledge. Kant may have rescued causation from Hume and the empiricists, but he did not rescue God (although, later, he defended belief in God on moral grounds). He acquired the nickname ‘the All-Crusher’ because he seemed to have demolished centuries of metaphysical speculation about God, the soul, and free will, which, he thought, were outside the scope of human knowledge.

The Antinomies of Pure Reason

Whenever reason attempts to venture into the realm of metaphysics, it becomes entangled in contradictions. Kant demonstrated this through four specific ‘antinomies of pure reason’, that is, contradictions that reason falls into when trying to understand ultimate reality.

Here is my own example of an antinomy of pure reason. After more than two thousand years of debate, there is still no consensus on who made the stronger case: Heraclitus, in arguing that the universe is in constant, perpetual flux (thesis), or Parmenides in arguing that it is in fact a single, static, unchanging, and eternal whole (antithesis).

Reason, Kant noticed, can construct persuasive arguments on both sides. The resulting conflicts reveal not the failure of reason but the danger of taking it beyond its proper domain. Plato demonstrated something similar in the Parmenides, though less explicitly than Kant.

The Legacy of the Critique of Pure Reason

Unlike the German idealists whom he inspired (Fichte, Schelling, Hegel…), Kant did not go so far as to claim that the mind creates reality, only that the world as it appears to us is structured through the forms and categories of human cognition.

Since Kant’s time, developments in modern physics, particularly non-Euclidean geometry and Einstein’s theory of relativity, have challenged some of Kant’s specific claims about space. But his central insight continues to shape philosophy, psychology, and cognitive science.

We do not simply discover the world. We actively shape the way it appears to us. This was Kant’s Copernican revolution: the insight that knowledge is not merely a mirror of reality but the outcome of a dynamic interaction between the mind and the world. By redefining the relationship between human beings and experience, Kant transformed philosophy as profoundly as Copernicus transformed astronomy.

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To explore Kant’s ideas in their historical context—and discover how they influenced Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche—see my book, The German Greeks.

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Immanuel Kant on the Perception of Space and Time.

In the Critique of Pure Reason, which is regarded as one of the most difficult books ever written, the philosopher Immanuel Kant (1724-1804) argues that space and time are not features of the world-in-itself but forms of intuition inherent in our faculty of sense.

In short, space and time are mind-dependent matrices for organising sense experience. Space is the pure form of “outer sense” by which we perceive objects as external and spatially arranged. Time is the pure form of “inner sense” by which we order our mental states. Because space is a form of intuition and not a property of the world-in-itself, we are able to identify its structures à priori, independently of sense experience, as when geometrising.

Kant’s Amazing Insight

There is such a thing in nature as handedness, or chirality. For instance, in most people, the hair whorl on the crown spirals clockwise, from left to right. Hops wind clockwise, beans anticlockwise. Most snails coil clockwise, though a few species are predominantly or exclusively sinistral. Many molecules exist in both right- and left-handed variants. With thalidomide, it is only the S-enantiomer that leads to birth defects.

Kant had the amazing insight that no amount of verbal description can capture the difference between “incongruent counterparts” such as your right and left hand. What distinguishes the two can only be grasped through sensible intuition, which is tied to a conscious, embodied being’s subjective frame of reference.

Kant used this analysis of incongruent counterparts to bolster his argument that “space in general does not belong to the properties or relations of things in themselves.” 

The Mysterious World-in-Itself

Space and time are like the irremovable spectacles through which the human mind sees the world, and without which it would not be able to see it. Thus, as far as humans are concerned, space and time are not subjective but objective, insofar as they are “built-in” and common to all. If you are human, there is simply no other way of seeing the world.

This notion that objectivity is based on inter-subjectivity is one of Kant’s most important principles, underlying not only his metaphysics and theory of knowledge, but also his ethics and aesthetics. For instance, when making ethical decisions, we ought to abstract from our contingent circumstances and reason like any and every rational mind. When making ethical decisions, we seek to become everybody—to become pure mind or pure reason, like God.

At this point, you may be asking yourself, if space and time are not features of the world-in-itself, what remains of an object, say, a tree or a table, outside of space and time? For Kant, the nature of the “thing-in-itself” [German, das Ding an sich, or noumenon] is entirely beyond the bounds of human knowledge. All we can say—contra Bishop Berkeley, who held that things are nothing more than perceptions in the mind—is that it exists in some form or other.

Could Kant Be Right?

A criticism of Kant’s position is that we ourselves are objects in the world: our very existence and make-up presuppose space and time—which are therefore not “of the mind.”

Kant’s response is that human beings have a dual status. The phenomenal self is indeed a part of the phenomenal world. But the “I think” that makes experience and self-consciousness possible is not. This so-called noumenal self is the source of rationality and morality, and, because it stands outside of nature and contingency, of freedom as well. Our dual status is how we can still be morally free and responsible in an otherwise determined universe.

Kant thought of space as Euclidean. The later development of general relativity and non-Euclidean geometries, with their implication that space is not uniform, undermined Kant’s notion of space as an intuition—even though the human intuition of space might still be Euclidean.

Kant arrived at his radical position in seeking to bridge rationalism and empiricism and explain how synthetic à priori knowledge might be possible, that is, explain how we might possess universal, necessary knowledge about the world (or, at least, the phenomenal world) that is more than just definitionally true. By showing that the mind actively shapes how we experience reality, Kant synthesised rationalism and empiricism into a completely new framework called transcendental idealism.

Philosophy tends to answer one conundrum with an even bigger one—which happens, however, to be partially or accidentally insightful. “Conundrum” is a humorous mock-Latin word coined by 17th-century Oxford students seeking to lighten their load.

Neel Burton is the author of the newly published The German Greeks: German Philosophy and the German Philosophers.

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Why Is There Something Rather Than Nothing?

Two birds in a tree
There is a certain urge for existence… a straining toward existence in possible things. —Leibniz

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Why does the world exist? Or to put it another way, why is there something rather than nothing? This ultimate mystery in philosophy and physics has been called the ‘Fundamental Question of Metaphysics’.

The question is stranger than it might at first seem. We are accustomed to asking why particular things exist—a tree, a country, even a planet—but here we are asking why there should be anything at all.

First, it might be that the question itself is misguided. ‘Nothing’, it is argued, is a human abstraction used to describe the absence of specific entities. The concept cannot be extended to all reality. If there truly was ‘nothing’, then nothing could ever exist, which contradicts the brute fact that we are here to pose the question.

Already in the fifth century BCE, the pre-Socratic Parmenides of Elea argued that one cannot speak or think of ‘nothing’. To think of anything at all, it must in some sense exist or pre-exist. Logically, something cannot come out of nothing, or nothing out of something. If there is something, there cannot have been nothing, and vice versa.

This line of reasoning led Parmenides to conclude, first, that reality, properly understood, cannot come into being or pass away, and, second, that all change is in some sense an illusion.

Quantum Physics

When we try to imagine nothingness, we find that we cannot. In our mind’s eye, there is still, for example, light and space. ‘Nothing’ could be a non-descript state, lacking the laws and properties enabling it to maintain itself. Thus, ‘nothing’ would be an unstable state, and bound to collapse into ‘something’. Existence, perhaps, is more stable than non-existence—with complex existence being most stable of all. Maybe that’s why you’re here, reading this essay: because you’re quite stable.

Many physicists tell us that an absolute vacuum is likely impossible. Quantum fields constantly fluctuate, creating energy and particles out of what we perceive as empty space. What we perceive as empty space is really a bubbling ‘foam’ in which virtual particles and fields constantly flicker in and out of existence. The hypothesis that ‘nature abhors a vacuum’ (horror vacui) is attributed already to Aristotle.

Still, a quantum field is something. Quantum physics merely explains how to get ‘something from something’, rather than ‘something from absolute nothing’. Also, quantum physics presupposes the laws of quantum physics, without being able to account for their origin. Maybe that’s all that existence, or minimal existence, entails: simply a set of laws, or mathematics.

But the same question remains, albeit at one remove: why are there laws, or mathematics, rather than nothing at all?

Leibniz’s Cosmological Argument

Gottfried Leibniz (1646–1716) built his entire metaphysical system of monads on just two fundamental principles of reasoning, namely, the principle of non-contradiction and the principle of sufficient reason.

  • The principle of non-contradiction states that a proposition and its negation cannot simultaneously be true; therefore, if one is true, the other must be false, and vice versa.
  • The principle of sufficient reason states that everything must have a reason or cause, even when those reasons cannot be known to us. There are no brute facts.

From the principle of sufficient reason follows Leibniz’s question: If everything has a cause or reason, the universe, too, must have had some first cause or reason—traditionally identified with God.

Leibniz thought that the old ontological argument for the existence of God, according to which the very concept of God as a supremely perfect being entails his existence, is incomplete, since it proves only that the perfect being exists if he is possible.

In 1697, Leibniz wrote a short treatise, On the Ultimate Origin of Things, in which he supplements and buttresses the ontological argument with a ‘cosmological argument’ founded on the principle of sufficient reason, according to which the cause of the cosmos, which consists in a contingent series of dependent causes, can only be a first, necessary, or uncaused cause.

The critical distinction is between contingent things, which might not have existed, and the necessary being, which could not have failed to exist. The chain of contingent explanations, Leibniz thought, must ultimately lead back to necessity.

The Best of All Possible Worlds

But that there is a God, or First Cause, does not explain why this entity created the world. Thus, in On the Ultimate Origin of Things, Leibniz also asks our question, why is there something rather than nothing—and replies, rather poetically: because good and beautiful things demand to exist.

…since something rather than nothing exists, there is a certain urge for existence or (so to speak) a straining toward existence in possible things or in possibility or essence itself; in a word, essence in and of itself strives for existence.

Furthermore, it follows from this that all possibles, that is, everything that expresses essence or possible reality, strive with equal right for existence in proportion to the amount of essence or reality or the degree of perfection they contain, for perfection is nothing but the amount of essence. From this it is obvious that of the infinite combinations of possibilities and possible series, the one that exists is the one through which the most essence or possibility is brought into existence…

Instead of asking why anything should have escaped from nothingness, Leibniz imagines possible things straining for existence, competing, as it were, to be realised.

Leibniz used this line of thought to bolster his argument that ours must be the best of all possible worlds, with moons, roses, starfish, wine, and talking monkeys like us.

In Candide, Voltaire famously mocked Leibniz’s optimism. But quantum physics seems to echo his deeper idea: that existence might not be some accident, but something towards which possibility itself inclines.

Moreover, there is something intuitively true in Leibniz’s idea. Or why else do we build cathedrals, compose symphonies, and plant gardens?

I’ll leave you with this one thought. Whenever we are able to imagine something good and beautiful, we, too, like God, conspire to bring that thing into existence.

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To explore Leibniz’s ideas in their historical context—and discover how they influenced Kant, Hegel, Schopenhauer, and Nietzsche—see my book, The German Greeks.

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