Philosophy Post #10: The Shadows of Harmony: Examining the Limitations of Confucianism

 

The Shadows of Harmony: Examining the Limitations of Confucianism

In my previous post, I introduced the core ideas of Confucianism—a philosophy that emphasizes virtue, human relationships, social harmony, and the cultivation of character. It is a philosophy of order, ritual, and respect, and has shaped the cultures of China, Korea, Japan, and Vietnam for centuries.

But like any grand philosophical tradition, Confucianism is not immune to critique. Its vision of society, while noble in intention, carries certain assumptions and blind spots that deserve closer attention. In this post, I want to explore a few of the limitations of Confucianism—not to dismiss it, but to understand it more honestly.

1. Hierarchy Over Equality

One of the most frequently critiqued aspects of Confucianism is its deep emphasis on hierarchical relationships. Whether between ruler and subject, parent and child, or husband and wife, Confucian ethics prescribes a top-down structure of roles and obligations. While this can promote stability and clarity, it also risks cementing social inequalities. It can be used to justify authoritarianism, patriarchy, or the silencing of dissent—on the grounds that “harmony” must be preserved.

In a modern context, especially one that values democratic governance, gender equality, and freedom of expression, this hierarchical model feels increasingly out of step.

2. Tradition as a Constraint

Confucianism holds tradition in extremely high regard. The rituals (li) and moral teachings of the ancients are viewed not only as useful but sacred. But this reverence can come at a cost. When tradition becomes unchallengeable, it can stifle innovation, suppress reform, and discourage critical thinking. It can lead to a kind of cultural inertia—where people defer to the wisdom of the past rather than reimagining the future.

In this way, Confucianism’s strength—its respect for inherited wisdom—can also be its weakness.

3. Overemphasis on Conformity

Confucian ethics relies heavily on role-based duties and the moral ideal of behaving “appropriately” within one’s social station. But this emphasis on fulfilling expectations can create intense pressure to conform—to be the “good son,” the “dutiful wife,” the “obedient citizen.” There is little room for individual freedom, nonconformity, or creative self-expression in the classical Confucian world.

In today’s more individualistic societies, where self-discovery and autonomy are celebrated, this can feel overly restrictive—even suffocating.

4. A Tool for the Powerful?

Historically, Confucianism has often been adopted by ruling elites as a tool for social control. Its teachings were used to justify imperial authority, filial obedience, and the subordination of women. While this may not reflect Confucius’ original intentions, it shows how the system can be manipulated to preserve power structures, discouraging rebellion or systemic change in the name of “order.”

This raises the question: can Confucianism be reinterpreted for a more just society, or is its architecture too bound up with older, feudal assumptions?

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To be clear, these critiques are not meant to erase the value Confucianism still holds for many today. Its call for ethical leadership, familial responsibility, and deep moral self-cultivation remains relevant. But we must engage with Confucianism critically—not just as a timeless guide, but as a product of its time.

In a globalized world where philosophy meets politics, ethics, and daily life, it’s not enough to ask what a tradition says. We must also ask: Whose voices are amplified by it? Whose are silenced? What does it make possible—and what does it prevent?

These are questions worth keeping in mind as we continue our journey through the world’s great philosophical traditions.

Philosophy Post #9: What is Confucianism? A Philosophy of Harmony, Order, and Human Relationships

What is Confucianism? A Philosophy of Harmony, Order, and Human Relationships

This post continues my series of reflections on philosophical traditions from around the world. Today we travel eastward, to the intellectual heart of ancient China, and explore Confucianism—a philosophy that is not only deeply rooted in Chinese culture, but has also influenced East Asian societies for over two millennia.

At the center of Confucianism is Confucius (Kong Fuzi), a thinker and teacher who lived during the 6th century BCE, during a time of political turmoil and social breakdown. Rather than escaping the world, Confucius sought to heal society through moral cultivation. He believed that the path to a just and harmonious society began not with laws or punishments, but with people—particularly their virtue, character, and sense of duty.

Confucianism teaches that human relationships are the foundation of a good life. The most famous example is the Five Relationships: ruler–subject, parent–child, husband–wife, elder sibling–younger sibling, and friend–friend. Each of these relationships comes with specific responsibilities, based on mutual respect and hierarchy. For example, a child should honor their parents, and a ruler should lead with moral integrity. In Confucian thought, harmony is not the product of radical equality—it’s the result of everyone playing their part with sincerity and care.

Key to Confucianism is the idea of ren (仁), often translated as “humaneness” or “benevolence.” It’s a kind of deep empathy and goodness toward others—an inner moral compass that guides our behavior. Another central concept is li (礼), meaning ritual or propriety. It includes everything from table manners to funeral rites and political ceremonies. Confucius believed that li gives shape to our respect for others and reinforces social harmony through well-practiced forms of behavior.

And yet, like all systems of thought, Confucianism is not without its limitations. Its emphasis on hierarchy can feel rigid or even oppressive in modern contexts, especially when it reinforces unequal power dynamics in families, workplaces, or governments. Its reverence for tradition can sometimes stifle creativity or individual expression. And because it was historically used by ruling elites to maintain social order, it has occasionally been more about conformity than curiosity.

Still, there’s something profoundly moving about Confucianism’s vision of life. It doesn’t ask you to chase fame, fortune, or even mystical enlightenment. Instead, it asks: Are you being a good son, daughter, friend, citizen, mentor, or leader? And it insists that a society of good people—no matter how imperfect—can build something deeply humane.

In a world obsessed with disruption and speed, Confucianism reminds us that slow virtue matters. That respect for the past can be a source of strength. And that living well isn’t just a personal quest—it’s a social responsibility.

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~ Cropped version of Confucius Portrait, Kongzi (Confucius) Family Mansion ~

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Philosophy Post #8: The Limits of Stoicism: Why This Ancient Philosophy Isn’t the Whole Answer

Philosophy Post #8: The Limits of Stoicism: Why This Ancient Philosophy Isn’t the Whole Answer

Stoicism has gained a modern following for good reason—it offers clarity, peace, and strength in a chaotic world. But like any philosophical system, Stoicism has its limits. It’s not a flawless guide to life, and if we’re honest, there are important questions it struggles to answer. In this post, I want to highlight some of those limitations—not to reject Stoicism, but to invite a more nuanced engagement with it.

First, the zeroth issue. (Why a zeroth issue? Because it seems like an idiosyncratic way of doing things, and because it is just as scientific to start your numbering from zero, as opposed to one.) The zeroth issue is that Stoicism is not based in Science. While its emphasis on internal control and personal virtue is admirable, but in some ways, it sidelines the question of whether any of its practices are based in Science. With that out of the way, let us look at the other issues, in turn.

The first issue is emotional suppression vs. expression. While Stoicism doesn’t tell us to suppress emotion outright, it does often lean toward minimising its role in our lives. This can be a strength in moments of crisis—but over time, it may lead to emotional distance or disconnection. Human relationships thrive on emotional resonance, on vulnerability, on being moved. If we always strive to be unmoved, do we risk losing something essential—like deep joy, empathy, or grief that connects us to others?

Second, Stoicism can come across as too individualistic. Its emphasis on internal control and personal virtue is admirable, but in some ways, it sidelines the structural and systemic dimensions of human life. Not everything in life is just a matter of attitude. Injustices like poverty, racism, or exploitation can’t be conquered by mental composure alone. A Stoic might say, “Accept what you can’t change”—but sometimes, we must try to change what seems unchangeable. There’s a danger that Stoicism can be used as an excuse for complacency in the face of injustice.

Third, there’s the question of value and meaning. Stoicism tells us to live in accordance with nature and to cultivate virtue—but it doesn’t give us a very rich account of what makes life meaningful in a more poetic or existential sense. It leaves little room for imagination, creativity, or spiritual longing. For someone who is looking for a philosophy that touches on transcendence or beauty—or who wants to embrace life with more intensity—Stoicism can feel dry, or even a bit austere.

Fourth, Stoicism often lacks a sense of community or shared practice. Unlike traditions like Buddhism, which offer rituals, sanghas (communities), and structured meditations, Stoicism is mostly a personal discipline. This might work for some—but many people benefit from collective reflection, emotional support, and a shared journey. A purely inward practice can sometimes be isolating.

Finally, there’s the problem of passivity vs. agency. The Stoic advice to accept what you cannot control can be empowering—but if taken too far, it risks becoming a form of quietism. In some situations, a Stoic might refrain from taking a necessary risk or fighting for a better outcome, simply because the result lies outside their control. Yet much of human progress depends on people acting despite uncertainty—often irrationally, even passionately—rather than always weighing their serenity against potential loss.

In conclusion, Stoicism has real value—but it is not a complete philosophy. It offers tools for resilience, but not necessarily for intimacy, activism, or transcendence. Its strengths are undeniable—but so are its silences. For those of us seeking a fuller, richer human life, Stoicism can be one voice among many—but it should not be the only one we listen to.

And now there are other approaches available - not just different ones, but, if I may be so bold as to say it. better ones.

Philosophy Post #7: What is Stoicism? An Ancient Philosophy for Modern Life

 

[ Philosophy Post #7: What is Stoicism? An Ancient Philosophy for Modern Life ]

When people hear the word Stoic, they often imagine someone emotionless, unmoved by pleasure or pain, standing like a statue in the face of hardship. But this popular image is a distortion. Stoicism, as practiced by ancient philosophers like Epictetus, Seneca, and Marcus Aurelius, is not about suppressing emotion. It’s about mastering it—learning to respond to life with clarity, reason, and inner calm.

At its core, Stoicism is a philosophy of control and responsibility. The Stoics teach that we should divide the world into two categories: the things we can control, and the things we can’t. Our thoughts, choices, and actions are within our control; everything else—what people say about us, whether we fall ill, the economy, even death—is not. Wisdom lies in focusing only on the former. As Epictetus said, “Some things are up to us, and some things are not.”

This mindset leads to a radical kind of freedom. Once we stop wasting energy on things beyond our control, we can live more peacefully and purposefully. Stoicism doesn’t ask us to be passive—it asks us to be internally grounded, to act with intention, and to cultivate virtues like courage, justice, temperance, and wisdom. For the Stoics, a good life is a virtuous life, regardless of circumstances.

One of the most appealing features of Stoicism is its practicality. This was never a philosophy meant to stay locked up in books. It was designed to be lived. Marcus Aurelius, one of Rome’s most powerful emperors, wrote a private journal of Stoic reflections—The Meditations—not to publish, but to remind himself of how to stay calm, fair, and mindful in the chaos of ruling an empire. Seneca’s letters and Epictetus’s teachings offer similarly down-to-earth advice for navigating life’s frustrations.

In a world filled with anxiety, distraction, and endless noise, Stoicism feels more relevant than ever. It invites us to stop chasing things we can't hold onto, and instead to anchor ourselves in what truly matters: how we think, how we act, and how we relate to others. It teaches us that a calm mind, a strong will, and a steady heart are not gifts of fate—they are disciplines of character.

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~ Portrait of Lucius Annaeus Seneca ~

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Philosophy Post #6: From Scholasticism to Simplicity: Can a New Language Help Us Think Differently?

From Scholasticism to Simplicity: Can a New Language Help Us Think Differently?

For centuries, Western philosophy was dominated by a tradition known as Scholasticism—a dense, elaborate method of reasoning rooted in medieval theology and often written in heavily technical Latin. At its height, Scholasticism sought to harmonize Christian doctrine with Aristotelian logic. It was rigorous, yes—but also rigid, buried in layers of assumption and inaccessible language.

Reading Scholastic texts today can feel like wandering through a maze of syllogisms, where every turn is guarded by an angel or a demon. The premises are theological, the arguments circular, and the language anything but welcoming. Thinkers like Peter Abelard were doing intellectual gymnastics, not because the questions were purely philosophical, but because the answers had already been decided by dogma. The task wasn’t to explore, but to justify.

And that’s where the problem lies: Scholasticism often confuses cleverness with clarity. The tradition rewards intricate arguments but rarely asks whether the foundations themselves deserve scrutiny. As a result, it can become a philosophical echo chamber—brilliant in form, hollow in spirit.

Now contrast that with Esperanto.

Esperanto is a constructed language, designed not by theologians but by a 19th-century ophthalmologist who believed in mutual understanding across cultures. Its grammar is logical, its vocabulary simple, and its politics—if any—lean toward peace and openness rather than orthodoxy.

Where Scholasticism thrives on inherited assumptions, Esperanto invites you to start fresh. It doesn't ask what Thomas Aquinas thought about metaphysics; it asks whether you can express your ideas in a way that another person—anywhere in the world—can understand. It’s the linguistic opposite of Scholasticism: not hierarchical, not cryptic, but designed for clarity and collaboration.

So, can a new language help us think differently? I believe it can.

Not because Esperanto is perfect. But because it liberates us from inherited jargon and offers us a chance to rethink not only what we say—but how we say it. Where Scholasticism binds us, Esperanto frees us. (However, it may also be said that Philosophies such as Buddhism and Post-Vedantic Hinduism also offer the tools to draw a new map, since they are not belief based.)  Language is not just a vessel for thought; it shapes the very architecture of our thinking. And sometimes, the best way to escape the labyrinth is not to argue our way through it—but to draw a new map. 

To that end, I’ve recorded a short talk introducing Esperanto. It’s available here:
🎥 Watch my talk on Esperanto 

If you’ve ever felt trapped by academic language, if you’ve ever wished that ideas could travel faster than institutions—this might be for you. (Please note that I am still a beginner at Esperanto and am not confident enough to deliver a whole talk in that language. In fact, I was using teleprompter software and other software downloaded onto my computer for the whole thing.) This sort of stuff is worth doing in the area of philosophy. Because, after all, the future of philosophy may not lie in deeper footnotes—but in better conversations.

Update: below is the video on Esperanto once again.

Philosophy Post #5B: Further Reflections on Scholasticism + A Resource for Teachers and Learners

 

Further Reflections on Scholasticism + A Resource for Teachers and Learners

In my earlier post, I introduced Scholasticism as one of the dominant philosophical traditions of medieval Europe. Rooted in the universities and monasteries of the High Middle Ages, Scholasticism sought to harmonize faith and reason, often by subjecting theology to the rigors of logic and dialectical reasoning. Thinkers like Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, and William of Ockham exemplified this tradition—often debating everything from the nature of the soul to the limits of divine omnipotence using syllogisms and structured disputation.

What fascinates me about Scholasticism is both its intellectual ambition and its methodological constraints. The Scholastics were incredibly sharp—they pushed logic to its limits—but they were also working within a very specific framework: Christian theology was not up for debate. This made the system internally rich but externally brittle. Once certain metaphysical or theological assumptions were questioned, the entire edifice began to tremble.

For those who are interested in following along in this discussion, I’ve created a Teaching Document as a resource that is meant to be a checkpoint along the road. This resource is designed to be accessible whether you’re a student, an educator, or just a curious reader.

📄 You can access the document here:
https://tinyurl.com/2vthh2c5

📱 Prefer a quick scan? Here’s the QR code for the same document:

Please go to the following subfolder:

/1__Scholasticism__TD

Feel free to share it, adapt it, or discuss it with others. Scholasticism remains one of the more misunderstood chapters in the history of thought, and I hope this resource can help open up some useful conversations.

More philosophical reflections are on their way. Stay tuned!

Philosophy Post #5A: What Is Scholasticism? And Why It Might Be Holding Us Back

Philosophy Post #5A: What Is Scholasticism? And Why It Might Be Holding Us Back

If you’ve spent any time reading medieval philosophy—or even just certain corners of Catholic intellectual writing—you’ve likely run into the term Scholasticism. But what exactly is Scholasticism? And why does it matter?

Let’s take a moment to unpack the tradition… and then ask some hard questions about what it actually achieved—and where it may have gone off the rails.

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What Is Scholasticism?

Scholasticism was the dominant method of learning and philosophy in medieval Europe, roughly from the 11th to the 17th century. It wasn’t a single school of thought, but rather a method—a way of doing philosophy and theology within the institutional context of the Christian university.

The method is marked by a few key features:

• Systematic reasoning: Scholastics loved structure. They organized knowledge meticulously, laying out arguments in precise, almost legalistic formats.

• Dialectical approach: The classic Scholastic text follows a pattern—pose a question, present objections, state a thesis, then respond to the objections. It’s debate in slow motion.

• Reconciliation of authorities: The goal wasn’t just to think independently—it was to harmonize reason with revealed theology. This meant resolving tensions between thinkers like Aristotle and Church Fathers like Augustine.

• Centrality of theology: Scholasticism wasn’t secular. At its core, it was about clarifying and defending Christian doctrine using the tools of philosophy.

The high point of Scholasticism came with figures like Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, and William of Ockham. Their work, especially Aquinas’s synthesis of Aristotelian philosophy with Christian theology, became foundational for Catholic thought even to this day.

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What’s Impressive About It

Let’s be fair: Scholasticism was no intellectual lightweight.

It preserved and advanced logical analysis during a time when Europe could have easily descended into anti-intellectualism. It gave us early forms of legal reasoning, formal disputation, and systematic metaphysics. Without Scholastic methods, the Renaissance and early scientific thought may not have had the intellectual scaffolding they needed to emerge.

So yes, Scholasticism was brilliant—in its own way.

But brilliance doesn’t mean infallibility.

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Where Scholasticism Falls Short

Despite its intellectual rigor, Scholasticism comes with serious limitations—especially if we view it as a guide for philosophical inquiry today.

1. Dogmatic Foundations
   Scholastic reasoning starts with the assumption that Christian doctrine is true. The Trinity, the immortality of the soul, divine omnipotence—these aren’t up for debate. They’re premises, not conclusions. That means the entire intellectual system is constrained from the outset. You can reason within the faith, but not about the faith. And that’s not real philosophical freedom.

2. Overemphasis on Authority
   Scholastics weren’t trying to overthrow Aristotle or Augustine. They were trying to fit them together. The aim was synthesis, not critique. But what if some authorities are simply wrong? What if Aristotle’s metaphysics can’t be squared with Christian theology? Too bad—you’re expected to find a way.

3. Abstract Detachment from Experience
   Scholastic debates often became labyrinthine. Discussions about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin weren’t jokes—they were serious metaphysical puzzles. But that kind of intellectualism can become self-referential, detached from the actual human condition. Scholasticism became, in many cases, brilliant but irrelevant.

4. Resistance to Modernity
   Perhaps the biggest issue is that many neo-Scholastics today treat this medieval tradition as timeless. But philosophy moves. It evolves. To ignore modern developments—like existentialism, phenomenology, analytic philosophy, or even non-Western thought—is to close yourself off from the richness of philosophical diversity.

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So Why Are Some People Still Obsessed With It?

Part of the appeal is emotional: Scholasticism offers structure, clarity, and the comforting sense that the universe is ultimately rational and ordered. For those who feel adrift in modernity, it’s a way back to certainty.

But that same comfort can become a cage.

Philosophy shouldn’t be about defending what you already believe. It should be about risking your beliefs—pushing them, testing them, breaking them if needed. And that’s something Scholasticism, for all its brilliance, has a very hard time doing.

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Conclusion: Learn From It, But Don’t Stay Trapped

Study Aquinas. Read Scotus. Appreciate the intellectual achievement of the Scholastic tradition. But don’t confuse a beautiful structure with a living, breathing philosophy.

We owe the Scholastics our respect. But we don’t owe them our loyalty.

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Philosophy Post #4: The Problem with Philosophical Experience - A Talk

Here is the transcript of a talk I have prepared on Étienne Gilson’s The Unity of Philosophical Experience. 

Please feel free to offer thoughts and comments via email

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 The Problem with Philosophical Experience - A Talk

A Talk Inspired by Feser and Gilson

 

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Hello everyone, and welcome.

Today I want to respond to Edward Feser’s recent commentary on Étienne Gilson’s The Unity of Philosophical Experience. Feser’s piece is, in many ways, a good example of the problems with Scholasticism. It may be recalled that Scholasticism was the dominant philosophy of Europe not merely for years but for centuries. From what I understand, Étienne Gilson’s The Unity of Philosophical Experience outlines how various philosophers throughout history have attempted to reduce metaphysics to narrower disciplines—like logic, physics, or epistemology—and how, in doing so, they’ve created intellectual dead-ends.

It’s an elegant argument. But I think something’s missing—not just in Gilson’s thesis, but in Feser’s uncritical embrace of it.

Let’s take a closer look at Feser’s treatment of Peter Abelard. Scholasticism paints the Bible as the inerrant word of God, and Gilson paints Abelard as a figure who reduces metaphysics to mere logic. According to this view, Abelard’s project is an early example of philosophy losing its grounding—an attempt to substitute rigorous reasoning for metaphysical depth.

But that strikes me as far too simplistic.

What neither Gilson nor did Aquinas do is fully engage with is the context in which Abelard was writing. Abelard wasn’t just some rogue logician; he was operating within a deeply theological milieu. He was trying, like many Scholastics, to reconcile faith and reason—to find coherence within the doctrines of Christianity using the tools of logic and philosophy.

So when Abelard appears to be “reducing metaphysics to logic,” it’s not some abstract methodological error. It’s part of a larger, tortured effort to make religious belief philosophically respectable. And to critique him without acknowledging that broader intellectual pressure is to miss the point entirely.

Here’s the irony, though: Edward Feser is not a disinterested historian of philosophy. He himself is deeply embedded in a Catholic metaphysical worldview. He affirms the existence of the soul. He defends natural law. He upholds the Thomistic framework.

And that means he is bound by the same theological premises that shaped the thinkers he critiques.

This is where things get really interesting—because if you’re too committed to a tradition, it becomes harder to see its limitations. You might criticize Abelard, or Descartes, or Kant, but only within the bounds of a worldview you refuse to question.

That’s what I think is happening with Feser’s take on Gilson. He’s not able to ask the deeper question: What if the real problem wasn’t that metaphysics was reduced to logic, but that metaphysics itself had become overly entangled with theology to begin with? What if the Scholastic project—so beloved by Feser—was flawed at the root?

As people of the Twenty First Century not beholden to any religious tradition, I feel that we should feel freer to ask that kind of question. I can appreciate the historical richness of Scholasticism while still seeing how its foundations—rooted in theological dogma—constrain philosophical inquiry.

Let me be clear: I don’t think Abelard’s ethics are wrong in a factual sense. On the contrary, it’s often quite illuminating and one can even find a sense of fraternity with the values he is trying to inspire. The same may be said of Thomas Aquinas, and indeed, even Edward Feser. But Feser’s reading of philosophical history is warped by a longing for metaphysical certainty—a kind of nostalgia for the ordered cosmos of medieval thought. And that makes it hard for him to fairly evaluate what modern thinkers were actually trying to do.

So, in closing: Gilson’s Unity of Philosophical Experience could well be worth reading for its historical sweep. But we should be wary of how thinkers like Feser use that history. Because sometimes, what appears to be a deep philosophical insight is actually a defense mechanism—a way to avoid confronting the very uncertainties that make philosophy so powerful in the first place.

Thank you.

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Philosophy Post #3: The Problem with Philosophical Experience: A Response to Edward Feser on Gilson

Edward Feser’s recent commentary on Étienne Gilson’s The Unity of Philosophical Experience is a fascinating read—but not necessarily for the reasons Feser himself might intend. He offers a summary of Gilson’s historical argument, tracing how metaphysical errors—often caused by attempts to reduce metaphysics to some narrower discipline—have led to intellectual dead-ends. Yet, despite the elegance of the historical overview, it is not at all clear how Edward is approaching these matters critically. In fact, one gets the impression that he is too entangled in the same tradition he seeks to clarify.

You might suppose from the title of Etienne Gilson’s The Unity of Philosophical Experience that it is a book about philosophy in general.  And ultimately it is.  But its bulk is devoted to detailed accounts of the ideas of thinkers Gilson regards as having gotten things badly wrong, such as Abelard, Ockham, Descartes, Malebranche, Kant, and Comte.  There is relatively little about thinkers Gilson regards as having gotten things largely right, such as Aristotle and Aquinas.  This might seem odd.  For the sympathetic reader might suppose that the experience of philosophers like Aristotle and Aquinas should surely count as least as much as (indeed, more than) that of more wayward thinkers, when elucidating the nature of philosophy.

But such a reaction would reflect a misunderstanding of the book’s title.  “Philosophical experience,” as Gilson uses the phrase, has nothing to do with some way of life or psychological profile that philosophers share in common.  He’s not concerned with “what it’s like to be a philosopher,” as Thomas Nagel might say.  A clue to what he does mean is provided by the titles he gives the book’s first three parts, viz. “The Medieval Experiment,” “The Cartesian Experiment,” and “The Modern Experiment.”  The “experience” referred to in Gilson’s title is analogous to the experience on which empirical science rests.  It has to do with a kind of experimentation to which certain philosophical ideas have, in a way, been put.

What way is that?  Gilson holds that “the history of philosophy is to the philosopher what his laboratory is to the scientist” (p. 95).  The theories of empirical science entail predictions which can be tested by observation.  By contrast, metaphysical theories, which concern matters that transcend what can be observed, cannot be tested that way.  All the same, such theories also have their entailments, and if a metaphysical theory leads to conclusions that are incoherent or otherwise known to be false, then we have grounds for rejecting it.  Now, given the limitations of the individual human intellect, not all the implications of a metaphysical theory are ever worked out or understood by the individual thinker who came up with it.  We need to look to what his successors had to say in developing further the thinker’s premises, taking them in new directions, criticizing them, and so on.  Hence it is to the history of philosophy, rather than to the laboratory, that we must look in order to test metaphysical theories.  The “experiments” to which such a theory is put are, essentially, embodied in the historical record of what happened as the theory was developed and criticized in this way.

Take, for instance, the treatment of Peter Abelard. Gilson criticizes Abelard for reducing metaphysical questions to issues of logic. But this seems like a shallow way to frame the issue. What neither of them appears to fully acknowledge is the sheer intellectual acrobatics someone like Abelard had to perform just to rationalize Christian dogma. Abelard’s work is not simply “logicism” gone awry—it is the product of a historical struggle to harmonize reason with faith. Rather than pick apart Abelard’s philosophy as a free-floating error, we should first recognize that he belongs to a larger intellectual tradition: Scholasticism. And that approach itself is deeply problematic, precisely because it begins with premises that are not up for examination—namely, theological ones.

But here is the real irony: Edward Feser is no neutral observer. He believes in the soul. He advances a largely Catholic metaphysical framework. And this puts him in the very position that distorts his reading of the philosophers he critiques. He cannot simply say that Scholasticism was a dead-end or that reducing metaphysics to logic was, in Abelard’s case, a desperate attempt to square belief with reason. He’s too committed to preserving the same structure Abelard was struggling within. As a result, he ties himself up in the same knots and is unable to untangle himself.

This makes it remarkably easy for someone like me—who is not bound by such dogmatic commitments—to critique Feser’s position. It’s not that everything he says is wrong. In fact, it’s sometimes illuminating. But the lens through which he views the history of philosophy is so skewed by his theological commitments that it warps his conclusions. And so it is up to the reader to figure out which part he gets right and which part he gets wrong. So, that makes his work less than satisfactory. The very idea that modern philosophy is a “synthesis of all metaphysical errors” is, frankly, the kind of sweeping dismissal one can only make if one is nostalgic for a lost metaphysical order—usually a medieval one—rather than genuinely curious about what modern thinkers were trying to accomplish.

In short: Gilson’s book may be worth reading for its historical insights, but Feser’s reading of it—like much of neo-Scholasticism—tells us more about the anxieties of Catholic metaphysicians than it does about the true dynamics of philosophical progress. And that, in itself, is a kind of “philosophical experience” worth thinking about.

Philosophy Post #2 : Do Souls Exist? A Short Talk on Philosophy in English and Esperanto

 [ Philosophy Post #2 : Do Souls Exist? A Short Talk on Philosophy in English and Esperanto ]

I’ve recently begun working on a series of short reflections on philosophy and economics — topics that I find both intellectually rich and deeply relevant to how we live our lives. These talks are meant to be accessible and thought-provoking, offering a mix of traditional ideas and new perspectives.

This first entry in the philosophy series takes up a classic question: Do souls exist? The idea was prompted by a recent review of Edward Feser’s book Immortal Souls, which defends the idea of the soul from a Catholic, Thomistic standpoint. While the book is dense and wide-ranging, it raises a central issue that’s worth pausing over — especially in our era of scientific skepticism and diverse worldviews.

In this talk (presented first in English, then in Esperanto), I question the assumption that the soul exists, and explore how Buddhism — with its doctrine of anattā or “non-self” — offers a radically different take. Rather than seeing the soul as immortal or essential, Buddhist philosophy invites us to let go of the idea entirely.

The talk was recorded using a simple teleprompter setup, allowing me to read a prepared script directly from my screen. That makes it easier to present the same ideas in multiple languages, including Esperanto.

More short talks will follow — on both philosophical and economic themes — and I hope you’ll find them worth thinking about. 

Here’s the video in English and Esperanto - I don't know what I sound like in Esperanto. I am still a beginner. This stuff might even seem weird, but I find a lot of Edward Feser's arguments quite weird as well, as a matter of fact.

Philosophy Post #1: Souls, Faith, and a Buddhist Contrast

 Philosophy Post #1: Souls, Faith, and a Buddhist Contrast

I’ve decided to start sharing a few reflections on philosophy (and soon, economics as well). Here's the first post — prompted by a recent review of Edward Feser’s book Immortal Souls: A Treatise on Human Nature by Sam Nicholson in Catholic World Report.

At Catholic World Report, philosopher Sam Nicholson kindly reviews my book Immortal Souls: A Treatise on Human Nature.  From the review:

"As its title suggests, Immortal Souls by Edward Feser provides a robust philosophical defense of the immortality of the soul.  The scope of the book reaches far beyond this one topic, however, as Feser methodically exposits and defends the entire Aristotelian-Thomist metaphysics of the human person, addressing in depth such topics as personal identity, freedom of the will, perception and cognition, phenomenal consciousness, and artificial intelligence.  The result is an extraordinarily comprehensive and detailed sweep through contemporary philosophy of mind, addressing nearly every major topic of interest.  Feser makes a forceful case that Thomism remains a live option, able to resolve many seemingly intractable problems at the intersection of philosophy and the sciences of cognition…

Immortal Souls covers so much ground, and is so dense with argumentation, it would be impossible to survey every topic it addresses in a short review…

Those who work their way through its five hundred plus pages will come away with a solid grasp of the current state of play in contemporary philosophy of mind, which is a richly interdisciplinary field that incorporates findings from psychology and cognitive science in addition to the traditional categories of metaphysics and epistemology.  Feser displays an impressive breadth of knowledge in this area, showing himself conversant not only with Thomism and the analytic tradition, but with recent discussions that draw upon phenomenology and empirical psychology as well."

Feser’s book offers a deep Aristotelian-Thomist defense of the soul’s immortality and delves into areas like personal identity, cognition, consciousness, and AI. The review praises it as a rigorous and wide-ranging survey of contemporary philosophy of mind.

Alrighhht, Sam, thank you. But here’s something worth thinking about.

Catholicism holds that there is a soul, but there’s never been any concrete proof of such a thing. Nobody has ever seen a soul. No one has measured one. It’s not like a heart or a brain — it’s not something empirical. So how do we know a soul exists at all?

Here’s where it gets tricky: Sam Nicholson, the reviewer, is writing for Catholic World Report. Is he, perhaps, Catholic himself? If so, how neutral is the review? He might be ideologically or theologically committed to believing in the soul — in which case, his praise for the book becomes less a matter of reasoned evaluation and more one of reinforcing prior belief. That doesn’t mean the book isn’t thoughtful or valuable, but it raises an important question: when metaphysics is tied too tightly to theology, how do we maintain intellectual independence?

Contrast this with Buddhism, where things are quite different.

In classical Buddhist thought, there is no permanent, unchanging self or soul. The doctrine of anattā (Pali) or anātman (Sanskrit) explicitly denies the existence of an eternal soul. What we think of as a “self” is actually a collection of changing phenomena — thoughts, sensations, memories — which arise and pass away moment to moment. Holding on to the illusion of a permanent self, say the Buddhists, is a root cause of suffering. Liberation lies in letting go of that illusion, not reinforcing it.

This idea — no eternal soul, no unchanging essence — stands in radical opposition to Catholic and Thomist metaphysics. And yet, it leads to an equally rich philosophical and ethical framework. So it’s worth asking: is it more intellectually honest to begin with no assumptions about the soul, and see where experience and reflection take us?

More philosophy posts coming soon. Including some thoughts on Stoicism, Epicureanism, and a new philosophical proposal - really, a whole new Philosophy which stands as a rival to Stoicism, Epicureanism and even Scholasticism and arguably even Catholicism itself - of my own.