Boltzmann on Time: Directionality and Entropic States

The intuitive world of phenomena is generally, if not always, perceived as four-dimensional. The dimension of time differs from the three dimensions of space in that it is directional. One can travel between two spatial points in either order: from A to B, or from B to A.

But between two temporal points, one can, and usually must, travel only in one direction: from earlier to later, and never from later to earlier. How is this distinctive feature of time to be understood?

Ludwig Boltzmann looks to the second law of thermodynamics to understand time’s directionality. He argues that the move from order to disorder does not occur with time, but rather that this move is time, or rather, that it determines the direction of time.

Boltzmann further asks about the implications of time’s directionality. If one can travel through time in only one direction, then is the set of possible events limited or conditioned by this fact? In his words,

Is the apparent irreversibility of all known natural processes consistent with the idea that all natural events are possible without restriction? Is the apparent unidirectionality of time consistent with the infinite extent or cyclic nature of time? He who tries to answer these questions in the affirmative sense must use as a model of the world a system whose temporal variation is determined by equations in which the positive and negative directions of time are equivalent, and by means of which the appearance of irreversibility over long periods of time is explicable by some special assumption. But this is precisely what happens in the atomic view of the world.

The universe, which according Boltzmann is on average in equilibrium, can contain local regions which, apparently spontaneously, move themselves into a state of disequilibrium. His view of the universe is, in part, his gas theories writ large. His conception of the universe could be understood as vaguely analogous to Brownian motion: galaxies vibrating rather randomly and spontaneously.

From this notion of the universe, Boltzmann sees the directionality of time, and perhaps time itself, as arising from pockets of disequilibrium. Time, and its direction, is the flow from a state of more disequilibrium to a state of less disequilibrium.

Boltzmann is, in effect, reversing the priority of the second law of thermodynamics: It is not the case, according to him, that a system moves within time, or through time, from a state of less entropy to a state of more entropy; rather, he seems to be saying that it is the move from one state to another which gives directionality to time, and perhaps even gives rise to time itself.

One can think of the world as a mechanical system of an enormously large number of constituents, and of an immensely long period of time, so that the dimensions of that part containing our own “fixed stars” are minute compared to the extension of the universe; and times that we call eons are likewise minute compared to such a period. Then in the universe, which is in thermal equilibrium throughout and therefore dead, there will occur here and there relatively small regions of the same size as our galaxy (we call them single worlds) which, during the relative short time of eons, fluctuate noticeably from thermal equilibrium, and indeed the state probability in such cases will be equally likely to increase or decrease. For the universe, the two directions of time are indistinguishable, just as in space there is no up or down. However, just as at a particular place on the earth’s surface we call “down” the direction toward the center of the earth, so will a living being in a particular time interval of such a single world distinguish the direction of time toward the less probable state from the opposite direction (the former toward the past, the latter toward the future). By virtue of this terminology, such small isolated regions of the universe will always find themselves “initially” in an improbable state. This method seems to me to be the only way in which one can understand the second law — the heat death of each single world — without a unidirectional change of the entire universe from a definite initial state to a final state.

Boltzmann argues that the direction of time is relative: to call a particular movement through time “forward” is merely a matter of perspective; another observer might call it “backward.” The direction of time is an indexical: to move “toward the future” or “toward the past” is like moving “to the right” or “to the left” — one observer’s “right” is another observer’s “left.”

As Lawrence Sklar has pointed out, Boltzmann even leaves room for the scenario in which different local pockets of disequilibrium might have their own times running in opposite directions. This would be within the larger framework of the universe as a whole, which Boltzmann seems to view as literally timeless, having no time because it is in a state of equilibrium.

Time, then, according to Boltzmann, is secondary, and contingent upon the primary appearance of local pockets of disequilibrium. Boltzmann has some explaining to do: how and why would these local pockets of disequilibrium randomly and spontaneously appear?

Obviously no one would consider such speculations as important discoveries or even — as did the ancient philosophers — as the highest purpose of science. However it is doubtful that one should despise them as completely idle. Who knows whether they may not broaden the horizon of our circle of ideas, and by stimulating thought, advance the understanding of the facts of experience?

On Boltzmann’s account, it could be that a pocket of disequilibrium would appear in the midst of a universe in equilibrium: this would constitute time moving backward, as it were. If that pocket of disequilibrium, in its process of moving toward equilibrium, would halt, that would amount to time standing still. If that process of moving toward equilibrium were subject to occasional relapses in which there was a temporary movement back to disequilibrium, this would amount to time repeatedly changing its direction.

Further, Boltzmann’s view might entail that within the one universe there could be various disparate pockets of disequilibrium, and these sundry pockets could have times which are moving in different directions. Simply put, in one part of the universe, time could move in a direction opposite to the way it’s moving in another part of the universe.

That in nature the transition from a probable to an improbable state does not take place as often as the converse, can be explained by assuming a very improbable initial state of the entire universe surrounding us, in consequence of which an arbitrary system of interacting bodies will in general find itself initially in an improbable state. However, one may object that here and there a transition from a probable to an improbable state must occur and occasionally be observed. To this the cosmological considerations just presented give an answer. From the numerical data on the inconceivably great rareness of transition from a probable to a less probable state in observable dimensions during an observable time, we see that such a process within what we have called an individual world — in particular, our individual world — is so unlikely that its observability is excluded.

Boltzmann’s notion that time is not merely the framework within which the second law of thermodynamics plays out, but rather that the very movement from disequilibrium to equilibrium is itself time, and sets the direction of time, is thought-provoking and worth consideration.

His claim, however, that pockets of disequilibrium might suddenly, spontaneously, and randomly appear within a universe which is in equilibrium is a bold claim, for which he offers no argumentation, the vague analogy to Brownian motion, and other phenomena within physical chemistry notwithstanding.

Metaphysics: What Is It?

What is metaphysics? How do people use the word ‘metaphysics’? Those two questions are closely related. Metaphysics is a branch of philosophy which deals with things, events, and processes which are not physical.

The word ‘metaphysics’ has its origin in the Greek language and is quite old, as Roger Hancock writes:

The word metaphysics derives from the Greek meta ta physika (literally, “after the things of nature”), an expression used by Hellenistic and later commentators to refer to Aristotle’s untitled group of texts that we still call the Metaphysics. Aristotle himself called the subject of these texts first philosophy, theology, or sometimes wisdom; the phrase ta meta ta physika biblia (“the books after the books on nature”) is not used by Aristotle himself and was apparently introduced by the editors (traditionally by Andronicus of Rhodes in the first century B.C.) who classified and cataloged his works.

One aspect of metaphysics is that it deals with things that are not directly known or perceived by the five senses (sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch). By contrast, physics deals with things that can be detected by those five senses. Newtonian physics deals with falling objects, accelerating object, etc., which can be rocks or automobiles or planets, all of which can be discerned by the five senses.

Even relativistics physics, subatomic physics, and quantum physics can be verified by the senses, although not directly. Roger Hancock continues:

Later, classical and medieval philosophers took this title to mean that the subjects discussed in the Metaphysics came “after the things of nature” because they were further removed from sense perception and, therefore, more difficult to understand; they used Aristotle’s frequent contrast of things “prior and better known to us” with things “prior and better known in themselves” to explain why the treatises on first philosophy should come “after the books on physics.” In medieval and modern philosophy “metaphysics” has also been taken to mean the study of things transcending nature — that is, existing separately from nature and having more intrinsic reality and value than the things of nature — giving meta a philosophical meaning it did not have in classical Greek.

Metaphysics is in one way or another dualistic, because it supposes two levels of reality: a physical dimension and a non-physical dimension. Sometimes, metaphysicians are tempted to ascribe more importance, more value, or more reality to one of those levels over the other. Other metaphysicians are content to allow both levels to exist side-by-side as equals.

If metaphysics is the study of things that can’t be perceived by the five senses, then the question arises: How does one learn about those things?

Immanuel Kant (1724 - 1804) distinguishes between two types of knowledge: a prior and a posteriori. The phrase a priori means “from before” in Latin, and refers to knowledge that is gained prior to the experiences gained from the five senses. For example, arithmetic is considered an a priori body of knowledge, because without sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch, it is still possible to learn that 7 + 5 = 12. On the other hand, botany would be an a posteriori body of knowledge, because it is necessary to see and touch and smell and taste plants in order to know them.

Especially since Immanuel Kant metaphysics has often meant a priori speculation on questions that cannot be answered by scientific observation and experiment. Popularly, “metaphysics” has meant anything abstruse and highly theoretical — a common eighteenth-century usage illustrated by David Hume’s occasional use of metaphysical to mean “excessively subtle.”

In non-philosophical and non-academic usages, the word ‘metaphysics’ is used to deal with a variety of things, from serious spirituality to the quackery of reading tarot cards. It is necessary to distinguish between such popular usages on the one hand, and other the other hand, usages which are philosophical and academic.

The term has also been popularly associated with the spiritual, the religious, and even the occult. In modern philosophical usage metaphysics refers generally to the field of philosophy dealing with questions about the kinds of things there are and their modes of being.

Within metaphysics, the subdiscipline of ontology deals with questions about different kinds of being, and about which things exist and which ones don’t.

Upon reflection, things which cannot be discerned by the five senses are usually thought to be things which are composed of matter or energy or some mixture of the two. If one were to take the universe as it is, and remove all matter and energy, then whatever would remain would be metaphysical things.

Further analysis of these concepts yields the conclusion that metaphysical things are outside of space and time. Things often thought to be metaphysical are minds, memories, ideas, numbers, and shapes.

To better understand, it can be helpful to examine these things in pairs: A brain is a physical thing; a mind is a metaphysical thing. A numeral, which can be seen or heard, is a physical thing; a number is a metaphysical thing.

Blue paint, blue ink, blue cars, and blue jeans are physical things; the color blue by itself is a metaphysical thing.

The discipline of metaphysics borders on, and overlaps slightly with, some other subdisciplines within philosophy. Epistemology is the study of how, not what, can be known; to ask about how metaphysical things are known is to be on the borderline between metaphysics and epistemology.

Likewise, to ask about the existence of numbers is to be on the borderline between metaphysics and the philosophy of mathematics.

Its subject matter includes the concepts of existence, thing, property, event; the distinctions between particulars and universals, individuals and classes; the nature of relations, change, causation; and the nature of mind, matter, space, and time. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries metaphysics was used broadly to include questions about the reality of the external world, the existence of other minds, the possibility of a priori knowledge, and the nature of sensation, memory, abstraction, and so on. In present usage these questions are included in the study of epistemology.

The field of metaphysics has a long and varied history. Most of those who are routinely listed as significant philosophers engaged in metaphysical thought and left their marks on the field of metaphysics.

Confucius and Aristotle: Not Quite Independent Confirmation, But Close

In observational and experimental sciences, especially natural sciences, replicable and reproducible results are considered to be a part of the justification of a hypothesis or theory. While this is less the case in the social or political philosophy, it is still worth noting when two philosophers, separated by thousands of miles and several centuries, arrive at similar conclusions.

These two philosophers were also not aware of each other’s work.

Confucius was born around 551 B.C., and died in 479 B.C., having spent his entire life in China. Aristotle was born around 384 B.C., and died in 322 B.C., having lived in Greece, or on one its small coastal islands. Both of them investigated a variety of topics, including an analysis of the structures of society.

As a huge number of different chemical compounds can made from a small number of elements — say, oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen — , and as variety of structures and machines can be made from a small number of simple materials like iron, wood, and stone, so also, both Confucius and Aristotle reasoned, the many and varied structures in society might be made up of a few basic relationships.

Aristotle posited that there were three atomic relationships out of which society is constructed: employer and employee, husband and wife, parent and child. A complex relationship like “son-in-law” is built by adding “parent and child” to “husband and wife.” Another complex relationship like “grandparent” would be the product of doubling “parent and child.” He writes:

Seeing then that the state is made up of households, before speaking of the state we must speak of the management of the household. The parts of household management correspond to the persons who compose the household, and a complete household consists of slaves and freemen. Now we should begin by examining everything in its fewest possible elements; and the first and fewest possible parts of a family are master and slave, husband and wife, father and children. We have therefore to consider what each of these three relations is and ought to be.

A century or so before Aristotle, Confucius had come to a similar conclusion. He thought that there were five basic relationships in society: ruler and subject, parent and child, sibling and sibling, husband and wife, friend and friend. A complex relationship like “cousin” would be a combination of “parent and child” and “sibling and sibling.”

Describing Confucius’s thought, Wing-Tsit Chan writes:

Raising the growing humanistic tendency to a greater height than before, he talked about life instead of death and about man rather than spiritual beings. He declared that “it is man that can make the Way great and not the Way that can make man great.” For him the ideal is the harmony of the perfect individual and a well-ordered society based on the mutual moral obligations of the five human relations between ruler and minister, father and son, elder brother and younger brother, husband and wife, and one friend and another, with filial piety and brotherly respect as the two fundamental virtues. Government is to be conducted through the ruler’s moral examples, and religious ceremonies are to fulfill moral duties. Confucius sharply contrasted the superior man, whose standard is moral principle, with the inferior man whose standard is profit. In short, his whole doctrine can be summed up as ethical humanism.

The startling similarities between Aristotle’s and Confucius’s analyses of society merit study. While their independent conclusions do not guarantee their correctness, they do point to some common element in the rational investigation of human social structures.

(The Aristotle text was quoted from his Politics, Book 1, Chapter 3, 1253b1.)

Maxwell and Faraday: A Curious Synergy

In a long and noble history, various thinkers have worked to formulate what many textbooks now call “sources of experimental error.” In the ancient world, Augustine, foreshadowing Kant, pointed out that human reason, while powerful, also has limits.

In 1620, Francis Bacon described four common patterns in inductive thought — patterns which lead to errors.

Michael Faraday, whose discoveries in electromagnetism have made possible much of the technology which has shaped the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, based his understanding of experimental error on his engagement with Sandemanian or Glasite thought. Faraday, throughout his scientific career in the 1800s, preached on Wednesday evenings at his Sandemanian church, as historian Alan Hirschfeld notes:

The philosophical and behavioral strictures of the Sandemanians served to channel Faraday’s abundant energy toward his scientific pursuits. In particular, the Sandemanian belief in human fallibility permitted him to fearlessly explore frontiers of science, with full knowledge that some of his conjectures would be overturned. There was no purpose in hitching his ego to the correctness of his conclusions. Faraday noted Job’s admonition in his personal Bible: “If I justify myself, mine own mouth shall condemn me; if I say, I am perfect, it shall also prove me perverse” (Job 9:20).

Among Faraday’s achievements was the framing of various electromagnetic phenomena in the concept of fields. Seeing magnetism as a field, not as a substance, was revolutionary, as Ian Hutchinson writes:

In this abbreviated summary of Faraday’s scientific achievements, one cannot omit his extremely influential, and initially highly unconventional championing of the significance of fields. Physics today sees the field of force rather than the material substance as the underlying reality. Faraday’s theoretical and philosophical intuition, growing over twenty years or more throughout his experimental research, and culminating in his paper “On the physical character of lines of force” (1852), was, in the opinion of many, his most influential legacy. A young James Clerk Maxwell certainly took him seriously. His mathematization of Faraday’s ideas led directly to what we now call Maxwell’s equations of electromagnetism.

Maxwell was Faraday’s intellectual heir. The two complemented each other. Faraday’s work was intuitive or conceptual: his laboratory notebooks contain sketches and drawings, and written descriptions, but not equations. Faraday’s image-oriented way of doing physics was fertile ground for his innovation of seeing electromagnetic forces as fields. Maxwell can be seen as mathematizing Faraday’s work.

Faraday’s work formed a basis for Maxwell’s. But Maxwell was not a Sandemanian. Maxwell was ordained as an Elder in the Church of Scotland, i.e., in the Presbyterian Church.

Faraday was an Englishman; Maxwell a Scotsman. The Sandemanian Church began in Scotland.

Combining, on the one hand, a conceptual and intuitive approach, with, on the other hand, a bold humility which allowed him to question established scientific dogmas which viewing his own hypotheses as equally liable to be overturned, Faraday presented a new way of thinking about electromagnetic forces. Maxwell capitalized on Faraday’s insights, formulating them into mathematically rigorous statements.

Plato and Mathematics: Numbers or Numerals?

In the familiar distinction between numbers and numerals, numerals are detectable by the senses: sight if a person is reading, sound if a person is listening, and touch if a person is using Braille. Numerals are physical phenomena: even a number on an LCD or LED computer screen is a physical manifestation.

Numbers, by contrast, are not physical, and not directly detectable by the senses. Numbers are ideas. Numerals refer to numbers. Numerals are the names for numbers. The English numeral one, the German numeral eins, and the French numeral un all refer to the same number.

So what kind of a thing is a numeral, if it’s not physical? This question has occupied philosophers for more than 2,000 years.

In Greece, Plato began wrestling with this question around 300 B.C., and later philosophers who embraced and refined his ideas asserted that numbers are metaphysical objects. What are metaphysical objects? They’re non-physical objects.

Normally, one thinks of objects, or things, as physical — as detectable by the human senses (sight, sound, taste, touch, and smell).

But those philosophers who argue for the existence of metaphysical objects would point to things like ideas, memories, emotions, and minds as being objects. A person can ask for five pounds of anger, or two gallons of childhood memories — metaphysical objects aren’t measured in the way in which physical objects are.

So, according to the Platonists, numbers can be referred to as ‘things’ or ‘objects.’ But they are a different kind of thing or object than, e.g., a sandwich or a tree.

The Platonic understanding of numbers is called ‘realist’ because the Platonists believe numbers to be as real as any physical object. The Platonic view is also called ‘dualist’ because Platonic philosophers assert that there are two types of reality — the physical and the metaphysical — both of which are different and both of which are real.

The dualist view can be extended from numbers to geometry. The dualists would argue that the circles, triangles, points, and lines in a geometry textbook are merely physical symbols for the idea of circles, triangles, points, and lines.

Opposed to the Platonists are other philosophers, called ‘formalists’ and ‘conventionalists’ — they argue that numerals do not refer or represent numbers. Rather, they argue that numerals are part of a system of symbol manipulation, a system called ‘arithmetic’ or ‘mathematics.’

These anti-Platonists argue that there is no deeper, higher, or mystical reality beyond the symbols called ‘numerals’ — that the numerals are the numbers.

In this debate, each side has its reasoning: The Platonists say that, in order for mathematics to have any meaning, it must be “about” something, that it can’t simply be patterns of ink on paper; the Platonists argue that the anti-Platonist view would reduce mathematics to meaninglessness, and daily experience in practical application shows that mathematics has real meaning.

The anti-Platonists, meanwhile, argue that for practical purposes, mathematics works: it allows people to build bridges or calculate interest or keep score at a game. If it works, the anti-Platonists say, then that’s all that is needed from mathematics: there is no need for any deeper meaning. The anti-Platonists accuse the Platonists of violating a rule of logic called ‘Ockham’s Razor.’

William of Ockham, sometimes spelled Occam, was a logician who worked around 1300 A.D., and was mildly anti-Platonist. He wrote:

Numquam ponenda est pluralitas sine necessitate.

Which is roughly:

Plurality must never be posited without necessity.

With regard to mathematics, this would mean that there is a choice between two systems: one system has both numbers and numerals, while the other system has only numerals. Ockham might advise that, if the simpler system works, it should be chosen.

In another formulation, Ockham wrote:

Frustra fit per plura quod potest fieri per pauciora.

Which can be rendered as:

It is futile to do with more things that which can be done with fewer.

Ockham’s Razor is sometimes phrased this way: “Entities should not be multiplied beyond necessity.”

In any case, Ockham’s logic is part of the debate about the reality of numbers.

The question of the reality of numbers is a discussion which taps into multiple levels of philosophical questioning. The first question is: Are numbers independently-existing objects? The second question is a broader form of the first question: Are there really any non-physical or metaphysical objects? The third question asks about how the truth of a statement is evaluated, in this case, the truth of a statement about numbers: Is a proposition true if it works in a pragmatic sense, to calculate in real-life situations, or is it true if it represents the way things actually are?

Consent, Free Will, and Thought Control

For centuries, philosophers have pondered questions about the human “free will” and what it might mean. Much has been written about the topic.

During the second half of the twentieth century, psychologists began to explore the phenomenon of mind control, also called “thought control,” behavior change technology, compliance-gaining influence, thought reform, psychosocial manipulation, and a few other other terms.

Whatever words are used to label it, the question is whether the psychological exploration of thought control is relevant to the philosophical debate about free will. Part of that debate is whether, and how, a person’s desires, especially desires leading to actions, are determined.

The techniques of thought control allow the practitioner to shape another individual’s desires and beliefs, without the individual’s being aware of it. On a low level, this can be, e.g., advertising on television. On a higher level, it can be “brainwashing” which changes a person’s foundational beliefs.

The discussion of free will, obviously, enters into the field of ethics at some point. There are those who, e.g., argue that prostitution is permissible if all involved parties are consenting.

But how does one understand the word ‘consent’ in the framework of thought control? A prostitute might say that she or he is voluntarily engaging in this activity, and has freely consented to it. If, however, the beliefs and desires which cause the prostitute to consent were installed into the mind of the prostitute without the prostitute’s knowledge or consent, then can it be said that the prostitute is truly consenting?

Note that, in this scenario, the prostitute is not coerced. The prostitute believes that she or he is freely consenting. But can consent be ‘free’ if it is implanted into the mind from the outside, and implanted without the knowledge or awareness of the individual? The prostitute may believe that she or he is freely consenting, but that belief itself may have been artificially installed into the prostitute’s mind.

In any case, it is plausible to suggest that some aspects of the “free will” debate may need to be revisited in light of psychological research about thought control.

In 1961, Robert J. Lifton published Thought Reform and the Psychology of Totalism. In 1957, Robert J. West, et al., published Brainwashing, Conditioning, and DDD (Debility, Dependency, and Dread). In 1961, Edgar Schein published Coercive Persuasion: A Socio-Psychological Analysis. Steven Hassan has published several books on the subject.

Philosophers engaged in the topic of “free will” would be well advised to explore these writings.

When beliefs and desires are installed into the mind of an individual without that individual’s awareness or consent, how do those beliefs and desires differ from normal beliefs and desires? How do beliefs and desires normally arise in the mind of an individual? If beliefs and desires are involuntary and ineluctable in normal situations, are they different in any significant way from the beliefs and desires installed by means of thought control?

Contested Kant: Disputing Kant’s Impact on Theism

Immanuel Kant’s Kritik der Reinen Vernunft affected both philosophical thought directly, and more general cultural trends indirectly: about this there is no doubt. But the character of this effect has been debated.

Kant and his writings have been seen variously as champions of theism and as destroyers of faith. Was the net impact of his texts to solidify belief in God as a solidly rational viewpoint, or to undermine any rational foundation for theism?

Norbert Hinske documents both hypotheses. Hinske identifies Moses Mendelssohn as an originator of the view that Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason poses a threat to theism:

Für Mendelssohn, der aufgrund seiner Krankheit Kants Werk freilich nur vom Hörensagen kennt - „aus unzulänglichen Berichten meiner Freunde oder aus gelehrten Anzeigen, die selten viel belehrender sind“ -, ist die Kritik also ein Werk, das alle „vernünfitgie Erkenntniß Gottes“ zu zerstören droht.

Mendelssohn’s view was amplified and transmitted through the writings of Ludwig Ernst Borowski:

Mendelssohns Rede vom „alles zermalmenden Kant“ hat Karriere gemacht. Schon Borowski erwähnt sie 1804 in seiner immer wieder nachgedruckten Kantbiographie. Zum Substantiv verschärft, ist das Wort vom Alleszermalmer dann zu einer der geläfigsten Charakterisierungen Kants avanciert.

This view of Kant seeped from the world of academic philosophy to a broader audience through, e.g., the writings of Heinrich Heine, who echoed the words of Mendelssohn and Borowski, and saw Kant as a destroyer of faith and hope.

On the other hand, Hinske describes the early Kantians at the University of Jena, who saw Kant as the defender of theism. In the Kritik, Kant finds arguments for and against the existence of God to be futile, because reason is based on, or arises from, the forms of perception. God is not a perception, i.e., not a phenomenon, but rather a thing-in-itself: a Ding-an-sich. As a noumenon, God is not subject to the type of reasoning which is based on the forms of phenomena.

The early Kantians at Jena, philosophers and theologians, saw Kant as constructing a defense of theism against any allegedly rational arguments for atheism. If one accepts Kant as he expresses himself in the first Kritik and other writings, then one cannot countenance arguments against the existence of God.

Two centuries later, Kant remains a mixed picture. Perhaps the reason for conflicting readings of the Kritik is that, on the one hand, Kant removes the possibility of rational argumentation from both sides: he will accept no line of reasoning which hopes to establish either atheism or theism. He places the existence of God as a question which is beyond pure reason. It is such points in Kantian thought which later give a starting point to Schopenhauer and postmodernism in the sense of post-rationalism.

On the other hand, Kant famously points to the existence of God as a necessary hypothesis in the second Kritik. But Kant finds his way to God in the Kritik der Praktischen Vernunft in a manner that disappoints both theists and atheists. The atheists are unhappy that Kant has pointed to the necessity of God’s existence, but the theists are also unhappy, because Kant doesn’t leave room to prove that God has the robust collection of metaphysical characteristics of traditional theism.

Kant’s Squabbling Children: Conflicting Thinkers Base Themselves on the Same Texts

Any philosopher — which is to say, any philosophical text — if it is much read at all, will find itself as the real or alleged foundation for conflicting schools of thought. Radical empiricists and Scholastic Thomists both claim Aristotle as their heritage. Triumphant nationalist imperialists and Marxist-Leninists both claim Hegel as their father.

This is certain true of Immanuel Kant, as Norbert Hinske writes:

Selten ist ein Buch so gegensätzlich aufgenommen und verstanden worden wie Kants Kritik der reinen Vernunft. Diese Gegensätze lassen sich bis in die ersten Jahre nach Erscheinen des Werks zurückverfolgen.

Not only do competing philosophical schools claim Kant as their foundations, but separately, there are competing interpretations of Kant — interpretations which are incompatible with each other. Hinske cites how Moses Mendelssohn understood Kant to be one whose influence was primarily destructive: Kant’s analysis was, for Mendelssohn, a skepticism which dismantled nearly everything.

Will man auch nur die äußersten Pole jener schwierigen Rezeptionsgeschichte markieren, so kann man auf der einen Seite Moses Mendelssohn in Berlin nennen. Gleich im „Vorbericht” seiner Morgenstunden oder Vorlesungen über das Daseyn Gottes spricht er 1785 von dem „alles zermalmenden Kant”, und er fügt ein paar Seiten später hinzu, er hoffe nur, daß dieser „mit demselben Geiste wieder aufbauen wird, mit dem er niedergerissen hat”.

Mendelssohn was primarily concerned that Kant’s texts would promote atheism. This would have surprised Kant, who considered himself a theist. But Mendelssohn was not alone in considering Kant as dangerous to faith.

Yet the opposing view — that Kant’s writings were edifying to faith, and supported not only theism, but a robust theism — was embraced by a group of theologians, who saw Kant as a bulwark against materialism. These enthusiastic admirers of Kant were grouped largely in the university in Jena.

They reasoned: if Kant, as they read him, showed that pure reason alone could not demonstrate the existence of God or the immortality of the soul, then it was also true that he showed that reason could not demonstrate the opposite. The early Kantians in Jena saw Kant as removing rational argumentation from the arsenal of the atheists. Kantianly, one could not demonstrate that God doesn’t exist, and one could not demonstrate that there is no immortal soul.

The theologians in Jena argued that, if Kant’s pure reason was undecided on these questions, then practical reason would open the door for a Moraltheologie, in which God would appear as necessary.

It is clear that even during Kant’s lifetime — both Moses Mendelssohn and the early Kantians in Jena were active in the 1780s — Kant was both seen as a dangerous skeptic whose texts fostered atheism and seen as formulating a philosophy which removed reason and rational argumentation from the atheist’s arsenal.