Christianity and epistemic certainty

“I believe everything I believe is true”: It’s an equivocal assertion, obviously true in one sense while obviously foolish and hubristic in another. While talking it over with a group of students, I was struck by the way in which unraveling the two possible meanings of this statement brings us to the heart of the modern allergy to intellectual confidence, while throwing light on a common struggle within the church over what it means to be sure of our doctrine.

If by, “I believe everything I believe is true,” I merely mean that, given any individual belief which I hold at a particular moment, at that moment I believe that particular belief to be true and all other, contradictory beliefs therefore false, the proposition goes beyond truth to settle in the realm of the painfully obvious. When I say that I believe a particular proposition, if I do not mean that I think that proposition is in fact true and not false, then what exactly is the meaning of “believe” at all?

When I say, “I believe that guy is untrustworthy,” if I do not mean that I am convinced of the untrustworthiness of the presumably-duplicitous male in question, any and all known evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, then what else can I mean? Of course, this conviction may be only momentary. My declaration may elicit such a flood of testimony in defense of the character of the hypothetical object of our consideration that my opinion promptly changes and I am able to confidently declare, “I believe that guy is trustworthy.” But in both cases, for as long as I hold the particular belief, I believe it is true and all contradictory beliefs false. In this sense, the statement that “I believe everything I believe is true” is simply a tautology.

On the other hand, if we widen our focus from microscopic to telescopic, pulling back from our consideration of individual beliefs to look instead at the entire shifting and interconnected mass that makes up our belief system, the proposition that “I believe everything I believe is true” takes on a very different meaning. If I believe that I have achieved the Cartesian ideal of an epistemic structure so perfectly constructed as to ensure that every single component belief is in fact true, I am guilty of arrogance bordering on insanity. Obviously, I don’t know where I might be wrong (if I knew the particular belief which was wrong it would be much simpler, since the very act of acknowledging the falseness of a belief sends the prior error up in flames along with the belief itself), but surely even the most conservative gambler would be willing to stake all he had on the proposition that any given individual is wrong about something?

So we have an apparent contradiction: Viewed individually, it is insane to deny the truth of a particular belief, but, viewed collectively, it is insane to affirm the truth all of one’s beliefs.

This paradox leads to two common errors. The first is the error of the man who is so committed to avoiding the folly of universal certainty that he flies off in the other direction and winds up denying that he even believes that what he believes is true. His humility becomes nonsense and ends in incoherence (see “Higher Education, Postmodern”). The second error is that of the reactionary (often Christian) who is so eager to avoid the first error that he affirms–in fact if not in theory–the absolute truth of every iota of his belief system, resolutely ignoring the very real possibility that he might truly be wrong even about something of which he is wholly convinced. As G.K. Chesterton wrote, “It is not bigotry to be certain we are right; but it is bigotry to be unable to imagine how we might possibly have gone wrong.”

As is its habit, Christianity doctrine manages to embrace the paradox without tumbling off into either extreme. In the Christian model of reality we discover a solid substratum of absolute, objective truth, imperfectly known by finite and fallen men. The late Richard Rorty had a point when he spoke of a “God’s-eye view,” and pointed out that men don’t have one. Of course, Rorty went too far in the other direction and concluded that it is therefore pointless to even pursue objective truth (a proposition which he proceeded to defend as actually true, thus validating Hume’s reluctant observation that it is “impossible for [a man] to persevere in total scepticism, or make it appear in his conduct for a few hours”), but such a dispirited conclusion does not necessarily follow.

If reality is indeed designed, created, and governed by the Logos of which our intellect is a tiny droplet, it follows that we can know real truth, though the limitation of our minds and the corruption of the Fall should make us humble about asserting with certainty that we do know real truth. Even that which is explicitly revealed by our Creator may be imperfectly understood, as, for example, the Messianic prophecies were for hundreds of years. Like an apprentice painter copying the master’s work, we should always try for as much doctrinal accuracy as possible, and we can and should critique the work of other apprentices (while welcoming their critique of our own efforts), but the standard for such critique is the original artwork, not our copy. Even when our version appears to accurately represent the true model, we must remember that our eye is not sufficiently keen, nor our hand sufficiently skilled, to ensure that all the beauty and nuance of the master’s work is reflected in our own model. “For now we see in a mirror dimly… now I know in part.”

Thus Christian humility embraces the burly confidence that belief may be true, alongside the clear-eyed recognition that a belief may be false. The beliefs which I hold about worship style, church government, baptism, or predestination, I believe are true. And if you disagree, I believe you’re wrong (unless and until you convince me otherwise). But I must disagree with an awareness that we both see through a mirror dimly; that we both squint at a reality imperfectly understood, and neither of us has the right to claim perfect certainty until that day when we shall see face to face, knowing fully just as we also have been fully known.

Intentionally elusive truth

Commenting on the process of inspiration by which the Bible came together, C.S. Lewis writes in Reflections on the Psalms,

To a human mind this working-up (in a sense imperfectly), this sublimation (incomplete) of human material, seems, no doubt, an untidy and leaky vehicle. We might have expected, we may think we should have preferred, an unrefracted light giving us ultimate truth in systematic form–something we could have tabulated and memorised and relied on like the multiplication table…

We may observe that the teaching of Our Lord Himself, in which there is no imperfection, is not given to us in that cut-and-dried, food-proof, systematic fashion we might have expected or desired. He wrote no book. We have only reported sayings, most of them uttered in answer to questions, shaped in some degree by their context. And when we have collected them all we cannot reduce them to a system. He preaches but He does not lecture. He uses paradox, proverb, exaggeration, parable, irony; even (I mean no irreverence) the “wisecrack”. He utters maxims which, like popular proverbs, if rigorously taken, may seem to contradict one another. His teaching therefore cannot be grasped by the intellect alone, cannot be “got up” as if it were a “subject.” If we try to do that with it, we shall find Him the elusive of teachers. He hardly ever gave a straight answer to a straight question. He will not be, in the way we want, “pinned down”. The attempt is (again, I mean no irreverence) like trying to bottle a sunbeam…

Since this is what God has done, this, we must conclude, was best. It may be that what we should have liked would have been fatal to us if granted. It may be indispensable that Our Lord’s teaching, by that elusiveness (to our systematising intellect) should demand a response from the whole man, should make it so clear that there is no question of learning a subject but of steeping ourselves in a Personality, acquiring a new outlook and temper, breathing a new atmosphere, suffering Him, in His own way, to rebuild in us the defaced image of Himself.

Accepting as a premise this view of the “intentional elusiveness” of much scriptural teaching, it is worth considering how it affects the Christian walk, and in particular our relationships within the Church. As is often the case, we seem to have a tendency to slip away into one of two opposing errors. On the one hand, a right and praiseworthy desire to find out the hidden things of God, to learn His ways, discover His truth, and provide guidance for His flock, leads us to create systems out of the unsystematized, striving as best we can to reflect the Truth in our doctrine. And thanks be to God for those teachers who “feed the sheep” in this way. The danger comes, however, when we easily and unconsciously draw the authority of the Word up into the human constructs which it nourishes; when we forget (in practice, if not in theory) that disagreeing with us is not the same as disagreeing with God.

And so we fight to the death over questions of doctrine upon which reasonable people may reasonably disagree. Is there a difference between baptism by immersion, baptism by pouring, and baptism by sprinkling? Yes. Is it possible that one method is preferable to another? Certainly; in fact, I would make that argument. Can I prove it from Scripture, beyond reasonable disagreement? No. And neither can you or any other Christian. But this now brings us to our first error’s opposite.

Having seen the divisiveness and sin that have followed what one imagines to have been roughly one thousand, nine hundred and seventy-odd years of still-unresolved doctrinal disputes, it is tempting to give up any attempt at systematization or orthodoxy as hopeless and even harmful. If Scripture intentionally does not provide the objective black-and-white schema we would need in order to formulate final answers for so many theological concerns, why even attempt an answer to insoluble questions?

The first and most obvious answer to this objection is found in Christ’s words to Peter immediately before His ascension: “Tend My sheep.” Why is it important to search out (begging divine assistance for our own flickering reason) the principles and truths concealed within Scripture’s intentional elusiveness? “Tend My sheep.”

Returning to the question of baptism as an example, if there is in fact a form of baptism which is more in keeping with the purpose and significance of the act, then it follows that the Church benefits and God is glorified when his people conform more nearly to His ultimate design. If there are ways of worshiping, praying, organizing a church, caring for the poor, engaging the world, or structuring the family which better conform to God’s nature and will, what a poor shepherd he would be who didn’t attempt, to the best of his ability and relying on the guidance of the Holy Spirit, to discover those truths in the light of Scripture.

Jesus Himself did not condemn the master-systematizers of His day, the Pharisees, for attempting to extrapolate rules of behavior from the Bible. Instead, He criticized them for failing to reach the right conclusions, and He offered a better understanding of the principles to be drawn from Old Testament teachings (e.g. Matthew 12:1-7, 12:10-13, 19:4-9, 22:29-32). The Pharisees’ error lay not in studying the patterns of revelation in an attempt to sketch the truth behind, but in becoming so caught up in their own rough sketches that their eyes strayed from the truth they were attempting to approximate.

But the Pharisees return us full circle to be reminded of the danger of our first error, for what Christian has not at one time or another been reminded of his close spiritual kinship to that group of Hebrew theologians whose name has become a shorthand for blinkered legalism? History and our own experience show how quickly we conflate our rules with His, demanding that our brothers bow down and worship before the images we have constructed upon His altar. If love of God and love of His people demand that we search out the elusive truths within His revelation, how can we best avoid the attendant dangers?

The first step, of course, is to beg Him for humility. To pray that our motivation would always and only be love, for the truth we pursue and for the fellow-searchers with whom we seek it. To cultivate an awareness of the distinction between His truth and our extrapolations upon the basis of His truth. To remember that even the most indubitable premise cannot guarantee the truth of a conclusion on the other end of a chain of human reasoning. And to remember that those who doubt our doctrine but love our God are guilty of, at worst, mere misunderstanding, and may only be guilty of arriving first at a truth which we have yet to see.

Beyond this point, however, it is worth returning to Lewis’ final paragraph above, in which he guesses at the reason why we might have received the strange gift of so many dim and elusive truths, “that Our Lord’s teaching, by that elusiveness (to our systematising intellect) should demand a response from the whole man, should make it so clear that there is no question of learning a subject but of steeping ourselves in a Personality, acquiring a new outlook and temper, breathing a new atmosphere, suffering Him, in His own way, to rebuild in us the defaced image of Himself.”

How are we to achieve the right balance between a love of the truth on the one hand and a humble recognition of our own fallibility on the other? How are we to learn, to instruct, and to avoid error as much as is possible for imperfect human creatures? By so “steeping” ourselves in the Word that our very being is, both consciously and unconsciously, shaped into conformity with the One Who we begin to know as we know ourselves. We must absorb, and absorption is a gradual process. To see is not necessarily to know: Many skilled artists have studied and beautifully reproduced Raphael’s paintings, but only his greatest pupil was able to complete his Transfiguration so that one cannot tell where Raphael’s work ended and Giulio Romano’s began.

For of course the ultimate goal is not merely to know the truth, but to know the Truth. If much of Christian doctrine is given to us as a puzzle in this life, we might find a hint of explanation in watching a child’s total absorption in putting the jigsaw pieces together and watching a picture emerge. We may have been given a puzzle, but it is a puzzle the ultimate purpose of which is to show us the nature of the puzzle-maker, and which, like a sort of reverse mirror, impresses His likeness upon us the longer we gaze into it.

Knowledge without proof

For nearly four hundred years, the central question of philosophy has been epistemological: Is it possible to know, and if so, how? Descartes struck the first blow, and almost the last, in his attempt to doubt his way to certainty. Though his effort satisfied himself, later thinkers ran into a small problem; like a man measuring a ruler against its own mirror image, Descartes’ rigorous deductions proved that human reason is trustworthy, as long as one trusts reason enough to rely upon it for the proof.

A brief burst of optimism in the possibility that knowledge could be stamped upon a blank mind by the external world withered under the realization that all knowledge of the external world must be mediated through the senses, the reliability of which is just as doubtable as that of reason, and just as incapable of verification. How can we evaluate the trustworthiness of our sense perceptions, other than by comparison against the perceptions of our senses?

And so four centuries of philosophy may be distilled into various permutations and developments of the first half of Descartes’ famous (and misquoted) maxim. “I think,” with emphasis to be placed upon the utter, singular insularity of the pronoun and the uncertainty of the verb. I, and I alone, think, and am not sure. If reason must be doubted, what can be trusted except the single fact that I am a thing, thinking about itself? If the senses are untrustworthy, what can I really know of any other things outside the thing that is me?

Various schools have dealt differently with the dilemma. Solipsism is perhaps the most honest response, accepting the situation at least theoretically. Existentialism offers the most emotionally satisfying solution, proposing by sheer will or luck to rebuild something from the wreckage of meaning – “something” being as specific as one can get. Pragmatism is cheerfully American in its practically impractical determination to ignore all such stuffy questions and concentrate on what works. (Leaving rather vague the question of how we are to judge what works, or what “working” would actually entail.) And postmodernism, at least in its philosophical dimensions, offers the oddest answer in its focus on closely studying and vigorously defending the correct understanding of whatever it is that it insists we cannot know.

All this from one simple assumption, that one cannot know what cannot be proven (in this case, the general reliability of reason and of the senses) — a proposition that provides perhaps the only common theme among all the disparate philosophies from the Enlightenment onward, even among those, like Kant, who appear to accept the possibility of innate knowledge. It is ironic that such an influential premise would be so obviously false as an absolute proposition, so questionable as a mere assumption, and so definitely contradicted by every evidence of human experience.

This epistemological assumption is found even in the definition of knowledge commonly used by those from more conservative philosophical climes, where the existence of such a thing as knowledge is still believed to be possible. Knowledge, so defined, consists of “justified true belief.” In other words: knowledge is belief which actually corresponds with reality and for which we have, as Plato writes, “an account of the reason why [we believe]” (Meno 98).

As a matter of pure logic, the proposition that it is impossible to know what cannot be proven is fatally flawed, for it cannot meet its own criteria; there is no way to prove that what cannot be proven is unknowable, and so the standard falls by its own hand. It might without contradiction actually be true, but the truer it is the less could its truth be known.

So we appear to be at an impasse. Logically, either truth can be known without proof or truth cannot be known without proof. It is impossible to prove the truth of either proposition (a fact which itself fits more comfortably with the former than with the latter opinion). Since neither can be proven, those who accept the latter view must do so on grounds of prejudice (in its most literal meaning) rather than knowledge. Yet prejudice is a powerful thing, and the former proposition in no way benefits by pointing out the lack of support for the latter, so the question is worth further consideration. If we cannot determine the truth of either possibility by direct examination, perhaps more light may be thrown on the issue by working in the other direction.

Let us assume, for the moment, that it is true that nothing can be known except what is provable. Proof comes through logic and reason, working from premise to conclusion. If all men are mortal and Socrates is a man, then I can prove that Socrates is mortal; but only if I do in fact know that all men are mortal and Socrates is a man. So proof must begin with knowledge, and knowledge is a necessary condition for proof. Thus it follows that either knowledge preexists proof, or else there is no proof and therefore no knowledge.

It is now possible to restate the dilemma advanced earlier: Either truth can be known without proof, or knowledge is impossible, and reason also (since reason depends upon knowledge of basic laws of thought).

It is important to note, again, that neither of these proposition can be proven, though both are logically possible and one must necessarily be true and the other false. (Unless in fact reason itself is untrustworthy, a point to which we will return shortly.) It is ironic that the foundational question of philosophy cannot, in one sense, be settled philosophically.

It is possible, however, to sketch the two camps. On the one hand, we have a reality which is quite literally unthinkable; a reality the very existence of which cannot be asserted without recourse to truth claims which cannot be meaningful if they are true; a reality in which even our own existence is unknowable (since unprovable). Our every instinct, our every thought, even the very arguments which may be advanced in support of such a reality, testify that in fact we do not and can not actually believe in it. To say that it exists is to deny it. Even to suggest it might exist on the basis of the evidence is to appeal to knowledge the existence of which is denied by our conclusion.

Now, such a theoretical reality does have one argumentative strength: it is irrefutable. Its fundamentally irrational nature strikes just as hard against attempts to demonstrate its impossibility (for it if is actual, then the reason I use to disprove its existence cannot be trusted) as against attempts to demonstration its actuality. But let us be clear about what it is: an unthinkable world, indefensible on its own terms, and without a shred of actual or possible evidence to speak in its defense.

The traditional argument against the existence of such a reality is to point out that it is prima facie indefensible. As Aristotle argues, he who denies the law of non-contradiction, tacitly affirms it by that very denial. Putting the point more broadly, the more convinced one is that knowledge is impossible, the more thoroughly one denies one’s own first principle. But perhaps this argument puts too much weight upon human cognition, and in so doing begs the question. Merely entertaining the possibility of a world utterly without knowledge and reason puts us so far beyond the threshold of human thought that no attempted refutation can survive.

So, I will repeat the concession that no chain of logic can drag away the possibility that all knowledge must be proven, and that therefore no knowledge is possible. If we give up the argument at this point, however, we have already conceded the central question. For, if not all knowledge must be proven, then logic is not the only source of truth.

Thus far I have spent little time defending the view that some knowledge is possible without proof, and no time at all clarifying what sorts of knowledge might be known without proof. Taking the latter first, I would suggest that the laws of reason, the basic reliability of the senses, and the existence of the self, at least, are known without proof. With slightly less certainty, I would also propose that the existence of other persons, the existence of God, and a rudimentary moral code are also known without proof; but my purpose here is not to provide an exhaustive list of innate knowledge (an uncertain task at best). So long as one item of knowledge is known without proof, the categorical proposition that nothing is known without proof is disproved.

The difficulty of defending such a position, of course, lies in the fact that the existence of knowledge that cannot be proven cannot be proven. In this case, the proof of the pudding is in the eating; and only in the eating. The skeptic may seize upon this fact as evidence against the possibility of innate knowledge, but it is worth remembering that proof is impossible for either side of the argument, a fact which is only problematic if we assume the premise that all knowledge must be proven. Absent that irrational prejudice, the actual cognitive experience of any normal human should be amply sufficient to convince him of the existence of innate knowledge.

In each case, we find ourselves treating the laws of reason, the basic reliability of the senses, and the existence of the self, at least, as being self-evidentially true, and most so when we are least aware of their operation. We do not experience them as matters of habit, instinct, or convenience, but rather as truths upon which only a sustained and focused operation of the will can cast the least doubt, and that only momentarily. It is worth noting that even so committed a theoretical skeptic as David Hume admitted that “it seems certain, that though a man, in a flush of humour, after intense reflection on the many contradictions and imperfections of human reason, may entirely renounce all belief and opinion, it is impossible for him to persevere in this total scepticism, or make it appear in his conduct for a few hours.” We know, and we know that we know; though the knowledge is of a sort which cannot, by its nature, be proven.

In closing, a quick comment should be made upon the matter of definitions raised above. Having objected to the definition of knowledge as “justified true belief,” the matter cannot be remedied by simply dispensing with the idea of justification to leave knowledge defined simply as “true belief.” Clearly, not all true beliefs can rightly be called knowledge. (It is almost certain that a few of the innumerable conspiracy theories now current are actually true, but that does not automatically bequeath the title of “knowledge” upon the proponents of those lucky few, despite the fact that their beliefs are in fact accidentally true.) Perhaps the solution is a subdivision of knowledge, somewhat along the lines of the medieval distinction between intellectus and ratio.

From Worldview class: The definition of truth

This Friday’s Christian Worldview class featured a lengthy tangent over the definition of “truth,” which ended in a promise to pursue the matter further on this blog. After I had presented the classic correspondence theory of truth, a student objected that this definition “left God out of truth,” and proposed an alternative definition. Hopefully, my response here will help clarify an issue that I didn’t have time to fully address in class, and which I feel I didn’t really do justice to, as my brain was still not firing on all cylinders after a bad cold the day before. (My apologies to students who may have been confused by my attempts at explanation!)

The discussion began when I defined truth as “correspondence to reality.” An objection was made on the grounds noted above, and a counter-definition offered: “Truth is revealed by God through his word and his creation.” In this post, I will begin by explaining the correspondence theory of truth, consider the objections that were offered to it, then analyze the proposed counter-definition.

To begin with, it is important to clarify the point of the inquiry: What does the word “truth” mean? When I say a proposition is true, what am I actually saying about that proposition?

Quite simply, and intuitively, the correspondence theory of truth says that a statement is true if it corresponds to (accurately represents) reality. If I say, “God exists,” and God does in fact exist, then the statement is true. If I say, “I am typing on the computer right now,” and that is in fact what I am doing, then the statement is true. On the other hand, if I say, “George Bush is president of the United States,” then that is false, because in reality George Bush is not president. The statement does not correspond to reality.

It is impossible to think of an example of a true statement which does not correspond to reality, or a false statement that does, which is why the correspondence theory of truth has been accepted for millennia by thinkers both Christian and pagan. When I say, “This is true,” I mean, “This corresponds to reality.”


Yes, it does. But the definitions of “existence,” “intelligence,” “frog,” and most other concepts do too. There is no reason to shoehorn God into the definition of truth when I’m clearly not saying anything about God if I say, “It is true that I had pepperoni pizza tonight.” If I had pepperoni pizza tonight, then the statement is true, even if I am a pagan with no conception of God.


No he didn’t. Truth is not a created thing, for the simple reason that it isn’t a thing at all. It doesn’t exist in itself. It is a quality which may be predicated of certain propositions, much like “heavy” or “long” are qualities which may be predicated of certain bodies. God didn’t create “heavy.” You can’t find a heavy. It isn’t a thing; it’s merely a quality possessed by one thing (a rock, perhaps) as perceived by another thing (some intelligent being). If there were no bodies, there could be no “heavy.”

Similarly, “truth” is a quality possessed by a proposition, if the proposition accurately represents reality. If I say, “I have brown eyes,” and I do have brown eyes, then we say my statement is true. “Truth” is merely a way to say that the proposition accurately portrays reality; it is not itself a thing. If there were no propositions, there would be no truth.


This was the most substantive critique offered, but it is based on a misunderstanding of the definition of truth, reading “correspondence to reality” as “correspondence to my perception of reality.” (The latter being, interestingly, more-or-less the definition of truth offered by the coherence theory of truth, which is the basis for relativism.) However, the whole point of the correspondence theory of truth is to emphasize that truth can only be truth if it corresponds to reality itself. It is anything but subjective, for it depends entirely on the objective: What is the thing itself? If every man in the world believes the earth is flat, and it is fact round, then they are all collectively wrong, for their perceptions do not correspond to reality.

Now, the separate issue can be raised, “How do we know what reality is?” Well, that can be difficult! Men are often wrong, and often about very important matters. That fact notwithstanding, to blame the definition of truth for our failure to always reach it is rather like blaming a target for our poor marksmanship… And merely selecting a new target is unlikely to improve our aim! (And in some cases, the “new target” will actually make things worse, which leads me to the alternative definition mentioned at the start of this post, since I am not merely arguing that the correspondence theory of truth is correct, but also that the counter-definition which was offered is not an acceptable standard of truth.)


My student’s primary objection to the correspondence theory of truth was that it did not directly involve God. In response, he offered the following definition: “Truth is revealed by God through his word and his creation.” There are several problems with this definition. (Note that these are problems with the fundamental ideas being expressed, not merely nitpicking objections to the specific wording.)

The first and primary problem is that this definition of “truth” simply doesn’t fit the word itself. While one cannot come up with a proposition that is true which does not correspond with reality, there are plenty of propositions that are true without being revealed in either Scripture or creation: “I like football.” “Barack Obama is president of the United States.” “Roses are red.”

When I say, “It is true that I had pepperoni pizza tonight,” I mean, “In reality, I had pepperoni pizza tonight.” Not, “God revealed through his word and his creation that I had pepperoni pizza tonight.” When I talk about something being “true,” I am depending on the correspondence theory of truth.

Furthermore – and this is the second major problem – what do I mean when I claim that some historical account in Scripture is true? Surely I mean something more than a mere tautological assertion that it is, in fact, in Scripture? If I say, “The scriptural account of Christ’s resurrection is true,” I mean that Christ did in fact die and rise again. Yet, if my definition of truth is “that which is revealed by God through his word and creation,” then when I say, “The scriptural account of Christ’s resurrection is true,” I am really only saying, “The scriptural account of Christ’s resurrection is scriptural (i.e. revealed by God through his word).” Such a circular affirmation certainly seems to go against the spirit of Paul’s testimony of Christ’s resurrection in I Corinthians 15, when he appeals to the reports of eyewitnesses (those who could say what actually happened – in reality).


Ironically, the statement “Truth is revealed by God through his word and his creation” is actually true. God does reveal truth through his word and his creation. However, not all truth is revealed in this way, and setting up “God’s word and creation” as the definition of truth doesn’t work for the reasons discussed above.

I’ve had to summarize some points to avoid making this post ridiculously long, but hopefully this is enough to give a coherent framework to my argument. If you are a Worldview student who’s here to see my followup to the class discussion, I’d enjoy hearing from you (either in agreement or disagreement) in the comments. Please don’t hesitate to disagree, or simply ask for clarification.