Rethinking Philosophy and Theology with Deleuze: An Introduction

Every so often a book is published that demands serious and sustained engagement. Adkins and Hinlicky's 2013 Rehinking Philosopher and Theology with Deleuze raises a number of important issues that I shall address in a series of posts.  

A major question of the book concerns the relationship between the exploration of being as such versus the investigation of the highest being.  Philosophy has traditionally dealt with the first and theology with the second. But what is the relationship between these two explorations?  The tradition has assumed a discontinuity between philosophy's reasoned exploration of being as such, and theology's religious response to that which reveals itself as highest.  However, must this be the case?  What ought this relationship be, given the contemporary intellectual and cultural context in which we find ourselves?

Adkins and Hinlicky ask us to reconsider regnant discontinuity assumptions about theology and Philosophy. Instead of the disciplines being concerned with different types of things, might one better understand them as poles on a continuum?  Adkins and Hinlicky suggest that we might better regard them as assemblages, as constructions out of heterogeneous components.  Were we to regard them so, might we make progress on a set of vexing questions that appear to us now as insolvable?  

But what is an assemblage?  The authors write: "An assemblage is a singular and temporary coagulation of heterogeneous forces that achieves consistency"(2).  Importantly, 'consistency' here does mean either unity or identity. An assemblage is assembled out of disparate components, and that these disparate components are assembled out of disparate components. It was Deleuze and Guattari who introduced the metaphysics of assemblage in their books, A Thousand Plateaus and What is Philosophy?.   

The properties of assemblages are dependent on the properties of their component parts as they sustain relations with each other.  Assemblages generate limits -- one towards dissolution and the other towards constriction. The first limit functions as the boundary of the assemblage beyond which the assemblage transitions into another.  Deleuze and Guattari use terms like 'immanence', 'deterritorialization', 'molecular', 'smooth space', and 'chaos' in naming the dissolution limit.  Alternately, 'transcendence', 'territorialization', 'molar', 'striated space', and 'opinion' apply to the constriction limit.   

In the history of philosophy, say Delueze and Guittari, the notion of a thing gets confused with the assemblage reaching its limit of constriction. When one asks what something is, one is treating the assemblage as a thing. The very question lifts that which looks stable and eternal out of the context of its ever-changing existence.  

However, this question of the what is, for Deleuze and Guattari, clearly secondary to the question of "which one?"  This latter question concerns singular, concrete sets of capabilities within the process of being, the behavior of concrete assemblages (3).  

The book aims to explore theology as an assemblage, particularly in its relationship to the assemblages of both religion and philosophy. Unfortunately, according to Adkins and Hinlicky, "assemblages that have been created have impoverished rather than enriched our lives" (3). But why have the assemblages of philosophy, religion and theology impoverished our lives? 

Our authors tell us that the problem has been that we continually opt for discontinuity over continuity.  It is Kant who bequeathed to modernity the current form of the discontinuity thesis. It was he who sharply distinguished concepts from intuitions (percepts) and the supersensible from the sensible. It was he who pointed out and corrected Leibniz's confusion that "perception is just confused conception." 

Adkins and Hinlicky discuss the ontological dualisms to which Kant and much of western philosophy is committed. Such dualisms exist alongside the  basic grammatical distinction between subject and verb.  Accordingly, we traditionally have distinguished being and doing, cause and effect, and the conditioned and the conditions. These dualistic differences are difference in kinds, not degrees. Moreover, these kind differences presuppose hylomorphism's form/content schema and the analogy of being. 

Adkins and Hinlicky muse about what philosophy and theology might look like if we were to consider lightning as inseparable from its flash, being from inseparable from doing, and the doer inseparable from the deed (5).  Maybe hylomorphism could be replaced by hylozoism, by the notion of the self-organization of matter.  Accordingly, we might replace the analogy of being with the univocity of being. 

The authors are bold, for prima facie it seems that God/universe presents an ontological dualism if ever there were one. Traditionally, God has so far exceeded the perfection of His creation that one might speak of God only analogously. While the infinite God is literally not good in the way that finite being Mother Threasa is good, nonetheless God is more like Mother Threasa than He is like Joseph Stalin. God is that which none greater can be thought; God is the one activity of being in and throughout all activities of being. Clearly, the tradition has tended to blend the onto with the theo, in forming and committing itself to onto-the-logy.  But must Christian theology be committed to a rejection of ontological continuity between God and His creation?   

Thinking beyond discontinuities in theology means to think beyond immanence and transcendence. Every assemblage is a continuum from which we might abstract two poles. Philosophy tends toward the immanent and religion towards the transcendent. Now we reach the important point: transcendence need not entail a transcendent entity. All that is required for transcendence is "the organization of a field by something that is discontinuous with the field" (5).  Because Kant's transcendental categories are discontinuous with the manifold of sensation, they are discontinuous with that manifold.  But must this transcendence entail a difference in ontological kind? 

Christian theology, we are told, differs from both religion and philosophy because it attempts to think immanence and transcendence within a single assemblage. Accordingly, theology is a "fragile, paradoxical assemblage," and can easily become bad religion or bad philosophy (6).  Christian theology must eschew simile in favor of metaphor, apophatic theology in favor of kataphatic theology, and negative dialectic in favor of positive dialectic. Were we to assume a basic continuity between God and other beings, we might be able to conceive God as a "fully giving self-relation . . .  commonly referred to as the Trinity" (7). 

The continuity thesis shall require a rich cartography because maps must be continually drawn and redrawn since assemblages are always in the process of becoming. Rethinking Philosophy and Theology with Deleuze explores how theology, philosophy and religion might map on the assumption of the continuity thesis.  

Kant has been most influential in the drawing of boundaries over the last 250 years. These boundaries have had real staying power.  Much of the tradition has simply followed Kant's lead in establishing boundaries for what things (and their disciplines) are and what they are not. Thus it is that phenomenology, the new ontology, existentialism and even deconstruction remain wedded to the drawing of boundaries on the assumption of discontinuity. Adkins and Hinlicky ask what the rejection of discontinuity might mean to the refiguring of philosophy, theology and religion generally. 

Clearly, Adkins and Hinlicky are asking an interesting question, and this is why I shall spend some time unpacking their text.  Ultimately, the success of their argument rests not in the broad strokes in which it can be stated, but in the answers they can provide to the many related mostly philosophical questions that arise on the assumption of these broad strokes.  

In reading the Adkins and Hinlicky's text, I was reminded of the process metaphysics that process theology appropriated from Whitehead's Process and Reality.  Prima facie for Whitehead and followers, neither the antecedent and consequent natures of God nor God and the universe are ontologically discontinuous from each other.  Accordingly, in discussing later chapters of the book I shall be interested in whether dialogue with the promise and perils of process thought is at all fruitful in understanding the authors own move from hylomorphism to hylozoism. My questions throughout are explorations shall be these: Is is true that transcendence need not entail a transcendent entity, and is Christian theology conceptually possible without a transcendent entity?  

The Paradox of Transcendental Reflection

I first read the Critique of Pure Reason seriously over four decades ago. Like many novices reading Kant, I was impressed by the epistemological distinction between the a priori and a posteriori and the semantic distinction between synthetic and analytic judgments. Kant’s question intrigued me: By what right do we claim truth in synthetic a priori judgments? What justifies the assertion that deep reflection allows for an advancement of knowledge about the ultimate features of reality?

Kant claimed that a true analytical judgment is one where the meaning of the predicate is included in the meaning of the subject, while a true synthetic judgment is one wherein the meaning of the predicate is not so included. A synthetic judgment is thus “ampliative,” that is, to say that “all bachelors are happy” is to make an assertion that cannot be known to be true simply by thinking deeply about what the word ‘batchelor’ means.

As is well-known, Kant criticized traditional metaphysics by showing that its claim to extend knowledge “beyond the realm of possible experience” was chimerical. In the absence of intuition – that which is “given” through sensation – concepts simply relate to other concepts analytically or semantically. Since no intuitions “fall under” the concept ‘God’, we cannot know that ‘God loves human beings’, unless, of course, we are able to claim this to be merely an analytical truth, that is, that the concept of ‘God’ includes as part of its very meaning ‘loving human beings’. Putative metaphysical judgments that turn out to be analytical in this way are, for Kant, “regulative judgments.” While incapable of miming the ontological contour of the supersensible world, they are useful in ordering our supersensible concepts, and thus our thinking about the supersensible world. Kant thought his analytic/synthetic distinction exhaustive. Either judgments are analytic or synthetic; tertium non datur.

In reading the metaphysical and transcendental deductions of the Critique, I was struck by the oddity of what Kant was writing and what I was doing in reading. Kant was offering arguments about how it is that knowledge consists in the application of concepts to intuitions such that there is a “synthesis of the manifold of sensation.” I thought that what he wrote was plausible and was even able to grant that what he said was likely true. But with this an uncomfortable argument seems to emerge.

Let us regard as true the Kantian statement, ‘an object is that by concept of which the manifold of sensation is united’. If this statement is true, it must be true either analytically or synthetically. But clearly it is not an analytic truth for no amount of simple reflection upon ‘object’ allows one to conclude by meaning alone the concept ‘that by concept of which the manifold of sensation is united’. Therefore, it must be true synthetically.

But now the discomfort becomes acute because it is unclear what sensible intuitions must be united to make true the judgment ‘an object is that by concept of which the manifold of sensation is united’. Synthetic judgments for Kant are true a posteriori except for arithmetic and geometry which make direct appeal to the pure forms of sensibility. But neither sensibility nor its pure forms are synthesized in judging true the proposition, ‘an object is that by concept of which the manifold of sensation is united’. Accordingly, the sentence seems to be left without justification, and with it a great many of the statements Kant employs in his discussion of the transcendental unity of apperception.

Clearly, I had stumbled upon the paradox of transcendental reflection. Kant asks his readers in the Critique of Pure Reason, “What are the necessary conditions for the possibility of experience as such?” After claiming that all propositions are either analytic or synthetic and that synthetic a priori metaphysical judgments are problematic in extending knowledge beyond the realm of possible experience, he writes hundreds of pages in which he is seemingly using synthetic a priori judgments justifying these claims. Kant’s transcendental reflection apparently did not have to follow the same justificatory practices with respect to knowledge and truth that our reflections on the nature of things must follow. When reflecting upon the conditions of our knowledge of the nature of things, we no longer need to play by the same rules as we do when reflecting simply upon the nature of things.

Transcendental reflection, our thinking about how we think things, is exempt from the rules it prescribes to our thinking of things. Kant had perhaps “done away with knowledge of God to make room for faith,” but in doing so he created a cottage industry for philosophers. They who could not with justification lay out the truth conditions of ‘God created the universe’ -- there are no intuitions united either under the concept ‘God’ or the concept ‘created the universe -- could now claim truly this statement: ‘The judgment that ‘God created the universe’ cannot be regarded as true because there are no sensations falling under ‘God’ and ‘creating of the universe’. While clearly this proposition is a priori, we need no longer worry if it is synthetic or analytic. It is a statement within the field of transcendental reflection after all, and while such reflection sets the rules for meaning and truth for other provinces, like the Politburo of the old Soviet Union, it is wholly exempt from the rules that it prescribes for others.

The problem of transcendental reflection is a problem of grounds: What legitimates claims of transcendental truth? Why can we not ask with sense whether the statement ‘truths divide exhaustively between the analytic and synthetic’ is itself an analytic or synthetic statement? After noticing that true judgments are both “clear and distinct,” Descartes argued that clarity and distinctness form the very criteria of truth. Analogously, we might argue that reflections that philosophers regard as true that do not meet the truth criteria of what they prescribe are transcendental. Accordingly, the claim that we can say truly that there are conditions that do not apply to what is said truly actually constitutes the very criteria of the transcendental.

The problem of the transcendental standpoint and the truths discerned in occupying it has often been overlooked or ignored. The verificationist criterion of meaning asserted that only those propositions are meaningful that are comprised of tautologies or can be checked up upon in experience. But clearly, the statement that ‘only those propositions are meaningful that are comprised of tautologies or can be checked up upon in experience’ is neither a tautology nor can it be checked up upon in experience. Faced with the inability to say with truth the material conclusion of their argument, some retreated to regarding the statement as neither true nor false, but merely a proposal. Of course, this begs the questions of why one would be motivated to adopt the proposal in the first place.

The twentieth century, though often increasingly wary of transcendental reflection, has nonetheless had difficulty avoiding it. After laying out the conditions making possible propositions of sense, Wittgenstein in the Tractatus points out that none of the propositions he has written can be regarded as either true or false. They are like a ladder one climbs that can be thrown away upon reaching the summit. Such propositions might be elucidations, but they themselves have no truth conditions. Wittgenstein famously says that while saying what cannot be said, he nonetheless hopes in this saying that something might be shown. While one cannot state the conditions for the meaningfulness of propositions meaningfully, one can nonetheless show in one’s saying how to use propositions meaningfully. Wittgenstein notes sadly that the most important things of life cannot be said.

Wittgenstein knew that Russell’s paradox had spelled doom to Frege’s logicist program. That program depended upon the unrestricted use of the axiom of comprehension within set theory, the notion that any set of conditions clearly demarcate and distinguish sets from one another. Set theorists make extensive use of sets that have sets as their own members. Given the axiom of comprehension, this condition should uniquely determine sets, that is, for all sets, either they have sets as members of themselves or they don’t have sets as members of themselves: tertium non datur.

Russell then asked us to consider those everyday sets that don’t have sets as members of themselves, e.g., the set of elephants has as its members elephants, not sets of elephants. He directs us to consider the collection or set of all of sets that are not members of themselves. Now since we can ask with sense whether a set is a member of itself or not a member of itself, and tertium non datur, we can ask with sense whether the set of sets that are not members of themselves is itself a member of itself or is itself not a member of itself. A little reflection shows that if the set of all sets is a member of itself, that is, is a member of the set of all sets that is not a member of itself, then it itself must not be a member of itself. Conversely, if the set of all sets that are not a member of themselves is not a member of itself, then it must be a member of itself. That this paradox was not allowed in logic shows that somehow logic was not going to be regarded as a case of transcendental reflection, for it itself must obey its own rules!

That logic must obey its own rules is assumed in the celebrated Incompleteness proof of Gödel. He showed that paradox arises on the assertion that all known mathematical truths (tautologies) can be derived from a finite set of axioms. By ingeniously semantically encoding information into the syntax of arithmetic, it can be proven that there will always be a provable true proposition G from some axiom set that states that it itself cannot be proven on the basis of that axiom set. Adding a new axiom will not solve this problem because a statement can be proved stating that it cannot be proved on the basis of the new axiom set. While logicians carefully distinguish their metalanguage from the object languages about which the metalanguage speaks, they do not countenance theorems in the metalanguage contradicting those of their object languages.

Paradox dooms logic, but not transcendental reflection! How else can we explain the rise of phenomenology with all its fanfare and hopes? Reading the texts of Husserl, Heidegger and others brings us again into the orbit of the transcendentality that Kant had birthed, and Fichte, Shelling, Hegel and others so effectively exploited.

The phenomenological tradition of such reflection differs from the Neo-Kantian tradition in that while the latter is engaged with the principles by which knowledge is legitimately had, the former utilizes evidence.  Husserl realized that truth is itself not something that can be accounted for on naturalistic assumptions, and thus argued that so-called natural truths must rest upon non-natural grounds. Accordingly, the very grounds of the truth of metaphysical truths must be non-metaphysically investigated. One must go zu den Sachen selbst and bracket questions of metaphysics and the natural world in order to apprehend those grounds upon which the natural world and metaphysics rests. These grounds, thought Husserl, were to be found in the direct apperception of that which is immediately given to consciousness.

But phenomenological reflection proved to be no easy task, and reflection on “the things themselves” was soon seen to involve reflecting upon many other things, some of which were not so unambiguously evidence. In fact, the criterion by which to evaluate the nature and strength of evidence was not clearly something one could simply “see” evidentially. Marshaling evidence and relating that evidence to philosophical problems seems to involve principled transcendental reflection. Husserl knew this, and by the publication of Ideas in 1913 adopted the position of transcendental idealism that he once wished to bracket. Transcendental reflection demonstrated the necessity of a transcendental ego related noetically to the Sinn-world of noematic content. This transcendental ego could not be examined phenomenologically without presupposing that very ego under investigation. The problem was that transcendental reflection seemed to require a transcendental ego that was, by definition, not amenable to phenomenological investigation.

It is at this stage that Heidegger enters our story, penning Sein und Zeit and striving mightily therein to avoid the paradoxes to which Husserl’s hidden transcendental ego fell prey. By re- thinking what a transcendental ego really is, Heidegger was able to avert the problem of how the transcendental ego can direct itself upon its world. For Heidegger, the occult ego of Husserl became Being-in-the-world, Dasein. The ego is already embedded in its world and it is this embeddedness. With this step Heidegger would try to do something nobody had yet succeeded in accomplishing. Heidegger wanted phenomenologically not only to access those beings in the world that constitutes the basic experience and structure of Dasein, but he wanted to examine the conditions for the intelligibility of phenomenologically accessible beings in the world; he wanted to coax out of hiding those worldly conditions making possible beings in the world. His interest was in the be-ing (“to-beness”) resident within the horizon of the world itself. He claimed that his investigation was ontological, that it had to do with be-ing, that is, it concerned not primarily beings, but those conditions of intelligibility that made possible the intelligibility of beings as such. 

But Heidegger’s work in Sein und Zeit was beset by transcendental paradox as well. His pointing out of different ways of being seems at times to leave out the very possibility of a way of being doing the pointing. Take, for instance, his distinction between Vorhandensein (present-at-hand be-ing) and Zuhandensein (ready-to-hand be-ing). This distinction is fundamental for Heidegger. Objects appear to us either as “present-at-hand” or “ready-to-hand”, either as objects having properties or as equipment to be used in our everyday pragmatic concerns. But what is the being of the one who distinguishes be-ing-present-at-hand from be-ing-ready-to-hand? Is the distinction between the objective and pragmatic an objective or pragmatic distinction? If neither, then should Heidegger not have distinguished some other category beyond the objective and pragmatic?

Heidegger’s detailed analysis of the be-ing of Dasein in Sein und Zeit seems to push towards theoretical comprehension, a present-at-hand description of those fundamental structures that are not in themselves present-at-hand. But this is exactly what transcendental reflection does: It attempts a theoretical description of a province of being that cannot be theoretically described.  Transcendental phenomenology perhaps has made the most valiant attempt to grant explicit truth conditions for statements of the transcendental. Clearly, Husserl was attempting in his formal ontology to escape the paradox of transcendental reflection.  But as mentioned before, the hope that there could be a stable province of being impassible to its own investigation was quickly extinguished by Heidegger's insight that knowing being is itself an activity of being, that at the foundation of being, there is be-ing, and that there is be-ing all the way down, as it were.  

The paradox of transcendental reflection are encountered by a being, who in its be-ing, has be-ing at issue for it. Such reflection and paradox can sometimes be brought to the surface by the Geisteswissenschaften, who realize profoundly that the Naturwissenschaften proceed so successfully because they exclude what to the human spirit is central: We are not who we are and can never not be who we are.  Difference rules the first set of disciplines and identity the second. 

So what is deeper in human experience, the geistliche paradoci of transcendental reflection, or the tidy coherency of  natural science? 

Theology and Metaphysics

Theology and philosophy have always been deeply related, though each has often tried to disown the other.  The ways in which they have related to each other are often overlooked by those believing they already know what the relationship is or ought to be.  

We hear much these days about the destruction of the history of onto-theology.  Theology, we are told, must move forward without the help of metaphysics.  The story is that metaphysics is bad, that metaphyscis is, in the words of one Christian theologian, "death dealing."  But why the rancor against metaphysics?  

The story of the exclusion of metaphysics from theology is a long and complicated one, a story whose tellers carry presuppositions about which they are often unaware.  I tell the story in the following paragraphs.   

Once upon a time 2,400 years ago, Greek philosophers, thinking deeply about things, recognized that there were certain problems connected with knowing the world and our way around in that world.  If everything that is, is in process (Heraclitus), then how could it be that there is anything stable in the world to know.  If one can never step into the same river twice -- that is, if the matter of the river is alway changing -- then how can one speak meaningfully about a river at all? But we do speak meaningfully about rivers.  Thus, there must be something stable about which we speak when we talk about things in the world, especially when we talk about how things in the world change.  It seems that the condition for the possibility of change is that there is something stable and enduring to which change might be attributed.  After all, it is the same sheep in the field, though this ewe no longer has wool.  

I marvel at the work of Plato and Aristotle in their attempt to give an account of how knowledge is possible and how change is possible.  Plato, of course, advocated that there must be some stable and enduring forms which we know and about which our talk is about.  The form sheep, instantiated in this object before me, allows me to speak truly the statement, 'this sheep has lost its wool.'  

Aristotle gave us a metaphysics of primary substances, accidents and secondary substances that allowed us to make sense of our world.  There are basic unities called substances, of which certain can be "said of", and of which certain things are "present in."  The primary substance is this sheep, and the whiteness of its wool is "present in" this sheep.  However, 'sheep' can be 'said of' this sheep, and so can 'mammal' and 'animal'.  

Plato and Aristotle knew that before we can go about clearly investigating the natural world around us, and the complexity of ourselves, we needed language to do that investigating, language presupposing categories by which anything as such is know, and through which anything as such is.  A world in which there is only becoming would be a world unknown to us.  What was needed is the logos, the permanent possibilities by and through which things become.  

Christian theology found the work of Plato and Aristotle very handy when it came to talk about the divine.  Just as becoming needed forms by which the becoming my be and be known, it seemedthat God  was in need of such forms as well.  Without such forms, it would seem we could no more utter a word about God as we might utter a word about ceaseless becoming.   

But talk about God appears quite different than talk about the world of becoming all around us.  After all, we can see, hear, touch, smell and taste the world around us, but this seems not to be true of the divine.  God is supersensible; the divine is beyond all sensible finite being.  Categories by which we might know the world are categories we use when talking about God.  Metaphysics is born again in its attempt to take the categories that apply to the temporal and finite and use them to speak of the eternal and infinite. This seems quite reasonable because the categories themselves in their universal applicability seem to suggest the eternal, immutable and infinite.  The categories are not themselves comprised of the material becomings to which they apply.  If they were so comprised, they would not be categories, and the problem of stability and change would come back upon us again in full force.  

Medieval thinkers knew their metaphysics, and realized that reason itself dictates the use of metaphysical categories if there was to be anything stable about God and his mighty deeds that they human mind might know and that human language might speak.  Seventeenth and eighteenth century philosophers often divided on where to put their attention, with Descartes, Spinoza and Leibniz arguing passionately that rationality itself connects to the forms by which reality is grasped, a connecting that concerns the supersensible.  These great "continental rationalists" thought that proper application of reason could eventuate in knowledge of the supersensible, and ultimately through this, knowledge of the sensible itself could occur.  

Christian theology from the fourth century onward had linked itself arm and arm with the metaphysical.  And why not?  God as the eternal, immutable, impassible, infinite being is a denizen -- one might say the paradigmatic denizen -- of the realm of the supersensible itself.  No matter how large the field of the supersensible, God fills it, and even, at times, seems to strain against the borders.  After all, God as "that which none greater can be thought" must occupy the highest region of Being, though one must allow that God could at any time go to live in another realm entirely. 

God as the highest being quite naturally assumed the Grund (ground) role within all of being. While all beings in the supersensible have some reason to be that appeals to something outside themselves, God's raison d'etre must be included within Himself alone.  God is the uncaused cause, the unmoved mover, the necessary being grounding all contingency, the perfection of the medieval transcendentals of goodness, beauty and truth, and that by virtue of which the world has a consistency and stability allowing for human life.  

God as the ineffable, impassible, uncaused causer is the condition for His own actuality as well as the actuality of the world as such.  Why is there being and not nothing?  There is being because there is God and God is the one activity of being in all activities of being and the highest being.  Because there is God, there is metaphysical and physical order.  God has more being than His angels, who have more being than human beings, who themselves have more being than the animals, plants and minerals.  The "Great Chain of Being" determines the hierarchy of being, and every being on that hierarchy.  

The metaphysical realm of the supersensible is closed to all human sensing, but not to human thinking.  One can know something about supersensible hierarchies through reason, and through the reason-transcending showings of the supersensibe to human beings.  In the tradition, revelation stands on the side of reason and not on the side of the empirical.  Revelation and reason deal with the eternal verities, while the senses concern the temporal.  The first deal with Plato's realm of Being, the second with his realm of Becoming.  

Kant famously argued that the traditional province of human thinking, the realm of metaphysics itself, was epistemically inaccessible to human thinking. What can be known are those determinate perceptions (intuitions) that have been synthesized by our concepts into determinate objects of experience.  Human thinking as such could proceed in orders of conditioned and that which conditions, but such thinking does not access the supersensible it itself.  It does not carve the beast of reality at its joints. Such thinking is regulative; it is how human beings must think something, but there is no justified reason to think that how we must think something is the way that the supersensible thing to be thought is.  The transcendental subreption occurs when we confuse the necessity of our thinking with any necessity that the thing thought might have. 

With one fell swoop, Kant seemingly broke up the 14 century long marriage between theology and metaphysics.  "Doing away with knowledge to make room for faith" sounded good to many people in the day, but the pesky problem since the time of Kant has concerned what exactly does one have faith in?  

Fichte, Shelling, Coleridge, Schleiermacher, Hegel, and many others scavenged about for ways to think God beyond traditional supersensible formulations.  Perhaps one might think God as the whence of the human feeling of absolute dependence.  Perhaps God is found in the dynamism of the ego as it creates and surpasses the forms by which the world is known.  Perhaps God can be identified as the human effort to know the world through history, a knowing that is absolute when all that has been and can be known is known, a knowing that is simultaneously God reaching complete self-consciousness. 

But metaphysical ways die hard, and the post-metaphysical ways to think God suddenly seemed to be thinking God all over again through a new type of metaphysics. To think God as the transcendental field allowing knowledge to happen as a "laying out" or interpretation of God simply moves that which ultimately is from the prohibited traditional metaphysical transcendent to the newly permitted transcendentally unconditioned.  As that which ultimately conditions all knowledge, God is now thought as unconditioned conditioned, a step away from the uncaused causer, as it were, but a step that appeared to many to be not far enough.  

So it was the young Heidegger, reading the young Luther, who came to the conclusion that all of metaphysics, transcendent or transcendental, merely occludes that be-ing which is closest to us and in which we unavoidably dwell.  Heidegger declared that metaphysics is a practice in the "forgetfulness" of being because metaphysics simply lays out ultimate things with putative objectivity (present-at-hand being) while occluding the (ready-to-hand) practical fields of being in which human ultimately dwell.  Later Heidegger develops a radical critique of the "onto-theological tradition" of thinking God through derivative categories that ignore the factic life of Christians living always already ahead of themselves in anticipating the Second Coming of Christ.  One might say that onto-theology is the problem that has beset Christianity from its beginning and continually derails theology, which itself must ultimately concern human existence as they are "placed" or as the "find themselves" before God.  

This is the story of the great divorce between theology and metaphysics, a story that leaves Christian theology in the uncomfortable position of having to say something about God without using metaphysical categories.  But what can we say about God without metaphysical categories?  Although many books deal with this topic, It is actually quite difficult to answer this question.  If we don't talk about God then don't we fall into the black hole of apophatic theology?  This will be my topic in a later post.