...he wondered whether there was any love between human beings that did not rest upon some sort of self-delusion.
-- John Le Carre
If I say that, from inside, it makes much more sense to talk about belief as a characteristic set of feelings, or even as a habit, you will conclude that I am trying to wriggle out, or just possibly that I am not even interested in whether the crap I talk is true. I do, as a matter of fact, think that it is. I am a fairly orthodox Christian. Every Sunday I say and do my best to mean the whole of the Creed, which is a series of propositions. But it is still a mistake to suppose that it is assent to the propositions that makes you a believer. It is the feelings that are primary. I assent to the ideas because I have the feelings; I don't have the feelings because I've assented to the ideas.
That's what I think. But it's all secondary. It all comes limping along behind my emotional assurance that there was mercy, and I felt it. And so the argument about whether the ideas are true or not, which is the argument that people mostly expect to have about religion, is also secondary for me. No, I can't prove it. I don't know that any of it is true. I don't know if there's a God. (And neither do you, and neither does Professor Dawkins, and neither does anybody. It isn't the kind of thing you can know. It isn't a knowable item.) But then, like every human being, I am not in the habit of entertaining only those emotions I can prove. I'd be an unrecognisable oddity if I did. Emotions can certainly be misleading: they can fool you into believing stuff that is definitely, demonstrably untrue. Yet emotions are also our indispensable tool for navigating, for feeling our way through, the much larger domain of stuff that isn't susceptible to proof or disproof, that isn't checkable against the physical universe. We dream, hope, wonder, sorrow, rage, grieve, delight, surmise, joke, detest; we form such unprovable conjectures as novels or clarinet concertos; we imagine. And religion is just a part of that, in one sense. It's just one form of imagining, absolutely functional, absolutely human-normal. It would seem perverse, on the face of it, to propose that this one particular manifestation of imagining should be treated as outrageous, should be excised if (which is doubtful) we can manage it.
imagemarie wrote:”Go forth, on your journey, for the welfare of the many, for the happiness of the many, out of compassion for the world, for the good, the benefit, the bliss of gods and men.."
Sounds like love to me
cooran wrote:Hello all,
Love is an unusual word.
What do we mean by ‘’love’’? Do we mean romance, lust, desire, lovingkindness, admiration, fascination – or something else?
There are many Pali words for various aspects of ‘love’.
love : (nt.) pema. (m.) sineha; sneha; anurāga. (f.) mettā. (v.t.) piyāyati; pemaṃ bandhati; mettāyati. (pp.) piyāyita; baddhapema.
You can look their english meanings up here:
Ben wrote:For the sake of setting the cat amongst the pidgeons......he wondered whether there was any love between human beings that did not rest upon some sort of self-delusion.
-- John Le Carre
kirk5a wrote:Ben wrote:For the sake of setting the cat amongst the pidgeons......he wondered whether there was any love between human beings that did not rest upon some sort of self-delusion.
-- John Le Carre
I wonder if there is any love that does.
Our religion is itself profoundly sad - a religion of universal anguish, and one which, because of its very catholicity, grants full liberty to the individual and asks no better than to be celebrated in each man's own language - so long as he knows anguish and is a painter.
The unique and supreme voluptuousness of love lies in the certainty of committing evil. And men and women know from birth that in evil is found all sensual delight.
imagemarie wrote:There is something completely self-less in the love expressed by a dying person, that opens one's heart and makes it utterly vulnerable.
And for a while, it seems as though the love being shared has no object.
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