Not a Tactic, but a Way of Life. Interreligious Dialogue in a Divided World

 

 

                                            René Magritte, La condition humaine (The human condition), 1933

Introduction

Kerk & Leven (“Church & Life”) is the leading weekly Catholic magazine in the Flemish region of Belgium. Since October 2025, on the invitation of the chief editor of the local edition of the parish of Olen, Cis Marinus, I have been writing a reflective article every two weeks from a philosophical and theological perspective, exploring Christianity in a scientific age.

24 June 2026

Not a Tactic, but a Way of Life. Interreligious Dialogue in a Divided World

“Interreligious dialogue is not a tactic, but a way of life.” This remarkable statement by Pope Leo XIV during a commemoration of sixty years of Nostra Aetate (the declaration of the Second Vatican Council on the relationship of the Church to non-Christian religions) may seem simple, but it contains a small intellectual revolution. For anyone who calls dialogue a tactic views the other person as a means to an end. Anyone who calls it a way of life recognizes the other as an indispensable conversation partner in the search for truth.

This is an uncomfortable thought in an age in which convictions increasingly retreat behind certainties and identities. Yet it is precisely here that the philosophical significance of interreligious dialogue begins: not in abandoning one’s own truth, but in recognizing that truth can never become anyone’s possession. The other is not the one who threatens my convictions, but the one who tests, broadens, and deepens them.

At a time when religious differences are often seen as sources of conflict, identity politics, or strategic interests, the idea that dialogue is a way of life sounds almost countercultural. Yet it touches on a profoundly philosophical question: why should people who fundamentally disagree continue to seek one another out at all? Is dialogue merely a means of living together despite our differences? Or does the encounter with the other reveal something of the truth that every human being seeks?

How can people engage in meaningful conversation when both parties hold convictions that contradict one another on crucial points and are regarded as exclusively true? Christians, for example, believe in the Ascension of Jesus (that Jesus ascended into heaven) whereas Muslims do not. Muslims, on the other hand, believe in the ascension of the Prophet Muhammad, while Christians do not. The obvious question is: how can such beliefs be reconciled? The deeper question is: do they need to be reconciled at all?

A first step is to acknowledge that this tension is real and cannot simply be “talked away.” For Christians, the Ascension of Jesus is a central article of faith. For Muslims, the Isra (the Night Journey of the Prophet Muhammad from Mecca to Jerusalem) and the subsequent Mi‘raj (his ascent to heaven accompanied by the Archangel Jibril) occupy a similarly central place. These claims make assertions about what truly happened and what that means for truth and revelation.

One possible position is that only one’s own religious tradition possesses the full truth and that all others are mistaken (exclusivism). Anyone who assumes possession of the sole absolute truth can hardly avoid concluding that everyone else is wrong. The strength of this position is that it respects the logical tension involved and takes religious claims seriously. The risk, however, is that in dialogue the other is seen primarily as someone who is mistaken. The key question then becomes: how do you justify the fact that you happened to be born into the “correct” tradition? It seems difficult to defend the notion that one historical and cultural tradition should enjoy a monopoly on truth.

A second possible position is that other religions contain valuable insights, but these are viewed as incomplete expressions of an ultimate truth that is fully present in one particular religion (inclusivism). A classic example is Karl Rahner’s concept of the “anonymous Christian”: non-Christians can also participate implicitly in the truth of Christ. The strength of this position is that it allows for a partial recognition of truth in the other without abandoning one’s own core beliefs. Yet in dialogue it risks appearing condescending. It effectively says: “You are partly right, but I understand your religion better than you do.” A philosophical tension nevertheless remains: who determines what counts as the “partially true”? In practice, this tends to be one’s own framework.

Yet this does not mean that dialogue is impossible. Religious convictions do not function like ordinary empirical beliefs that are open to confirmation or refutation. Religious certainty belongs to a “form of life” or a comprehensive framework of reference. Religious beliefs constitute a fundamental way of understanding reality. René Magritte’s painting La condition humaine (1933) offers a fitting metaphor: every tradition provides its own “window” onto reality, without any single perspective encompassing the whole.

Instead of arguing solely about whether something literally happened, one can explore what religious beliefs mean within a particular tradition. What does the Ascension of Jesus mean for Christians? What does Muhammad’s Night Journey mean for Muslims? If the goal is to convince the other of one’s own correctness, the conversation is bound to reach an impasse. If the goal is to understand one another better and to live together despite differences, the conversation becomes more open.

Interreligious dialogue is not about consensus but about mutual respect and coexistence. Even when metaphysical truth claims clash, there are often overlapping values, such as justice, compassion, and care for others. Working together on the basis of these shared values fosters trust, and trust makes deeper conversations possible.

This makes interreligious dialogue highly relevant to society. When successful, it demonstrates to the world how people can live together peacefully despite holding mutually incompatible truth claims. In a world increasingly marked by polarization, violence, and mutual distrust, the value of such an example for humanity can hardly be overstated.

Interreligious dialogue is not a sign of religious relativism but of confidence: confidence that truth does not need to be protected by high walls, but can reveal itself in open encounter. Pope Leo XIV regards encounters between religions not as a diplomatic game but as a moral and spiritual necessity. In his view, believers from different traditions can jointly resist hatred, violence, and nationalist exclusion. Where others sow distrust, religions must build trust. Where fear prevails, they must foster understanding.

He has even stated that faith “unites more than it divides” and that cooperation between religions can be a sign of hope for all humanity. In his view, religion is not fundamentally a source of conflict, but a source of healing and reconciliation.

The real challenge of interreligious dialogue is this: can one remain deeply committed to one’s own faith while simultaneously acknowledging that one’s access to truth is limited and mediated? It is precisely within this tension, not resolved but sustained, that fruitful dialogue emerges. The purpose of interreligious dialogue is not to eliminate differences, but to recognize that no tradition fully understands itself without the perspective of the other.

 

The Absence of God as Grace: The Enigma of Simone Weil

 

 

René Magritte, Tous les jours (1966) 

Introduction

Kerk & Leven (“Church & Life”) is the leading weekly Catholic magazine in the Flemish region of Belgium. Since October 2025, on the invitation of the chief editor of the local edition of the parish of Olen, Cis Marinus, I have been writing a reflective article every two weeks from a philosophical and theological perspective, exploring Christianity in a scientific age.

3 June 2026

The Absence of God as Grace: The Enigma of Simone Weil

April 2026: Alicja Gescinska wins the prestigious Socrates Cup for her book Women in Dark Times (in Dutch: “Vrouwen in duistere tijden”). The Socrates Cup is awarded annually to the author of “the most urgent, original, and thought-provoking Dutch-language philosophy book of the previous year.” In this remarkable work, Gescinska presents ten female philosophers whose ideas have had a lasting significance for the world. They are “courageous women who, through both their thinking and their actions, demonstrated profound political awareness and social commitment in the struggle against totalitarian temptation and destruction.” These philosophers have often remained underappreciated solely because they were women. Unfortunately, the world of philosophy is still too frequently portrayed as a male stronghold. It is therefore one of Gescinska’s most commendable achievements that her book offers a counter-narrative that challenges this masculine hegemony.

One of the most striking and enigmatic figures she discusses is Simone Weil, a French-Jewish philosopher and political activist who died of tuberculosis at the age of only thirty-four. Almost all of her work was published posthumously; during her lifetime she published only a handful of articles. Although both of her parents were Jewish, she was not raised religiously. Later in life, however, she became deeply interested in Christian mysticism and converted to Catholicism, though she never chose to be baptized. Gescinska writes: “In this way, she wished to remain in solidarity with all non-Catholics and all those who had not converted to the ‘true faith’; she wanted to share their fate (…)”.

In her book Gravity and Grace (1947; original French title “La pesanteur et la grâce”), Simone Weil develops a profoundly paradoxical idea about the absence of God. Weil firmly believed that God exists, yet she argued that after creating the world out of nothing, God withdrew Himself from His creation out of love. God’s absence from the world is not a deficiency but rather an expression of love. This idea runs counter to many traditional religious intuitions, in which God’s presence is associated with protection, intervention, and visible signs. For Weil, the opposite is true: it is precisely because God withdraws from the world that space emerges for human beings, for freedom, and even for genuine love.

Weil calls this divine self-withdrawal “decreation”, a concept that lies at the heart of her religious philosophy. This idea is evocatively captured in the intriguing painting Tous les jours (1966, “Every Day”) by René Magritte.

Weil begins from a radical understanding of creation. If God creates the world out of nothing, this means not only that the world depends upon God, but also that a separation arises between God and the world. If God were to continue filling all things completely, creation could possess no genuine independence. Therefore, Weil argues that after creation God effectively withdraws Himself. He “decreates” Himself: He relinquishes His omnipresence to make room for something other than Himself.

God’s withdrawal is not abandonment born of indifference but an act of love. Love, Weil suggests, requires distance. If God were wholly present, human beings would no longer possess freedom, nor the capacity to choose, to fail, or to love. God’s absence is therefore the condition for human autonomy. God “withdraws” from the world so that something other than God may exist. One might compare this to a parent letting go of a child: only through distance can the child truly come into his or her own.

After this withdrawal, the world functions according to what Weil calls “necessity”: the immutable laws of nature and the laws of cause and effect, which she metaphorically describes as “gravity” (la pesanteur). Opposed to this necessity is grace, which cannot be compelled but can only be given. It is precisely in God’s absence that grace becomes possible as an unexpected breakthrough.

One of Weil’s most challenging ideas is that human beings encounter God not in fullness but in emptiness. When a person empties himself of ego, desires, and illusions, space is created for attention: a radical openness to whatever presents itself. God’s absence is essential here. If God constantly and unmistakably manifested Himself, there would be no room for such attention. Human beings would be overwhelmed, and their freedom would disappear. God’s absence is therefore not merely a cosmological fact but also a spiritual method: it compels us to adopt an attitude of waiting and receptivity.

This idea bears a remarkable affinity to an intriguing statement by Ludwig Wittgenstein in his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus: “How the world is, is completely indifferent for what is higher. God does not reveal Himself in the world” (6.432). Wittgenstein distinguishes between what can be said and what can only be shown. The world consists of facts, of everything that is the case. But the meaning of the world, the ethical, the aesthetic, and the religious, does not belong to those facts. For Wittgenstein, the higher is not something that appears as an object within the world. Rather, it is the condition of meaning itself, something situated at the limits of language.

This resonates strongly with Simone Weil’s thought. Just as for Wittgenstein, the religious dimension does not coincide with observable reality. It lies beyond it, as the horizon that gives it significance.

The idea of God’s absence also has important ethical consequences. In a world without visible divine intervention, human beings cannot rely on an external authority to arrange everything on their behalf. They must assume responsibility for their own actions.

For Weil, however, this does not mean that human beings are autonomous in the modern sense of the term. Their freedom is not self-sufficiency but a calling to attention and self-emptying. Human beings must learn to renounce their own will in order to make room for the good. In this sense, ethics is not primarily a matter of rules but of disposition. The absence of God makes such a disposition necessary. If God were constantly present, people would come to depend upon that presence. Instead, they must confront the void themselves and act within it.

The central idea of Gravity and Grace can therefore be summarized in a paradox: God’s absence is the highest form of His presence. By withdrawing, God makes the world possible, makes humanity possible, and even makes love possible. This “decreation” is not a loss but a gift.

Weil’s originality lies in her radicalism. She embraces God’s absence not as a problem to be solved but as a mystery to be understood. In a world in which God is silent, human beings are invited to listen. In a world in which God appears absent, human beings are called to be present, for themselves, for others, and, within the emptiness itself, for God.