For many years, I have been captivated by Generative Anthropology, initially encountering the writings of René Girard during my doctoral studies, and later integrating the significant insights of Eric Gans into my own research.

This fascination isn't due to my French heritage, not in the slightest.

Dr. Gans motivated me to contribute an article for a special issue of Anthropoetics, discussing how theologians and anthropologists can mutually benefit from one another. I wish to extend this discussion by clarifying some commonly used terms that hold particular significance for theologians: faith, belief, hypothesis, and knowledge. I dare to present this with the hope that precise definitions may serve scientists in their pursuits.

Before delving into specifics, let's remember that both science and theology emerge from a shared origin: the experience of wonder. This experience, in its strictest sense, predates inquiry, reflection, understanding, and the definition of that experience. Reflect on your own journey that may have led you to become a scientist or to any path you have taken. Something sparked a sense of wonder within you—a feeling of yearning, openness, and attraction to an encounter that prompted questions about our humanity.

This shared experience of wonder is what unites theologians and scientists; we all grapple with the human condition. While theologians may seem to study God, which is indeed the meaning of the term, every language has a word for “god.” Thus, theology inherently begins with the study of humanity, as it is the only pathway to understanding the divine—if such a path exists.

Physicists, biologists, and neuroscientists all commence their careers fueled by this experience of wonder. However, the unique wonder shared by theologians and anthropologists revolves around the extraordinary nature of humanity. This feeling is partly what Canadian economist, philosopher, and theologian Bernard Lonergan termed “the eros of the human spirit.” He defined it in two dimensions:

[It is] a single thrust, the eros of the human spirit. To know the good, it must know the real; to know the real, it must know the true; to know the true, it must know the intelligible; to know the intelligible, it must know the data.

Later, he flipped this perspective:

[the eros of the human spirit is] a tidal movement that begins before consciousness, unfolds through sensitivity, intelligence, rational reflection, responsible deliberation, only to find its rest beyond all of these.

Let’s illustrate this with an example: Picture an astronomer examining photographic plates taken by her telescope during a session. She notices something intriguing, perhaps a celestial object appearing to move between two plates. That initial focus sparks an insight—an "aha!" moment. From there, she begins to formulate questions and consider a hypothesis, searching for ways to validate it as true or false. Ultimately, she contemplates the implications of her possible discovery.

Returning to the initial "focus," the element that caught her eye is not entirely random; she possesses extensive experience and training. However, she may not consciously recognize this focus at that moment. Later, she will be able to articulate what drew her attention and how she approached questioning the data: one conscious act leads to another, and then another.

Each step involves sensitivity, intelligence, rational reflection, and responsible deliberation. I propose that scientists, much like our fictional astronomer, engage in a similar foundational process. This represents not merely the scientific method but also describes what occurs whenever a human seeks knowledge. Generally, we all possess some experiences of seeing, hearing, touching, smelling, tasting, imagining, perceiving, feeling, or moving. To put it another way, no one would claim to have never experienced intellectual curiosity, inquiry, striving for understanding, or the articulation of what they have learned.

Who would begin writing an article (on Medium?) by stating they have never engaged in critical reflection, never pondered the truth or falsehood of a statement, never evaluated anything based on available evidence, and are entirely oblivious to these concepts? How many authors include disclaimers in their works claiming they have no understanding of responsibility, or that they have never acted responsibly, especially in their writings for the public?

I initially mentioned my intention to clarify terms such as faith, belief, hypothesis, and knowledge. I am progressing toward that goal. Faith and belief are integral components of human cognition. To reiterate, we all arrive at knowledge by being attentive, asking pertinent questions, answering them to the best of our abilities, and embracing the implications of what we have learned. In essence, when we discover something we can assert is quite probably true, we have contributed to our knowledge base—and perhaps to humanity's collective knowledge as well.

That amusing word "probably" encapsulates our human struggle with probability. I recently explored a book on poker learning, The Biggest Bluff, by Maria Konnikova. I have no inclination to play poker myself; I spent three years in my youth supporting my studies in Paris by working in a gambling establishment, witnessing firsthand the destructive potential of gambling addiction (a rather fitting preparation for a future priest, I might add—highlighting the banality of evil). I sought to understand whether an awareness of probability is crucial in poker, which the renowned mathematician John von Neumann described as the most human of chance games. Roulette, on the other hand, is purely a game of chance: place your bet on a number, and your odds of winning are 35 to 1 or 2.86%.

Poker, however, also involves psychology, which is why professional poker players can make a living from the game. Konnikova, a journalist, aspired to learn to play at a championship level within a year. While her narrative is enjoyable, the key takeaway is that the only means to outplay the odds is to act based on what you believe the other players believe those odds to be. The probabilities in poker, like all games of chance, are fixed. What makes the game captivating is our beliefs. As Konnikova observes, “We need to train ourselves to see the world in a probabilistic light—and even then, we often ignore the numbers in favor of our own experience.”

Why is this the case? Belief. We are propelled by desire, not wisdom. Belief encompasses what we perceive to be true. It is a concept, an idea we have formed, and we each accumulate these throughout our lives. Some are undoubtedly true, many are likely true, while others are false. Given that we began shaping our beliefs in infancy, we may be unaware of the entirety of our belief systems. Yet, one truth remains: we require beliefs to navigate life.

We envision an astronomer scrutinizing her photographs of the cosmos. Observing the contrast between two plates ignites her focus—"Hello, what's this?" Her imagination is stimulated. The brain establishes anticipation between two neuronal pathways: from the senses to higher cognitive functions and back again. Our brains are perpetually attempting to predict our experiences. In this instance, the dissonance between expectation and reality stirs curiosity. Most of these processes reside within what has been termed “the adaptive unconscious.”

While initially dependent on the adaptive unconscious, the capacity to imagine represents the first step from animalistic awareness to the consciousness of the so-called "rational" human being. Imagination is awakened when the desire for knowledge is ignited, and belief nourishes it. Often, we settle for our beliefs without scrutiny; as Konnikova states, “we ignore the numbers in favor of our own experience.” Being a proficient astronomer, anthropologist, or theologian requires constant awareness that our imaginations do not equate to knowledge. This necessitates recognizing that our beliefs are, at best, probable, and thus we must be open to testing them when necessary.

A critically examined belief becomes a hypothesis, which demands validation. Of course, there are valid reasons for hesitance. Testing a hypothesis can lead to complications, especially in environments like North Korea. Alternatively, a hypothesis may conflict with established beliefs, resulting in repercussions from authorities who control one’s livelihood. Yet, perhaps this only applies to theologians…

Validating a hypothesis involves determining its truthfulness—true, false, or indeterminate. We can only reach truth after raising all conceivable questions regarding the hypothesis and answering them correctly. What is true is always tangible, because it is grounded in reality. What is false is discarded, as it lacks reality. If a judgment cannot be made, one must return to the proverbial drawing board. In all cases, we can only assert that a hypothesis is “probably” true, with the most skilled minds striving to assign it a numerical probability—though probably not 2.86%!

Much of what we consider knowledge is founded on belief. John Henry Newman noted that he understood the appearance of Great Britain based on his faith in the mapmakers.

In simpler terms, he trusted their work. This trust is synonymous with faith. Faith represents the assurance we have in our beliefs. The hallmark of faith is not merely confidence but also the presence of doubt. Our grounds for confidence are always open for questioning. Certainty arises only when no questions remain.

In this light, dear reader, you and I are individuals who navigate life based on faith—the confidence we place in our beliefs. Few things in life are entirely certain—death and taxes, perhaps, along with a handful of others. Today, people often categorize individuals as either having faith or not, religious or secular. However, being religious does not necessitate a distinct form of faith.

The esteemed yet often overlooked English theologian Austin Farrer once said:

The mysteries of faith must fit into one universe of sense with our natural knowledge of human personality, of history, of the form of nature, of the first principles of being: if they did not, they would not continue to be believed. The judgment upon which faith is based is an estimation like that used in other fields. Faith leaps beyond it, but that happens too in common life; our faith in the goodwill of a friend goes beyond and leaves behind any weighing of the evidence for it, and becomes a rooted axiom of living. In the case of the friend, such an axiom may be rooted, but not ineradicable: our friend may disappoint us.

In your case and mine, “faith leaps beyond” by instilling confidence in our beliefs. Faith is fundamentally a feeling; belief is conceptual, yet sustained by that confidence. Under certain conditions, a belief may evolve into a hypothesis, which, upon testing, could transform into knowledge. Ultimately, knowledge held solely by an individual is not genuine knowledge; it must be shared to be indirectly validated repeatedly.

In closing, I wish to express why I believe providing these specific definitions of terms often used loosely can be beneficial beyond my own field. First, I assert that when an individual feels compelled to know something, that marks the onset of a universal human experience—the eros of the human spirit. Faith and belief are critical components of our journey toward understanding. Therefore, they also contribute to our failures, alongside distraction, ignorance, irrationality, and irresponsibility.

In theology, conflating belief with certainty can lead to fundamentalism, which underpins religious violence due to its exclusionary nature—“we're right, you're wrong.” In science, confusing belief for certainty leads to scientism, the counterpart to religious fundamentalism. We all need to acknowledge the probabilistic essence of our faith, beliefs, and knowledge. Embracing the necessity of doubt to refine and fortify faith is crucial for clear reasoning and the accumulation of knowledge in any discipline.

But perhaps I should consider taking up poker after all?