On the Continuity of Wittgenstein’s “Religious Point of View”

Abstract

It is widely acknowledged that there is a similarity between Wittgenstein’s later conception of language and a “religious point of view.” An equally well-received view is that there is an essential shift in Wittgenstein’s thought from early to later. However, what both of these contentions ignore is that there is also a similarity between his early philosophy and the “religious point of view”, the negligence of which has led to an exaggeration of the divergence between his early and later philosophy. This paper aims to show that Wittgenstein in fact conducted his early philosophical work from a “religious point of view” and continued to demonstrate such a view in his later writings. I will first identify some essential characteristics of the “religious point of view” in Wittgenstein’s early philosophy by focusing on the mystical. I will then illustrate how these characteristics continue and are developed further in his later thought. The findings of this paper are critical in two ways: on the one hand, they clarify a host of misunderstandings through a comparative investigation into Wittgenstein’s early and later thought; on the other, they provide a more comprehensive overview of Wittgenstein’s “religious point of view,” which will help to deepen our understanding of his philosophy.

1. Introduction

“I am not a religious man,” Wittgenstein once remarked to Drury, “but I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view” (Rhees 1984, p. 94). This statement has received considerable attention from scholars because it highlights, in a certain sense, a significant characteristic of Wittgenstein’s philosophy. It provides a valuable way into understanding his philosophical thought and offers critical insights into the relationship between his philosophy and his attitude towards religion. Many commentators, inspired by the implications of this remark, have either examined Wittgenstein’s philosophy from a religious perspective—arguing that it is fundamentally religious (DeAngelis 1997; Shields 1993)—or have drawn analogies to highlight similarities between his philosophy and religious thought (Malcolm 1993; Labron 2006). Such analyses have indeed deepened our understanding of Wittgenstein’s philosophical temperament and clarified the intricate relationship between his philosophical outlook and religious attitudes.

However, these analyses often rest upon the assumption of a sharp distinction between Wittgenstein’s early and late philosophies, presupposing considerable differences between them. As a result, some scholars approach Wittgenstein’s “religious point of view” exclusively through the lens of his early philosophy, while others interpret this relationship primarily through his later work.1 To a certain extent, this approach is understandable. Scholars who prefer to examine Wittgenstein’s early religious point of view consider resources within his early works independently from his later writings, thus offering interpretations that are restricted to that particular context. Conversely, those who focus on Wittgenstein’s later religious point of view often emphasise the time when this remark to Drury was recorded—1941—and, quite naturally, situate their analogies within his later philosophical framework. Moreover, Wittgenstein’s later writings contain numerous direct reflections and commentaries on religion, thus enabling a clearer alignment between his later philosophy and his religious point of view.

Nevertheless, this approach neglects an essential aspect: both Wittgenstein’s early and late philosophies share the feature of viewing problems from a religious point of view, and there exists significant continuity between the two periods. This paper will examine Wittgenstein’s religious point of view from the perspective of this continuity.2 On the one hand, this approach provides new insights into understanding the relationship between Wittgenstein’s philosophy and his religious point of view. On the other, it reveals a crucial dimension in Wittgenstein’s philosophical development—namely, the continuity that characterises his philosophy in significant ways—thus deepening our overall understanding of Wittgenstein.

What Does It Mean to See Every Problem from a Religious Point of View?

Although Wittgenstein mentions that he always sees every problem from a religious point of view, the precise meaning of this statement cannot be easily discerned from the surrounding textual context in the existing literature. Two important questions arise here. The first is: What exactly does “every problem” refer to? Closely related to this is a second question: How are these problems to be viewed from a religious point of view? Malcolm offers valuable insight for understanding both questions. He suggests that Wittgenstein is speaking of viewing philosophical questions from a religious point of view, and he identifies several characteristic features of such a perspective. He begins by examining Wittgenstein’s life to illustrate his religious temperament, thereby suggesting a significant analogy between Wittgenstein’s philosophical stance and his religious point of view. Malcolm notes that understanding this analogy might be facilitated by examining recurring themes in Wittgenstein’s philosophical writings: “A possible clue may lie in the reiterated theme of his writings, that explanations, reasons, justifications, come to an end” (Malcolm 1993, p. 2). This characteristic bears certain similarities to what we find in religion. As Malcolm observes:

When the search for an explanation, a reason, a justification, is brought to an end in the acknowledgement that it was God’s will—that is a religious response. There is a religious attitude which would regard as meaningless, or ignorant, or presumptuous, any demand for God’s reason or justification, or any attempt to explain why He willed, or permitted, this disaster to occur.

(Malcolm 1993, p. 2)

Starting from this point, Malcolm further develops his approach by proposing four analogies. He identifies

four analogies between Wittgenstein’s conception of the grammar in language and his view of what is paramount in religious life. First, in both there is an end to explanation; second, in both there is an inclination to be amazed at the existence of something: third, into both there enters the notion of an “illness”; fourth, in both, doing, acting, takes priority over intellectual understanding and reasoning.

(Malcolm 1993, p. 92)

Malcolm’s claim is highly illuminating, but it has also been subject to serious criticism. In a postscript to the same book, Peter Winch offers a detailed challenge to Malcolm’s interpretation. First, he questions whether Wittgenstein’s remark refers specifically to viewing philosophical problems from a religious point of view; rather, it seems to indicate viewing every kind of problem in such a light. Second, Winch contests each of the four analogies Malcolm presents, arguing that none of them holds up under scrutiny. His criticisms are philosophically substantial and deserve careful attention. Before we proceed to examine what it means to view philosophical problems from a religious perspective, it is necessary to consider Winch’s remarks in some detail.

Winch begins by criticising Malcolm’s overall interpretive strategy. He argues that Wittgenstein’s original statement refers to viewing every problem from a religious point of view, rather than—as Malcolm suggests—viewing philosophical problems in particular from such a perspective. Winch emphasises: “Now, as quoted by Drury, Wittgenstein did not explicitly speak of philosophical problems. What he is supposed to have said is: ‘I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view.’ Malcolm, in his Introduction, takes it as a matter of course that Wittgenstein was speaking here of philosophical problems” (Malcolm 1993, p. 95). After some analysis, Winch concludes that “it is perhaps a mistake to try to construe Wittgenstein’s remark to Drury as proposing an analogy between philosophical and religious questions” (Malcolm 1993, p. 97). He gives three reasons for saying this.

First, although it might be said that Wittgenstein viewed philosophical problems from a religious point of view, there are many other issues that are even more directly related to religion—such as questions about life. For instance, “the problem of how to live with something in one’s past life of which one is ashamed; the problem of how to conduct oneself in the face of death; generally, the problem of how to live a decent life” (Malcolm 1993, p. 96). Compared with philosophical problems, these issues are more directly connected with a religious outlook.

Second, Malcolm’s analogy rests upon an exclusive assumption: “Malcolm’s essay rests on the assumption that Wittgenstein meant that he saw an analogy between philosophical and religious problems and his discussion is carried out on that supposition. But the supposition is only plausible as long as we take Wittgenstein to be speaking of philosophical problems in an exclusive way” (Malcolm 1993, pp. 96–97). Yet many large socio-political problems ought to be considered within the scope of Wittgenstein’s remarks, making such exclusivity untenable.

Thirdly, as can be seen from further dispersed textual examples, Wittgenstein also draws analogies between philosophy and aesthetics—yet no religious element is present in these discussions. “And this view is fleshed out through many examples which Wittgenstein discusses of particular aesthetic questions. I find nothing of the sort in what he writes about religious questions” (Malcolm 1993, p. 97). This significantly undermines the plausibility of the analogy between philosophy and religion.

Winch’s critique is undoubtedly stimulating, but it ultimately proves difficult to sustain. Let us begin with the first point. In order to assess it properly, we must attend carefully to the context of Wittgenstein’s conversation with Drury.

They are the expression of a lifelong conviction concerning all his writing. When he was working on the latter part of the Philosophical Investigations he told me: “it is impossible for me to say in my book one word about all that music has meant in my life. How then can I hope to be understood?” And about the same date: “My type of thinking is not wanted in this present age, I have to swim so strongly against the tide. Perhaps in a hundred years people will really want what I am writing.” Again in the same conversation: ‘I am not a religious man but I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view.’”

(Drury 1984, p. 79)

Regarding the first point, we can make two responses. First, although Wittgenstein did not explicitly state that he was speaking of philosophical problems when he made this remark, the context of his conversation with Drury clearly indicates that he was primarily discussing his thought and writings (Cf. Drury 1984, pp. 79, 159–60). This suggests that he made the remark within the context of discussing his philosophical ideas, without implying—as Winch suggests—that he was referring to all problems beyond philosophy.

Secondly, the other issues Winch identifies as being directly related to religion in fact concern ethical questions about life’s meaning and value. However, these questions are themselves an important part of Wittgenstein’s philosophical thinking. As Rush notes: “Now I am going to venture to state that all the subsequent writings continue this fundamental idea. They all point to an ethical dimension.” (Drury 1984, p. 81) Therefore, viewing these issues from a religious point of view is not in conflict with viewing philosophical problems from the same perspective; on the contrary, it is precisely part of what it means to approach philosophical problems from a religious point of view.

On the second point, I would argue that Winch’s interpretation is also problematic. From the surrounding context, it is clear that Wittgenstein was reflecting on the fact that his thought, particularly concerning philosophical problems, could not be understood by others. This is why he remarked that he could not help seeing every problem from a religious point of view. If, as Winch suggests, this remark referred generally to all problems—including large socio-political problems—it becomes difficult to understand why Wittgenstein would claim that his thought was incomprehensible. Moreover, while we have offered reasons to interpret Wittgenstein as viewing philosophical problems from a religious point of view, when Winch states, “We may perhaps allow that he was singling out his attitude to philosophical problems for special attention, but there is no reason to think that he was not also expressing an attitude to many other sorts of problem as well” (Malcolm 1993, p. 97), he provides no further argument or concrete examples concerning large socio-political problems to support this claim. The ethical issues he previously mentioned—such as questions of life and death or moral shame—are, as we have shown, not counterexamples to this interpretation; rather, they form part of what it means to view philosophical problems from a religious point of view.

The third point is also untenable. Winch emphasises that Wittgenstein draws an analogy between philosophy and aesthetics, with no apparent trace of religion. This seems to contradict Malcolm’s claim of an analogy between philosophy and religion. However, the existence of an analogy between philosophy and aesthetics does not conflict with the idea of viewing philosophy from a religious point of view. The absence of religious elements in the analogy between philosophy and aesthetics does not imply that there is no analogy between philosophy and religion. Aesthetics is also viewed from the eternal perspective (Cf. Wittgenstein 1998, p. 7), which is similar to the religious perspective that views the world from the eternal perspective3. Moreover, in terms of the eternal perspective, Wittgenstein sometimes even holds that ethics and aesthetics are one and the same (cf. TLP 6.421). Therefore, the analogy between philosophy and aesthetics can be understood precisely as a result derived from looking at philosophy from a religious point of view.

In addition to the general criticism discussed above, Winch also questions the four analogies that Malcolm draws from viewing philosophical problems from a religious point of view. His main argumentative strategy is to set a very high standard to oppose the analogy Malcolm presents. Here, I would like to propose a distinction between two kinds of analogy. A thin analogy refers to a relative similarity in form and content in certain aspects; this similarity does not require maximal similarity and allows for different expressions of the two analogical items in different contexts. A thick analogy, on the other hand, requires an absolute similarity in form and content in nearly all aspects; this similarity demands an overly strong similarity—sometimes bordering on identity—and does not allow for different expressions of the two analogical items in different contexts. Under this strategy, Winch’s rebuttal of Malcolm is, on the one hand, to oppose a thin analogy with a thicker one, and, on the other hand, to argue that the thin analogy fails due to contextual differences. As a concrete application of this approach, he cites cases which appear to lack any strict similarity between religion and philosophy, thereby challenging Malcolm’s claim.

However, in my view, these criticisms are ultimately unconvincing. The primary reason is that Malcolm employs a thin analogy, rather than a thick analogy. As such, Winch’s critique appears to misapply a standard that is not appropriate for Malcolm’s approach. Additionally, Winch seems to overlook the distinction between viewing philosophical questions from a religious point of view and using a religious point of view to interpret philosophical questions. The former refers to a thin analogy, while the latter refers to a thick analogy. In a nutshell, Winch’s criticisms seem to stem from a misreading of Wittgenstein’s remarks on religion, and as such, cannot be fully upheld. To make this point clearer, I will examine Winch’s criticisms in detail below.

Criticism of the Analogy Related to Explanation. Winch’s critique of the analogy concerning the explanatory attitude proceeds as follows. He first draws a distinction between two points: “On the one hand it is said that the expression of religious belief is itself a language-game for which it makes no sense to ask for an explanation or rational justification. On the other hand it is said that, for a religious believer, a reference to God’s will is ‘an end to explanation’” (Malcolm 1993, p. 111).

As for the first point, he points out that the claim that a language-game ultimately requires no explanation is a philosophical assertion. In so far as the expression of religious belief, therefore, is treated as itself a language-game, no clear analogy emerges. If one understands “explanation” in the philosophical sense, scientific inquiry likewise ultimately lacks explanation. Moreover, a religious believer might regard their faith as a gift from God. However, there is no genuine analogy here, since for someone who accepts a language-game, there is no need to appeal further to a divine gift. Even if Wittgenstein held such a view, it merely reflects his religious outlook, and does not establish an analogy between philosophy and religion in this regard.

Regarding this point, I would argue that Winch’s criticism is unwarranted. To begin with, there is nothing problematic about Winch’s claim that the expression of religious belief is itself a language-game. However, this does not pose a challenge to the analogy between religion and philosophy. Wittgenstein’s claim that he sees philosophical problems from a religious point of view may be taken to indicate that his philosophical thinking is shaped by such a perspective; and this philosophical perspective, in turn, allows one to see religious belief as a language-game. Furthermore, it follows from this that, like religious belief, scientific inquiry also ultimately comes to an end of explanation. Winch’s criticism seems to assume that Wittgenstein’s original approach was to look at religion from a philosophical point of view, rather than to look at philosophy from a religious point of view. Yet he provides no textual evidence to support this assumption, which in effect reverses the intended order of perspectives.

Secondly, the analogy between philosophy and religion does not imply a thick analogy. Wittgenstein’s remark is about viewing philosophical questions from a religious point of view, rather than using a religious point of view to interpreting philosophical questions. A person who accepts a language-game may not regard it as a gift from God, but rather as a gift of fate. In this respect, the real content of the analogy lies in the acceptance of reality without the pursuit of deeper reasons. The similarity at issue here is one of a thin kind, rather than a thick one. Moreover, this analogy does not require similarity in every aspect; even if there are dissimilarities, they do not constitute a decisive refutation of Malcolm’s claim.

Regarding the second point: according to Malcolm, the will of God serves as the end of explanation—one does not ask why it is God’s will. In philosophy, the end of explanation lies in admitting the fact—adopting the attitude of “this is how it is,” where the question “why” comes to a stop. There appears to be a similarity between the two. However, Winch argues that this is problematic. He claims that there is no real similarity between the cessation of explanation in philosophy and that in religion. By citing a passage from Wittgenstein in 1950, he points out that:

Wittgenstein’s question how the attitude to explanation to which he is referring shows itself in a person’s life is a warning against too hasty a comparison with attitudes in other contexts that may be similarly expressed. And the whole passage spells out that warning. “Practice gives the words their sense.” And the practice associated with giving up the demand for explanation in philosophy bears little comparison with the giving up of the demand for explanation in religion, despite the similar words with which we may, in part at least, describe them.

(Malcolm 1993, p. 113)

However, Winch’s criticism here is very weak. I would once again emphasise that, if one understands that the analogy at issue involves relative similarity, rather than absolute similarity, Winch’s misunderstanding can be easily resolved. First, there is indeed a resemblance between the two: both the abandonment of explanation in philosophy and in religion lead to acceptance of the ultimate things—God’s will in religion and the existence of the world itself in philosophy—rather than to the continuing doubt resulting from the desire for endless explanation. Second, the original text he cites does not read “a warning against too hasty a comparison with attitudes in other contexts that may be similarly expressed,” but rather “a warning against too hasty a comparison with attitudes of explanation in other contexts that may be similarly expressed.” Attitudes toward explanation may vary depending on the context, but Wittgenstein precisely regards this variation as insignificant. What matters is that “Practice gives the words their sense.” According to Wittgenstein, there is indeed an analogy between philosophy and religion: in philosophy, abandoning explanation points toward practice; in religion, giving up explanation also turns toward practice. Finally, what is even more problematic is that Winch fails to offer any argument as to why the practice of abandoning explanation in philosophy bears no relation to that in religion.

Building on this, Winch introduces another point of criticism. He argues that appealing to the will of God does not have any priority over appealing to the will of the Devil or simply saying “That’s how things are.” Therefore, he sees no resemblance between religious and philosophical attitudes in this regard. As he puts it: “The reference to the Devil here is no more an explanation than is a reference to the will of God. Indeed, the ‘stupid anthropomorphism’ consists precisely in thinking an explanation is needed in each particular case instead of simply saying: the world is the work of the Devil. Someone else again might simply say ‘That’s how things are’, without reference either to God or the Devil” (Malcolm 1993, p. 114).

This passage presents three different attitudes. As previously noted, while such distinctions are generally acceptable, Winch clearly confuses viewing issues from a religious point of view with using religion itself to interpret them. The thin analogy between religion and philosophy should not be mistaken for a thick analogy. Saying “that’s how things are” does not necessarily require appealing to God, and appealing to the Devil does not necessarily require invoking God either. In this case, the three attitudes—appealing to God, appealing to the Devil, and simply saying “that’s how things are”—are themselves in an analogous relationship. They do not contradict one another and do not undermine the approach of viewing problems from a religious point of view.

Winch’s final point of criticism is that Wittgenstein’s insistence on treating explanation as something that comes to an end might actually weaken religious faith, leading some individuals to no longer take their religious attitudes seriously. “For one thing, clarity about such matters as these could just as well lead to a weakening of religious faith in some people. ‘If that is what religious faith comes to,’ some may think, ‘it doesn’t have the kind of importance I thought it had’” (Malcolm 1993, p. 115). This seems to run counter to the religious point of view. While philosophy may indeed dispel many illusions, it may also lead to treating certain religious contents as illusions, making it difficult to argue that this reflects a similarity between religion and philosophy.

In my view, Winch seems to have missed the crux of the matter on this point. In philosophy, identifying the limits of explanation serves to dispel philosophical illusions. Similarly, in religion, recognising the limits of explanation also serves to expose false beliefs. Dispelling philosophical illusions does not weaken a person’s philosophical stance; rather, it reveals that they were previously caught in a false illusion, thereby enabling them to view philosophy correctly. Likewise, exposing religious illusions does not undermine religious conviction, but instead reveals that one was previously entangled in a false illusion, thus allowing for a more genuine understanding of one’s religious faith. This not only fails to weaken the analogy between religion and philosophy but in fact reinforces it. (This point actually involves a shift in perspective, which I will discuss in detail later.)

Criticism of the Analogy Related to the Sense of Wonder. Winch first points out that the sense of wonder found in religion and that found in philosophy are different: “the surroundings of the wonder in the two cases are so very different as to make the force of any talk of an ‘analogy’ at best weak; even seriously vitiated by an apparent tendency to take ‘the feeling of wonder and mystery’ as a given, as something common to the two kinds of context he is comparing” (Malcolm 1993, p. 116). Winch is right to note that the contexts differ. However, I wish to reiterate that the analogy between religion and philosophy reflects a relative, not absolute, similarity in form and content. The similarity in form refers to the shared attitude of wonder, while the similarity in content refers to expressing that wonder toward something ultimate. The differences in form and content pertain to the specific objects, expressions, and contexts involved. Therefore, as with his previous objections, Winch’s criticism here is overly strong. It does not undermine the idea of viewing issues from a religious point of view; on the contrary, it actually supports the claim that religion and philosophy are similar in form and content.4

Winch then argues that, since context plays an intrinsic role in shaping the sense of wonder, and since contexts vary widely, there are in fact many different types of wonder. He cites the example of wonder at the skill with which Boris Becker plays tennis, claiming that such a feeling bears no analogy to religious attitudes. However, this clearly misunderstands the notion of wonder. In the “A Lecture on Ethics”, Wittgenstein distinguishes between two types of wonder: one is wonder at facts within the world, which can be resolved through factual descriptions and carries no intrinsic ethical weight; the other is wonder at the existence of the world itself, which cannot be answered through any discovery of facts, because no empirical fact can address such a question. Therefore, invoking an example of the first kind of wonder to challenge the second kind—wonder at existence—is misguided.

Winch further points out that Wittgenstein himself acknowledged that he would not be moved by, or believe in, certain religious miracles (Wittgenstein 1998, pp. 56e, 45e). This might seem to challenge the analogy between religion and philosophy in terms of the sense of wonder. However, it is worth reiterating that Wittgenstein’s approach is not about using a religious point of view to interpret issues, but rather about viewing philosophical questions from a religious point of view. Using a religious point of view might require a sense of wonder toward religious miracles, while viewing philosophy from a religious point of view leads instead to wonder at certain kind of ultimate existence. The two only need to exhibit a relative similarity in form and content, not an absolute one. Therefore, the fact that the conclusions derived from viewing philosophical questions from a religious perspective might not align with Wittgenstein’s personal attitude toward religion itself does not invalidate the approach of viewing philosophical problems from a religious point of view.

Criticism of the Analogy Related to Illness. First, Winch once again points out the differences in the kinds of illness to which religion and philosophy, respectively, give rise in their own contexts: “The senses in which one can speak of an ‘illness’ in each of these contexts is far too heavily dependent on the extremely diverse contexts involved for any talk of an analogy to carry much weight” (Malcolm 1993, p. 118). As I have argued earlier, this criticism is based on a misunderstanding of the nature of the analogy: what is required is a thin analogy, not a thick analogy.

Winch introduces another criticism: while Malcolm discusses the difficulty of therapeutic treatment in philosophy and similarly mentions difficulties in religious healing, Winch contends that the two are not analogous, because the latter appears to be much more difficult: “While it makes sense to talk of a ‘therapy’ which would cure a person of the diseases of thinking that give rise to philosophy, one cannot speak in that way of the diseases of the soul which are the concern of religion.” (Malcolm 1993, p. 118) This criticism is also unconvincing. The crucial point lies in the parallelism of form and content, rather than in their exact correspondence. The real point here is that both philosophical and religious treatments of illness are difficult, even if the latter is more so. However, the different degrees of difficulty in treating illness do not undermine the validity of the analogy.

Criticism of the Analogy Related to Thinking and Acting. With regard to the fourth analogy, Winch points out a special case: in religion, the relationship between faith and works is not equivalent to that between thinking and acting in philosophy. He argues that: “He does not make sufficiently clear the internal connection that exists between the nature of the ‘works’ that are in question here and the use of the language of faith in the life of the believer.” (Malcolm 1993, p. 124) This criticism is reasonable in its own terms. However, it is not directly related to the core point of the fourth analogy—namely, that in both religion and philosophy, doing or acting takes precedence over intellectual understanding and reasoning. In this sense, Winch’s critique seems to be addressing a different topic altogether. Due to space limitations, I will not explore this further here.

The preceding discussion shows that Winch’s criticisms clearly fail to refute Malcolm’s central claim—that Wittgenstein viewed philosophical questions from a religious point of view—and do not undermine the four analogies Malcolm proposes. Nevertheless, Winch offers a number of valuable insights that deepen the discussion and enhance our understanding of the analogical relationship. His observations help us appreciate Malcolm’s position more fully and clearly. Moreover, by pointing out the various degrees and kinds of differences in the analogical framework, Winch’s observations are proven valuable in that they enable us to acquire a more nuanced comprehension of the issue.

2. What Kind of Religious Point of View?

As previously noted, Malcolm’s interpretation proves helpful in understanding Wittgenstein’s remarks concerning the religious point of view. However, there remains a more fundamental question: what exactly is this religious point of view? As Labron rightly points out, we require a more precise articulation of what exactly constitutes this religious point of view. He writes “But what, then, is the point of the remark? The reply may be that there is a sense of the religious in Wittgenstein’s thought, but what religious sense?” (Labron 2006, p. 68). In fact, many commentators have not adequately clarified the religious point of view itself. And yet Larbon himself does not elaborate on it in detail; rather, he suggests that the religious point of view in question should be approached through particular examples drawn from specific religious traditions, such as Hebraic thought (cf. Labron 2006, pp. 68–69). While this method has its merits, it still fails to provide a clear depiction of the analogy between Wittgenstein’s philosophy and the religious point of view, which necessitates a more detailed investigation.

One reason why this issue has remained obscure lies partly in a failure to take into account continuity, which has prevented a deeper understanding of the underlying reasons behind the characteristics Malcolm identifies above. By focusing on continuity, an important clue emerges: Wittgenstein’s emphasis on the distinction between different perspectives or points of view. Specifically, Wittgenstein distinguishes between two kinds of views: an ordinary (common) view and an eternal one. These two perspectives, which form a continuous central thread across Wittgenstein’s early and late philosophies, can yield distinct answers to our current issue. In the following, I will elaborate on the exact philosophical implication of this distinction between perspectives.

The idea of different perspectives is clearly illustrated in Wittgenstein’s early philosophy, where his treatment of philosophical problems relies heavily upon what may be termed a “mystical view,” which is a version of the “religious point of view.”

In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein aims to solve philosophical problems by drawing limits on the expression of thought—namely, the limits of language. He believes that philosophical questions result from misunderstandings about the logic of our language. By clarifying the nature of logic and demarcating the limits of language, he famously concludes: “What can be said at all can be said clearly, and what we cannot talk about we must pass over in silence” (Wittgenstein 1961, preface). However, this conclusion does not imply that only that which can be stated explicitly is significant, or that everything beyond linguistic expression is simply nonsense. Instead, Wittgenstein acknowledges that what must be passed over in silence is of fundamental importance.5 Evidence for this interpretation can be found in a letter Wittgenstein wrote to his friend, Ludwig von Ficker:

I wanted to write that my work consists of two parts: of the one which is here, and of everything which I have not written. And precisely this second part that is the important one. For the ethical is delimited from within, as it were, by my book; and I’m convinced that, strictly speaking, it can ONLY be delimited in this way. In brief, I think: All of that which many are babbling today, I have defined in my by book by remaining silent about it. (Wittgenstein 1979a, pp. 94–95)

Wittgenstein recommended that Ficker read the book’s preface and conclusion carefully, “since these express the point most directly” (Wittgenstein 1979a, p. 95). In this letter, Wittgenstein refers to his book as consisting of two distinct parts, thus raising questions about their relationship. The first part, expressed explicitly in the Tractatus, includes subjects such as substance, language, logic, and solipsism; the second part concerns ethical value or the meaning of life. At first glance, the connection between these two parts seems elusive, as the former addresses the factual domain and the latter the domain of value. However, certain clues can help bridge the gap. Wittgenstein’s concept of the mystical provides a crucial pivot connecting these two parts. What has ethical value is mystical. Although the Tractatus itself mentions ethics sparingly, Wittgenstein clearly acknowledges the significance and the ineffability of ethics. Following this line of thought, further information can be found near the end of the work, especially at proposition 6.522, where Wittgenstein regards what cannot be expressed in language as mystical, important, and self-manifesting.

In the Tractatus, Wittgenstein explicitly references mystical thought only briefly and ambiguously, in three passages: “It is not how things are in the world that is mystical, but that it exists” (TLP 6.44); “To view the world sub specie aeterni is to view it as a whole—a limited whole. Feeling the world as a limited whole—it is this that is mystical” (TLP 6.45); and “There are, indeed, things that cannot be put into words. They make themselves manifest. They are what is mystical” (TLP 6.522). Despite their brevity and ambiguity, these statements allow us to identify clearly three fundamental characteristics of the mystical: (a) the mere existence of the world is mystical; (b) the mystical feeling lies precisely in viewing the world sub specie aeterni as a limited whole; (c) what is mystical cannot be articulated in words but manifests itself directly.

To understand the mystical, we need to introduce Wittgenstein’s differentiation between different perspectives. Wittgenstein explicitly distinguishes between two types of viewpoints: an ordinary view and an eternal view. The ordinary view is concerned with facts seen from within the world and focuses on how things are. In contrast, the eternal view involves viewing the world from a higher standpoint, which enables one to see beyond the merely factual realm. Thus, different views result in differences in what one perceives to be significant.

More specifically, the eternal view is to view the world sub specie aeterni (cf. TLP 6.45), and is fundamentally different from our ordinary view. The eternal view sees the world as if from outside of (or together with) time, and as transcending the logical space, whereas the ordinary perspective remains firmly situated within the constraints of both temporal and logical space. Wittgenstein writes:

The usual way of looking at things sees objects as it were from the midst of them, the view sub specie aeternitatis from outside. In such a way that they have the whole world as background. Is this it perhaps—in this view the object is seen together with space and time instead of in space and time? Each thing modifies the whole logical world, the whole of logical space, so to speak. (The thought forces itself upon one): The thing seen sub specie aeternitatis is the thing seen together with the whole logical space.

(Wittgenstein 1979b, 7.10.16)

As for the case of time, it manifests in two distinct ways, depending on the mode in which the subject perceives the world. From the ordinary viewpoint, time appears as an infinite temporal continuum composed of past, present, and future; conversely, from the eternal viewpoint, time is experienced as timelessness—as purely the present. Wittgenstein articulates this idea explicitly in the Tractatus (TLP 6.4311), stating: “If we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.” More importantly, perceiving the world exclusively in the present carries profound significance. He writes in his Notebooks: “For it is equally possible to take the bare present image as the worthless momentary in the whole temporal world, and as the true world among shadows” (Wittgenstein 1979b, 8.10.16). As for the case of logical space, it is conceived as the domain wherein objects connect with each other, thus establishing the necessary conditions for their relationships. Wittgenstein holds that while one can conceive of an empty logical space, it is impossible to imagine objects existing outside or independently of it, since logical space itself sets the conditions for the possibility of their combination. However, when viewed from the eternal perspective, objects are no longer perceived as occupying a place within logical space. Instead, they appear either beyond it or in coexistence with it. In this viewpoint, an object is no longer merely one among many; rather, it embodies the totality of the world itself. Therefore, we can reasonably assert that the eternal viewpoint constitutes a distinctive mode of perception characteristic of individuals who possess mystical feelings.6

This mystical element directly relates to ethics, as Wittgenstein makes explicit in his Notebooks. For instance, Wittgenstein distinguishes between the pursuit of natural scientific understanding and the pursuit of solutions to the problems of life. The latter, he notes, leads us to an appeal to the mysterious (Wittgenstein 1979b, 25.5.15). He also draws a distinction between a happy world and an unhappy one, remarking that “a happy life is deeply mysterious” (Wittgenstein 1979b, 30.7.16). Furthermore, in “A Lecture on Ethics,” he clearly states that certain mystical experiences7, such as wondering about the existence of the world, feeling absolutely safe, and experiencing guilt, possess ethical value. From these characteristics, we can also infer several philosophically significant implications which will be elaborated in the following sections: first, an insight into absolute existence; second, an understanding of limits; and third, the diagnosis and therapeutic treatment of philosophical illnesses.

Based on my interpretation of the Tractarian mystical view discussed above, this perspective does not appear as systematically or explicitly in Wittgenstein’s later works as it does in his early writings, but related discussions can still be found sporadically, particularly in his reflections on miracles. When discussing religious experiences, Wittgenstein observes:

“A miracle is, as it were, a gesture which God makes. As a man sits quietly & then makes an impressive gesture, God lets the world run on smoothly & then accompanies the words of a Saint by a symbolic occurrence, a gesture of nature. It would be an instance if, when a saint has spoken, the trees around him bowed, as if in reverence—Now, do I believe that this happens? I don’t. The only way for me to believe in a miracle in this sense would be to be impressed by an occurrence in this particular way.”

(Wittgenstein 1998, p. 51)

Here we can discern that believing in facts represents a fundamentally different attitude from that of believing in miracles. Differences in viewpoint inevitably lead to distinct interpretations of facts. From an ordinary perspective, one cannot accept that trees would behave respectfully and bow like humans, as such behaviour conflicts with natural laws and falls outside the accepted realm of facts. Yet for those who hold certain religious beliefs, such experiences can indeed be understood, albeit in a particular way, involving a belief in miracles. Within this context, miracles are thus comprehended as special gestures, striking and meaningful in themselves. Wittgenstein further notes: “The purely corporeal can be uncanny. Compare the way of angels & devils are portrayed. A so-called ‘miracle’ must be connected with this. It must be as it were a sacred gesture” (Wittgenstein 1998, p. 57).

The contrast between the mystical view and the ordinary view also emerges clearly in terms of value. The ordinary view is concerned solely with the factual level, and thus it can only grasp what facts or science can describe, without really touching on the realm of value. The mystical view, however, transcends this factual dimension, revealing genuinely significant values beyond empirical or scientific domains. This idea occurs consistently throughout Wittgenstein’s later philosophical reflections: “In order to marvel human beings--and perhaps peoples--have to wake up. Science is a way of sending them off to sleep again” (Wittgenstein 1998, p. 7).

A shift in perspective thus enables one to experience values that surpass mere factuality. Importantly, this shift is evident not only in religion but also in art. In his early philosophy, Wittgenstein explicitly identifies aesthetics and ethics as essentially one (as shown in the Tractatus 6.421). Similarly, in his later philosophy, he maintains a parallel stance, viewing art as revealing nature’s miracles: “The miracles of nature. We might say: art discloses the miracles of nature to us. It is based on the concept of the miracles of nature. (The blossom, just opening out. What is marvellous about it?) We say: ‘Look, how it’s opening out!’” (Wittgenstein 1998, p. 64). From an ordinary perspective, a blossoming flower is simply a natural phenomenon lacking particular aesthetic value. Yet, from an aesthetic view, it exemplifies the miraculous quality inherent in nature itself.

This brings us to the central question: what exactly is meant by a “religious point of view”? Through examining both the early and later phases of Wittgenstein’s philosophy, we can conclude that, to understand his religious point of view, we must grasp how he distinguishes between different kinds of perspectives. Under this framework, the religious point of view can be understood as a perspective that is fundamentally different from the ordinary one. It manifests in what we have called the mystical view, the eternal view, and the attitude of believing in miracles.8

Approaching Wittgenstein’s thought through this lens allows for a better understanding of several of its defining features, especially the four traits identified by Malcolm: the end of explanation, the experience of wonder, the notion of illness, and the priority of action over reasoning. While these features may seem to belong to different aspects of Wittgenstein’s work, they are in fact closely interwoven through the structure of this distinctive religious point of view.

At this point, two potential concerns may arise. First, does the religious point of view, as described here, in fact encompass everything that is “non-ordinary perspective”? Second, if not, how precisely does it correspond to the four traits outlined above, and does it include or exclude other possible characteristics? Regarding the first concern, I would like to offer a conceptual clarification and limitation. The religious point of view should not be equated with all forms of “non-ordinary perspective,” regardless of how that phrase is understood. Rather, it is confined to the specific type of mystical perspective discussed earlier. It would therefore be inappropriate to treat all non-ordinary perspectives as straightforwardly falling within the scope of the religious perspective at issue. As for the second concern, I would respond as follows. To begin with, Wittgenstein’s original remark does not specify exactly which kinds of problems are to be viewed from a religious point of view, nor does it provide a clear contextual framework. Moreover, the relevant passages are scattered across his corpus, making the task of identifying a consistent referent especially difficult. This challenge, I believe, is inherent in the nature of the remark itself. My strategy, therefore, has been to work with available textual resources and build on Malcolm’s approach, which I take to offer a reliable and promising entry point into this complex issue. This strategy has been further strengthened in the first section by directly responding to Winch’s criticisms of Malcolm’s approach and defending the viability of Malcolm’s analogical framework. If this strategy proves successful, then it should be legitimate to interpret the religious perspective through the four traits discussed above.

In what follows, I will explore the continuity of Wittgenstein’s religious point of view across his early and later philosophy by focusing on three interconnected dimensions: the limits of explanation, the experience of wondering at existence, and the diagnosis and treatment of illness.

3. The Limits of Saying and the Limits of Explanation

One of the central features of Wittgenstein’s religious point of view lies in his sensitivity to limits—a recognition grounded in intellectual humility and an honest acknowledgment of finitude. This concern runs through both his early and later philosophy: in the early period, it centres on the limits of language and what can be said; in the later period, it appears as a reflection on the limits of explanation.

In his early philosophy, Wittgenstein’s focus is primarily on the boundaries of language—that is, the limits of what can meaningfully be said. In the Tractatus, he famously declares that the aim of the book is to draw a boundary for thought—or more precisely, a boundary for the expression of thought. As he writes:

Thus the aim of the book is to draw a limit to thought, or rather—not to thought, but to the expression of thoughts: for in order to be able to draw a limit to thought, we should have to find both sides of the limit thinkable (i.e., we should have to be able to think what cannot be thought). It will therefore only be in language that the limit can be drawn, and what lies on the other side of the limit will simply be nonsense.

(Wittgenstein 1961, preface)

In Wittgenstein’s view, language and the world are intimately connected. To understand the limits of language is necessarily to reflect on the limits of the world. He is not merely concerned with the internal grammar of expressions, but with the deeper metaphysical boundary between sense and nonsense—a boundary that both defines the scope of what can be thought and reveals the ethical significance of what must remain unspoken.

The view that the world is a limited whole stands in contrast with the view of the world as a mere collection of discrete elements—that is, as a series of facts. From the ordinary perspective, one does not apprehend the world as a whole, but rather as a set of empirical phenomena. Scientific enquiry, for example, proceeds by isolating and analysing individual facts, constructing explanations from within this fragmented perspective. By contrast, those who view the world from the eternal perspective do not adopt such an analytic method; they do not seek explanations in the ordinary sense. For these people, the world is not simply a set of facts but rather it belongs to the domain of value.

Wittgenstein articulates this distinction in his Notebooks, where he writes: “As a thing among things, each thing is equally insignificant; as a world each one equally significant” (Wittgenstein 1979b, 8.10.16). From the eternal perspective—that is, from a point of view that takes in the world together with time, space, and logical space—the world is apprehended as a limited whole. Such a perspective situates the subject outside the bounds of temporal, spatial, and logical frameworks. In this light, the mystical experience should not be dismissed as irrational. Rather, it discloses an alternative relation to the world—one that is no less real than the factual but rather is oriented differently, towards meaning and value as opposed to saying and explanation.

This orientation is already presupposed in the opening proposition of the Tractatus, where Wittgenstein writes that “the world is all that is the case.” This framing suggests that the world is to be viewed as a whole—and more specifically, as a limited whole. This idea recurs throughout the early sections of the text (TLP 1, 1.1, 1.11, 1.12, 1.21, 2.04, 2.063) and is tightly bound to several other key notions developed throughout the book:

• The world as a limited whole is determined by the totality of objects (TLP 5.5561);
• The limit of the world is also the limit of logic (TLP 4.446, 5.143, 5.15, 5.61);
• The limit of the world is the limit of propositions (TLP 4.51, 5.5262, 5.6, 5.5561, 5.62);
• The limit of the world is the metaphysical subject (TLP 5.632, 5.641), and this limit is transformed by the willing subject (TLP 6.43).

It is especially noteworthy that the limit of the world is also the limit of language. In TLP 5.6, Wittgenstein famously asserts, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” Since it is mystical to see the world as a limited whole, it follows that seeing the limits of language is also mystical.

Wittgenstein arrives at the limits of language by examining the nature of propositions. Elementary propositions reveal the underlying structure of all propositions, and the totality of elementary propositions is determined by the totality of objects (TLP 5.524, 5.5262, 5.5561). From these, all other propositions can be derived. As he puts it: “Suppose that I am given all elementary propositions: then I can simply ask what propositions I can construct out of them. And there I have all propositions, and that fixes their limits” (Wittgenstein 1961, 4.51). Thus, the limits of language can be discerned through a general understanding of propositional form (TLP 4.5, 5.47, 5.471)—and this, in turn, reveals the boundary between meaningful discourse and what lies beyond it.

Everything within this boundary is sayable; everything beyond it is unsayable. And what cannot be said must be passed over in silence. This is what Wittgenstein means by the limits of language: they are the limits of what can be said. One must not attempt to speak of what lies beyond these limits, for to do so is to produce nonsense.

This point is made forcefully in the Tractatus:

“It must set limits to what can be thought; and, in doing so, to what cannot be thought. It must set limits to what cannot be thought by working outwards through what can be thought.”

(Wittgenstein 1961, 4.114)

“It will signify what cannot be said, by presenting clearly what can be said.”

(Wittgenstein 1961, 4.115)

Thus, by drawing a clear boundary around what can be meaningfully expressed, philosophy indirectly points to what lies beyond language—what must remain silent, yet is nonetheless significant. This gesture towards the unsayable is not a failure of language, but a recognition of its limits. The resolution of philosophical problems, Wittgenstein holds, lies in setting limits to thought and natural science—limits that, in turn, correspond to the limits of the world.

A strikingly similar concern reemerges in his later philosophy, though here it is articulated in terms of the limits of explanation. What had earlier been framed as the limits of language becomes, in the later work, a caution against the unchecked pursuit of explanation. In language, the attempt to justify explanations inevitably comes to a halt—and it is precisely here that the danger of overstepping the boundary arises. One must recognise where explanation ceases to be meaningful and refrain from trying to speak beyond that point.

Wittgenstein does not suggest that explanation is always inappropriate, but that it necessarily has an endpoint (cf. Malcolm 1993). Just as he had insisted, earlier on, that we speak only within the bounds of what can be said—and that attempting to go beyond these bounds results in nonsense—so too, in his later philosophy, does he warn that overextending the reach of explanation leads not to clarity, but to confusion. When one attempts to explain what lies outside the proper bounds of language, one risks producing propositions that are nonsensical. Such attempts, far from resolving philosophical problems, often generate new forms of intellectual pathology, leading the mind into paradox and distortion.

Explanation, Wittgenstein insists, must come to an end. Beyond a certain point, further justification is no longer possible—indeed, it becomes counterproductive. As Malcolm puts it: “The inescapable logic of this conception is that the terms ‘explanation,’ ‘reason,’ ‘justification,’ have a use exclusively within the various language-games. The word ‘explanation’ appears in many different language-games, and is used differently in different games… An explanation is internal to a particular language-game. There is no explanation that rises above our language-games, and explains them. This would be a super-concept of explanation—which means that it is an ill-conceived fantasy” (Malcolm 1993, pp. 77–78). And Wittgenstein himself writes: “Once I have exhausted the justifications, I have reached bedrock, and my spade is turned. Then I am inclined to say: ‘This is simply what I do’” (Wittgenstein 2009, §217).

This caution regarding the limits of explanation is particularly evident in Wittgenstein’s treatment of the rule-following paradox. He observes that, in our efforts to follow rules, we are often tempted to seek yet another explanation behind each explanation, as if some ultimate justification for rule-following must be available. This temptation, however, arises precisely from a failure to recognise where the boundaries lie. It is an absence of clarity about these limits that generates the compulsion to search for deeper and deeper foundations.

This was our paradox: no course of action could be determined by a rule, because every course of action can be brought into accord with the rule. The answer was: if every course of action can be brought into accord with the rule, then it can also be brought into conflict with it. And so there would be neither accord nor conflict here.

That there is a misunderstanding here is shown by the mere fact that in this chain of reasoning we place one interpretation behind another, as if each one contented us at least for a moment, until we thought of yet another lying behind it. For what we thereby show is that there is a way of grasping a rule which is not an interpretation, but which, from case to case of application, is exhibited in what we call “following the rule” and “going against it”.

That’s why there is an inclination to say: every action according to a rule is an interpretation. But one should speak of interpretation only when one expression of a rule is substituted for another.

(Wittgenstein 2009, §201)

If the problem of rule-following is approached as a problem of explanation, we inevitably fall into a paradox. The way out, Wittgenstein suggests, is not to seek a further explanation, but to stop trying to go beyond the boundary—to cease with the very impulse to overstep it. Human beings have a natural tendency to say more, to explain their actions, to justify what has been done. But explanation is not a universal remedy. It plays a role, to be sure, but it must eventually give way to acceptance.

In addressing the rule-following paradox, Wittgenstein proposes a different strategy: rather than continuing to explain, we should return to the actual practice of following rules. This involves a sort of blind following of a rule—not in the sense of ignorance or irrationality, but in the sense of a practical settlement, where the demand for further reasons ceases. To follow a rule is to participate in a form of life where explanation comes to an end and action continues.

As Malcolm observes: “In secular life, when something distressing occurs and there is a demand for explanations of why it happened—at some stage someone may say: ‘It is pointless to continue seeking for an explanation. We are faced with a fact which we must accept. That’s how it is!’ The words ‘It is God’s will’, have many religious connotations: but they also have a logical force similar to ‘That’s how it is!’ Both expressions tell us to stop asking ‘Why?’ and instead to accept a fact!” (Malcolm 1993, p. 86) In this respect, our attitude towards rule-following and language-games bears a striking resemblance to the religious attitude, which accepts rather than explains. As Malcolm puts it: “there is an analogy between this conception of God, and Wittgenstein’s view of the human ‘language-games’ and ‘forms of life’” (Malcolm 1993, p. 3).

Here is a point that needs to be mentioned. Malcolm, in his book, argues that Wittgenstein in his early period was seeking explanations, and he cites Wittgenstein’s words from the Notebooks: “My whole task consists in explaining the nature of propositions. That means, to give the nature of all facts, whose picture a proposition is. To give the nature of all being” (Wittgenstein 1979b, p. 39). He uses this to argue that early Wittgenstein was constructing a philosophical theory through the pursuit of explanations. This view seems to pose a challenge to the position of this paper; however, this is not the case. To clarify, several points need to be made. First, Wittgenstein in both his early and later periods rejects theory, rejecting the notion of pursuing philosophical theory as the ultimate philosophical goal. The early period emphasises clarification, seeing the limits of language, and thereby rejecting philosophical theory, while the later period emphasises description, seeing the limits of explanation, and thus also rejecting philosophical theory. Second, Malcolm views the early period as an attempt to construct a theory through explanations. He fails to see that early Wittgenstein intended to abandon philosophical theory altogether. Furthermore, the kind of explanations Wittgenstein discusses in the early period is not entirely the same as the explanations he later rejects. Third, early Wittgenstein does not reject explanations unconditionally but acknowledges that explanations are limited. What he rejects is unlimited explanation, which can lead to violating the limits of language and producing nonsense propositions. The end of explanation lies in the inexpressible domain, and as Wittgenstein says, “What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence” (TLP 7). Similarly, the later Wittgenstein is not wholly opposed to explanation but to unlimited explanation, which also results in nonsense propositions. Explanation must eventually come to an end. Therefore, it can be said that Wittgenstein’s treatment of explanation in both periods is not an outright rejection of explanation but a rejection of unlimited explanation used to construct philosophical theories.

4. Wonder at Existence

Another defining feature of Wittgenstein’s religious point of view is his attitude of wonder towards existence. This is not a sceptical attitude, nor is it a form of theoretical curiosity. Rather, it is an attitude of acceptance and astonishment—a sense that existence itself is miraculous, and not something that can be questioned or investigated further. This attitude runs through both the early and later phases of his philosophy. In the early period, it is most evident in his sense of wonder at the existence of the world and of language; in the later period, it appears in his wonder at forms of life and language-games.

In his early thought, Wittgenstein expresses a profound sense of amazement at the very existence of the world. One cannot doubt the existence of the world—one can only be struck by it. As he suggests in “A Lecture on Ethics”9, we may be astonished that the world exists at all, but we cannot meaningfully imagine what it would be like for it not to exist. This stands in sharp contrast with ordinary facts, whose presence or absence can generally be imagined. Wittgenstein’s reflections on existence go beyond a general metaphysical stance; they encompass the existence of objects, language, and the subject.

The fact that the world exists stands in contrast to the way things are within the world. The latter—the arrangement of things in the world—refers to facts. A fact, such as the existence of a state of affairs, can be expressed in a proposition that pictures it. According to Wittgenstein, a proposition can picture a fact because both share a logical form. The form is the possibility of the structure—that is, the way in which an object can stand in relation to others. Because facts and propositions share this form, they are expressible. And precisely because they are expressible, they are not, for Wittgenstein, of ultimate importance. As he sees it, what can be said clearly belongs to the realm of the non-mystical.

By contrast, the existence of the world is not something that can be said or pictured. In the Tractatus 5.552, Wittgenstein writes: “The ‘experience’ that we need in order to understand logic is not that something or other is the state of things, but that something is: that, however, is not an experience. Logic is prior to every experience—that something is so. It is prior to the question ‘How’, not prior to the question ‘What?’”. The existence of the world, then, is not a fact among facts. It does not concern the logical form of a fact, but lies prior to it. Logic is the condition for articulating how things are, but the existence of the world is the condition for there being anything to articulate in the first place. Importantly, Wittgenstein does not mean to posit two worlds—one beyond another. Instead, he identifies two aspects of the same world. One aspect, which can be said, refers to the character of the form of the world; while another aspect, which cannot be said, refers to the very “fact” of the world’s existence.

These two aspects, he further suggests, differ in their value. Facts, as contingencies, belong to the realm of the occasional; they can be imagined to exist or not to exist, and so they carry no intrinsic ethical weight. By contrast, the “fact” that the world exists belongs to the necessary realm. It cannot be coherently imagined not to exist, and for this reason, it carries ethical significance. In the Tractatus 6.52, Wittgenstein writes that, even if all possible scientific questions were answered, the problems of life would remain untouched. Scientific questions, which can be articulated, refer to facts in the world; but the meaning of life, which cannot be articulated, relates—at least in part—to the existence of the world itself, which is mystical.

In “A Lecture on Ethics”, Wittgenstein remarks: “I will now describe the experience of wondering at the existence of the world by saying: it is the experience of seeing the world as a miracle” (Wittgenstein 1965, p. 11). At first glance, Wittgenstein’s claim that the mystical is what cannot be said might suggest that it has no relation to the existence of language. But this is not the case. This sense of wonder is not limited to the world’s existence; it extends also to the existence of language itself. In fact, two fundamental aspects of language, both of which elude propositional expression, may rightly be considered mystical. There are two reasons for stating it this way.

On the one hand, language must exist in order for propositions to express facts. Propositions are linked to the world through shared form and structural correspondence, but this pictorial relationship presupposes the existence of language. Just as facts presuppose the existence of the world, propositions presuppose the existence of language. On the other hand, while the mystical character of the world’s existence cannot be stated, it can be shown by the existence of language. In “A Lecture on Ethics”, Wittgenstein suggests that although the experience of wondering at the world’s existence is inexpressible, it may find a kind of expression in the existence of language itself. He writes:

Now I am tempted to say that the right expression in language for the miracle of the existence of the world, though it is not any proposition in language, is the existence of language itself. But what then does it mean to be aware of this miracle at some times and not at other times? For all I have said by shifting the expression of the miraculous from an expression by means of language to the expression by the existence of language, all I have said is again that we cannot express what we want to express and that all we say about the absolute miraculous remains nonsense.

(Wittgenstein 1965, p. 11)

It can be said, therefore, that the wonder at the existence of the world and the wonder at the existence of language are both mystical.

This experience of wonder—whether it is directed at the world or at language—is an experience grounded in a mystical perspective. In Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, this mode of experience continues to play a significant role. But for now, wonder is primarily directed towards the existence of forms of life and language-games.

To be struck by the existence of a form of life or a language-game is to suspend the question of why one form of life exists rather than another, or why this particular language-game is at play10. Questions about the specific features or internal logic of such practices—how a form of life functions, or how a language-game is structured—are not, in themselves, objects of this kind of wonder, since they admit of further enquiry and explanation. But the sheer existence of such practices, their givenness, cannot be questioned. They are simply there.

In the Philosophical Investigations and other later writings, Wittgenstein occasionally expresses a kind of wonder at this sort of existence: “Let yourself be struck by the existence of such a thing as our language-game of confessing the motive of my action” (Wittgenstein 2009, part II, §334). This wonder parallels the earlier wonder at the existence of the world. As Wittgenstein writes: “What has to be accepted, the given, is—one might say—forms of life” (Wittgenstein 2009, part II, §345). At a certain point, explanation ceases, and one must simply acknowledge the end of the inquiry by accepting what is the case. As Labron puts it, this is “just as Job accepts the will of God” (Labron 2006, p. 51).

To accept and affirm the existence of forms of life and language-games without questioning or doubting them is to inhabit a distinctive kind of certainty. This is not the result of careful deliberation or logical proof; it is a form of basic certainty—one that stands prior to and beyond doubt. As Wittgenstein puts it in the On Certainty: “Now I would like to regard this certainty, not as something akin to hastiness or superficiality, but as a form of life” (Wittgenstein 1969, §358). Such certainty does not rest on reasons; rather, it reflects a kind of groundless acceptance: “You must bear in mind that the language-game is so to speak something unpredictable. I mean: it is not based on grounds. It is not reasonable (or unreasonable). It is there—like our life” (Wittgenstein 1969, §559).

5. Illness and Action

Another crucial aspect of Wittgenstein’s religious point of view is his diagnosis of philosophical illness and the corresponding turn to action. The continuity between Wittgenstein’s early and later approaches to philosophical illness has been widely acknowledged, but it is particularly important to see how this continuity is rooted in the intimate relation between illness and action. Mutually reinforcing and interdependent, illness and action are two sides of the same coin. Philosophical illness has both a negative and a positive dimension. Negatively, it stems from being captivated by misleading pictures and attempting to answer philosophical questions by constructing various theories, thereby falling into confusion and illusion—as if reason itself had become sick—which requires a special diagnostic effort to treat. Positively, once the nature of the illness is revealed, one can come to see philosophy, the world, and life rightly, and this is what constitutes the treatment of the illness. The diagnostic activity in the early period is manifested in treating philosophy as an activity of clarification, and thereby turning towards an experiential activity of seeing the world correctly; the diagnostic activity in the later period is manifested in treating philosophy as an activity of description, and thereby turning towards a normal activity of practice.11

In the early work, the purpose of philosophy is to clarify thoughts and show that philosophical propositions are, in fact, nonsensical. As Wittgenstein writes in the Tractatus: “It will therefore only be in language that the limit can be drawn, and what lies on the other side of the limit will simply be nonsense.” (Wittgenstein 1961, preface) Traditional philosophy attempts to solve philosophical problems by offering theoretical answers. But for Wittgenstein, these “problems” often arise from a misunderstanding of language’s logic:

Most of the propositions and questions to be found in philosophical works are not false but nonsensical. Consequently we cannot give any answer to questions of this kind, but can only point out that they are nonsensical. Most of the propositions and questions of philosophers arise from our failure to understand the logic of our language. (They belong to the same class as the question whether the good is more or less identical than the beautiful.) And it is not surprising that the deepest problems are in fact not problems at all.

(Wittgenstein 1961, 4.003)

The aim, then, is not to solve philosophical problems but to dissolve them. This is especially clear in the Tractatus 6.521: “The solution of the problem of life is seen in the vanishing of the problem. (Is not this the reason why those who have found after a long period of doubt that the sense of life became clear to them have then been unable to say what constituted that sense?)” Philosophy, in this light, is not a matter of constructing theories but of offering clarification. As Wittgenstein writes in the Tractatus 4.112:

Philosophy aims at the logical clarification of thoughts. Philosophy is not a body of doctrine but an activity. A philosophical work consists essentially of elucidations. Philosophy does not result in ‘philosophical propositions,’ but rather in the clarification of propositions. Without philosophy thoughts are, as it were, cloudy and indistinct: its task is to make them clear and to give them sharp boundaries.

This therapeutic activity leads to the dissolution of many problems. For those who acknowledge the therapeutic nature of Wittgenstein’s early philosophy, it may seem that what remains is only silence: say what can be said, and remain silent about the rest. However, this misses a crucial point. Silence is not simply inactivity. It is the turn towards action. It points to a new mode of seeing the world.

My propositions serve as elucidations in the following way: anyone who understands me eventually recognizes them as nonsensical, when he has used them—as steps—to climb up beyond them. (He must, so to speak, throw away the ladder after he has climbed up it.) He must transcend these propositions, and then he will see the world aright.

(Wittgenstein 1961, 6.54, my italics)

This vision of “seeing the world aright” contrasts sharply with “speaking of the world aright.” To see the world rightly is to perceive the value of life—that is, to find the meaning of life and to live a happy life:

To believe in a God means to understand the question about the meaning of life.

To believe in a God means to see that the facts of the world are not the end of the matter.

To believe in God means to see that life has a meaning.

(Wittgenstein 1979b, 8.7.16)

This sense of value manifests itself in a changed attitude towards life, in a way of experiencing the world. In “A Lecture on Ethics”, Wittgenstein identifies three key experiences that reveal this transformation: the experience of absolute safety, the experience of happiness, and the experience of wonder. These experiences are all related to absolute value.12 And the pursuit of absolute value is expressed precisely in the pursuit of a happy life. To see the value of life is to live happily:

In order to live happily I must be in agreement with the world. And that is what “being happy” means.

I am then, so to speak, in agreement with that alien will on which I appear dependent. That is to say: “I am doing the will of God”.

Fear in face of death is the best sign of a false, i.e., a bad, life.

When my conscience upsets my equilibrium, then I am not in agreement with Something. But what is this? Is it the world?

Certainly it is correct to say: Conscience is the voice of God.

For example: it makes me unhappy to think that I have offended such and such a man. Is that my conscience?

Can one say: “Act according to your conscience whatever it may be”?

Live happy!

(Wittgenstein 1979b, 8.7.16)

In Wittgenstein’s later philosophy, the therapeutic dimension becomes even more explicit. He writes: “The philosopher treats a question; like an illness” (Wittgenstein 2009, §255). The illness, in this case, lies in our desire to explain—to seek ever deeper accounts of meaning, thought, or mental processes, rather than simply accepting what is already there: “Our disease is one of wanting to explain” (Wittgenstein 1978, p. 333). “In philosophy,” he writes, “one is in constant danger of producing a myth of symbolism, or a myth of mental processes. Instead of simply saying what anyone knows and must admit” (Wittgenstein 2007, §211). But explanation provides us with nothing new. Everything is already before us. The idea of something hidden is itself a fantasy: “Philosophy just puts everything before us, and neither explains nor deduces anything.—Since everything lies open to view, there is nothing to explain. For whatever may be hidden is of no interest to us” (Wittgenstein 2009, §126).

Philosophy, then, reveals the nonsense we utter when we run up against the limits of language. These collisions are not mere failures; they are philosophical bumps: “The results of philosophy are the discovery of some piece of plain nonsense and the bumps that the understanding has got by running up against the limits of language. They—these bumps—make us see the value of that discovery” (Wittgenstein 2009, §119).

In the early work, philosophy contrasts with theory-building by functioning as a clarificatory activity. In the later work, Wittgenstein continues to resist theory but replaces clarification with description13. Rather than explaining, we just describe. And what we describe are those things already accepted and lived. Therefore, philosophy should not offer theories; otherwise, it would result in nonsensical statements. “And we may not advance any kind of theory. There must not be anything hypothetical in our considerations. All explanation must disappear, and description alone must take its place” (Wittgenstein 2009, §109). The most difficult yet most effective response to such impulses is simply to stop.

“Here we come up against a remarkable and characteristic phenomena in philosophical investigation: the difficulty—I might say—is not that of finding the solution but rather of recognizing as the solution something that looks as if it were only a preliminary to it …. This is connected, I believe, with our wrongly expecting an explanation, whereas the solution of the difficulty is a description, if we give it the right place in our considerations. If we dwell upon it, and do not try to get beyond it. The difficultly here is: to stop” (Wittgenstein 2007, §314).

Through description, people are freed from philosophical confusion and relieved of philosophical illness. “What is your aim in philosophy? —To show the fly the way out of the fly-bottle” (Wittgenstein 2009, §309).

In his early philosophy, Wittgenstein emphasises not the saying but the seeing of the world rightly—that is, transcending language to focus on the experience of the world. In the later work, the same aspiration is refigured as a call not to think but to look: “Don’t think, but look!” (Wittgenstein 2009, §66). The meaning of a proposition is disclosed not through reasoning but through its place in our practices and forms of life.

This emphasis on healing and turning to action is clearest in Wittgenstein’s discussion of rule-following. The philosophical illness consists of believing that following a rule requires constant explanation, when such explanations ultimately lead to infinite regress and collapse. “That’s why ‘following a rule’ is a practice. And to think one is following a rule is not to follow a rule. And that’s why it’s not possible to follow a rule ‘privately’; otherwise, thinking one was following a rule would be the same thing as following it” (Wittgenstein 2009, §202).

Action is the foundation of language-games. In action, the meaning of our lives becomes visible: “How hard it is for me to see what is right in front of my eyes! (Wittgenstein 1998, p. 44). As Malcolm mentions: a central current of Wittgenstein’s post-Tractatus thought is his insistence that our concepts rest not on justification or reasoning, but on practices—on doing rather than theorising (cf. Malcolm 1993, p. 89). Action itself forms the foundation of the language-game; it stands in opposition to the approach of explanation or theorisation. “Giving grounds, however, justifying the evidence, comes to an end; —but the end is not certain proposition’s striking us immediately as true, i.e., it is not a kind of seeing on our part; it is our acting, which lies at the bottom of the language-game” (Wittgenstein 1969, §204). As Labron says, “in religion practices take precedence over theorizing” (Labron 2006, pp. 54–55).

In everyday life, people invariably exhibit a propensity to seek verification for empirical propositions, perpetually assuming the existence of some underlying, more substantive ground. Yet empirical testing must terminate at a foundational point—what might be termed an ungrounded ground. “What counts as a test?—‘But is this an adequate test? And, if so, must it not be recognizable as such in logic?’—As if giving grounds did not come to an end sometime. But the end is not an ungrounded presupposition: it is an ungrounded way of acting” (Wittgenstein 1969, §110). To illustrate these activities, we can examine a concrete example. “In certain circumstances, for example, we regard a calculation as sufficiently checked. What gives us a right to do so? Experience? May that not deceived us? Somewhere we must be finished with justification, and then there remains the proposition that this is how we calculate” (Wittgenstein 1969, §212).

Malcolm points out that this practical character is particularly apparent in our engagement with the problem of other minds. Because we cannot directly perceive another person’s mind, people often find themselves puzzled by the question of whether others truly have minds. However, Wittgenstein seeks to show that, in order to resolve such a problem, one needs to shift the perspective: rather than appealing to reasoning or rational justification, we should look at what we actually do—at how we describe what actually happens in practice. “It is a help here to remember that it is a primitive reaction to tend, to treat, the part that hurts when someone else is in pain; and not merely when oneself is—and so to pay attention to other people’s pain-behaviour, as one does not pay attention to one’s own pain behaviour.” (Wittgenstein 2007, §540) Primitive reactions constitute the bedrock of language. The correct stance is to regard actions as the condition of language games, rather than its derivative. “But what is the word ‘primitive’ meant to say here? Presumably that this sort of behavior is pre-linguistic: that a language-game is based on it, that it is the prototype of a way of thinking and not the result of thought.” (Wittgenstein 2007, §541).

Wittgenstein thus points out that our confusion arises from being ensnared in the wrong philosophical framework. The cure is to shed that framework and return to action. It is through action, not explanation, that we treat philosophical illness and move beyond philosophical confusion. It is precisely in this sense that what Wittgenstein calls “seeing the world aright” is exemplified.

6. Conclusions

Viewing problems from a religious point of view offers a distinct perspective that sheds new light on the challenges faced by the human intellect. In Wittgenstein’s philosophy, this perspective plays an important role and is manifested in various dimensions. Previous commentators have noted the presence of characteristics of this attitude in both his early and later periods. However, many of these interpretations suffer from certain limitations, which hinder a deeper understanding of Wittgenstein’s thought. They tend to emphasise either his early or his later philosophy, without adequately addressing the continuity between the two. As we have shown, the religious point of view constitutes a transcendent perspective—one that sees the world sub specie aeterni, or from the eternal point of view. This perspective, we argue, exhibits a significant continuity across Wittgenstein’s early and later philosophy, even as its mode of presentation evolves. It is marked by a refusal of ultimate explanation, a wonder at existence, and the diagnosis and overcoming of philosophical illness through a turn to action. Attending to this continuity not only helps to illuminate the important concerns of Wittgenstein’s religious point of view but also reveals a significant thread running through the development of his philosophical thought. In this way, we may come closer to understanding the full depth of what he meant when he said, “I am not a religious man, but I cannot help seeing every problem from a religious point of view.”14