widow, the orphan, and the stranger. But Janicaud clearly intends this critique to apply to
the corrupted sons as well as to the corrupting father, and, since Marion's phenomenology
of religion has had a broader impact than that of his brothers, Chrétien and Henry, and
since his God-talk is not ambiguous in the manner of Levinas', it is his work we can look
at in the light of Janicaud's critique. If there is any excuse for seeing his phenomenology
as theology in disguise, it is that Marion is also a theologian, who admits “the
insurpassable primacy of Christian revelation” (2001, 20). But if one is willing, it is not
too difficult to distinguish his phenomenology from his theology.
Perhaps this is clearest in relation to Janicaud's complaint that in the theological turn
French phenomenology abandons Husserl's ideal of rigorous science and the
complementary idea of the philosopher as a neutral observer. But this ideal is radically
compromised by the hermeneutical turn in which intuition is supplanted by interpretation
and seeing is recognized always to be a seeing-as not dictated by the object “out there.”
In the give and take of experience, the given is constituted by the mode in which it is
taken. This turn takes place in the later writings of Husserl, in spite of his desperate
attempt to sustain his earlier ideal. It also occurs, as Janicaud recognizes, in Heidegger,
Merleau-Ponty, and Ricoeur, none of whom are accused of a hidden theological agenda.
Janicaud acknowledges that fruitful work can be done by such phenomenological
heretics, but wishes to restrict the term phenomenology to projects that retain the original
ideal of rigorous science and philosophical neutrality. But apart from the fact that this
appears to be little more than a nostalgic, personal preference, it is not clear that this ideal
can be affirmed from a neutral standpoint rather than from within a hermeneutical circle
laden with the presuppositions of a tradition we might call Enlightenment objectivism.
The idea of philosophy without presuppositions is, unfortunately, not without its own
presuppositions.
This, however, is not Marion's own defense. He does not overtly espouse the
hermeneutical turn, and though he does not explicitly fly the flag of rigorous science, he
is more nearly Husserlian than either Heidegger or Ricoeur on this point. He presents his
phenomenological analyses of the distinction between idol and icon, of the saturated
phenomenon, and of the pure form of the call (about which more shortly) in the full
anticipation that their persuasiveness will not depend on the theological position of the
reader. He expects any careful observer to be able to see what he is pointing to.
There is another way in which the “neutrality” of Marion's phenomenology can be seen.
Janicaud thinks that the theological turn means that the dice are loaded and the outcome
predetermined. Correspondingly, he thinks certain possibilities are precluded at the
outset. Thus, in contrasting Levinas unfavorably with Merleau-Ponty, he claims that the
latter “excludes nothing, but opens our regard to the depth of the world.” For
phenomenology “the open field is that of the entire human experience” (2000, 27, 94–
95). But this is Marion's norm as well. For him “it is an essential of phenomenology that
the a posteriori makes it possible and therefore that no forbidden a priori predetermines
it,” to which he adds his own slogan, “It is forbidden to forbid!” (1997, 289). As we shall
see, precisely this principle is the reason he finds it necessary to go beyond the
phenomenologies of Husserl and Heidegger to what he calls the “third reduction” and the
“pure form of the call.”
On another, closely related, point Marion gives Janicaud nothing to complain about
methodologically. In the “theological turn” the latter sees “strict treason of the reduction”
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