Meet The Most Interesting Bishop You’ve Never Heard Of
(ANALYSIS) There was a time when polymaths — people who traversed art, science, philosophy and theology with equal ease — were all the rage. Figures like Leonardo da Vinci sketched futuristic machines in the morning and painted masterpieces by night. Meanwhile, Hildegard of Bingen composed music, wrote medical treatises, and advised church leaders, all with equal skill.
Today, our version of the polymath is Elon Musk — brilliant, sure, but more than a little bizarre. For all his technological genius, he lacks that harmony of mind and spirit. Musk is a little, shall we say, erratic. One moment he’s "owning" lefties on X; the next, he’s on stage in sunglasses, brandishing a chainsaw like a Blues Brother in the midst of a very public meltdown.
Musk has grand ambitions of redefining reality with ventures like Neuralink, essentially fusing human consciousness with machines. George Berkeley — a polymath of epic proportions — sought to dissect reality itself. While Musk pursues a future of technological transcendence, Berkeley strived for clarity in the present, reducing reality to its bare bones.
From Ireland to infinity
To many Irish people, Berkeley is little more than a bishop — a distant historical figure whose name happens to adorn the prestigious University of California at Berkeley. Few realize that this man, born in 1685 in Kilkenny, Ireland, was one of the most radical and provocative philosophers to have ever lived.
Far from being a mere ecclesiastical figure, Berkeley challenged the very foundations of how we understand reality. His central claim, which still baffles and intrigues scholars, was rather audacious. Essentially, physical objects do not exist independently of our perception. In simpler terms, esse est percipi — to be is to be perceived.
This wasn’t just an abstract, intellectual exercise; Berkeley's philosophy challenged materialism, asserting that the world exists because it is observed, either by us or by an omnipresent God.
Without God’s perception, the world would quite literally vanish. It’s a mind-bending thought, but a straightforward example helps us grasp it better. A tree falls in a forest. If no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? For Berkeley, not only is the sound absent, but so is the tree. Without a perceiver, there is nothing to perceive. Yet, the world remains steadfast and consistent precisely because it is ever-present in the mind of God.
It’s easy to dismiss Berkeley’s ideas as relics of a less enlightened past. However, before you discard them, consider the digital environments we inhabit today. In video games, entire worlds come to life only when we load them. Close the program, and that “Call of Duty” battlefield or gritty street in “Grand Theft Auto” disappears. No heart-stopping drama, no shouting and roaring, no guns, no mayhem. In an ironic twist, our technology-driven era has brought back Berkeley’s centuries-old immaterialism.
No thanks, Newton
It’s important to realize that Berkeley’s religiosity was the driving force behind his philosophy. Unlike many thinkers who set faith and reason at odds, Berkeley saw them as harmonious and entirely compatible. For him, science wasn’t an enemy of religion but an ally, another lens through which to appreciate God’s craftsmanship. Although Newton’s mechanistic universe was gaining traction, portraying a cosmos operating like a clock without divine intervention, Berkeley was having none of it. To him, laws of nature weren’t autonomous forces but consistent patterns in God’s thoughts. Gravity didn’t pull apples to the ground due to some inert force; it happened because God consistently willed it, ensuring an ordered and intelligible world.
Berkeley was, by all accounts, an affable individual. He lived a psychologically rich life, far removed from cloistered academic halls. Social and ambitious, he mingled with the likes of Jonathan Swift, author of “Gulliver’s Travels.” The two shared a friendship rooted in mutual respect and a love for intellectual sparring.
Berkeley’s ambitions extended beyond scholarly debates. In the early 18th century, he advocated for establishing a college in Bermuda dedicated to educating both the local population and colonial settlers. Unfortunately, the plan fell through due to logistical challenges and inordinate amounts of red tape.
Oh, the irony!
The irony of Berkeley’s legacy is that while his name endures through the University of California, Berkeley —founded long after his death — the institution bears little resemblance to the man’s spiritual convictions. The naming was inspired by his poem, “Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America," which declared, “Westward the course of empire takes its way.”
Berkley envisioned knowledge spreading across the Atlantic, shaping the moral and intellectual landscape of the New World. That his name now adorns a secular academic giant would likely bemuse him, if not completely perplex him.
Berkeley’s ideas challenge us not just intellectually but existentially. If reality hinges on perception, what does that say about our responsibility as perceivers? How often do we take the world around us for granted, assuming it exists in some autonomous, mindless way? For Berkeley, every leaf’s flutter, every star’s twinkle, every heartbeat was a testament to divine attention. There’s a humbling, even comforting thought in that — the universe isn’t a cold, indifferent expanse but a living, conscious presence sustained by something infinitely greater.
Berkeley believed in a cosmos brimming with intention, sustained by a divine mind in which all things exist. To modern ears, this might sound quaint or overly pious.
Yet, in an era dominated by vanity and chainsaw-wielding exhibitionists, there’s something undeniably refreshing (perhaps even revolutionary) about seeing the universe as a divine thought rather than a meaningless accident.
John Mac Ghlionn is a researcher and essayist. He covers psychology and social relations. His writing has appeared in places such as UnHerd, The US Sun and The Spectator World.