Why Veiled Glass?
Michael Ferber
My academic life has been significantly shaped by critical realism. During my PhD, as I explored the geography of religion and the complex dynamics of insider and outsider perspectives, critical realism offered a philosophical home that made sense of the world as I encountered it. It affirmed that reality exists independently of our perceptions while also acknowledging that every act of knowing is partial, situated, and incomplete. In fields like human geography, where lived experience, belief, place, and social structure are deeply intertwined, that framework became indispensable. It allowed me to hold together the depth of religious worlds, the limits of interpretation, and the real forces that shape human communities.
Over the years, I realized that the basic commitments of critical realism resonate well beyond academic theory. They shape how I understand sustainability, development, and even theological imagination. One of the central concerns of critical realism is the difference between ontology and epistemology. What exists is not reducible to what we can measure or describe. Reality has strata, or layers. Mechanisms operate beneath the surface. New properties emerge at different levels of complexity. We see only aspects of this at any given time. To collapse reality into our knowledge of it is to fall into what Bhaskar called the epistemic fallacy. That fallacy shows up in many places, from the metrics we use to define economic success to the ways we try to capture the fullness of the natural world through models and indicators. Something is always left unseen.
This awareness creates a certain humility, but also a sense of hope. If our knowing is always incomplete, then there is always more to learn, more to uncover, more to imagine. The tradition of emergence that runs through critical realism reinforces this. Higher levels of reality cannot be reduced to the sum of their parts. Social systems, ecosystems, moral commitments, communities, and even spiritual experiences possess their own irreducible properties. They act on us. They invite us into relationships that shape us in turn. To live within a world that is stratified and emergent is to acknowledge complexity and also possibility.
The name Veiled Glass grows out of this intellectual and spiritual terrain. The phrase comes from the familiar passage in 1 Corinthians, where Paul writes that we see through a glass, darkly. For me, that has never been a statement of despair. It is a recognition of creaturely limitation and an invitation to humility. We do not see all things clearly, yet we see enough to inquire, to create, and to respond. The verse aligns naturally with the critical realist conviction that knowledge is always partial and fallible, yet still capable of orienting us toward truth. To see through a veiled glass is not to be blind. It is to acknowledge that what we see is refracted, incomplete, and sometimes distorted, yet still meaningful.
This worldview shaped my decision to create Veiled Glass Press. I wanted a space that could hold work that explores the tensions between what is visible and what remains hidden, between the clarity we seek and the ambiguity we inhabit. It is a place for writing that takes reality seriously, even when that reality exceeds our grasp. It is also a place for work that is attentive to the ethical, ecological, and social implications of how we know and live. Whether reflecting on AI, sustainability, theology, or social change, the press exists to encourage readers to linger in the questions rather than rush to certainty.