The Problem of Evil: Selected Readings, Second Edition [2 ed.] 0268100322, 9780268100322

Table of contents :
Cover
THE PROBLEM OF EVIL
Title
Copyright
Dedication
CONTENTS
Preface to the Second Edition
Introduction: The Problem of Evil
PART I Statements of the Problem
Explorations in Great Literature
CHAPTER 1 Job’s Complaint and the Whirlwind’s Answer From the Book of Job
CHAPTER 2 The Lisbon Earthquake
CHAPTER 3 Rebellion
Treatments in Traditional Philosophy
CHAPTER 4 No Evil Comes from God
CHAPTER 5 Best of All Possible Worlds
CHAPTER 6 Evil Makes Belief in God Unreasonable
PART II Versions of the Problem
The Logical Problem
CHAPTER 7 Evil and Omnipotence
CHAPTER 8 The Free Will Defense
The Evidential Problem
CHAPTER 9 Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate
CHAPTER 10 Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil
The Existential Problem
CHAPTER 11 On Regretting the Evils of This World
CHAPTER 12 Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil
PART III Perspectives in Theodicy
Augustinian Theodicy
CHAPTER 13 A Good Creation’s Capacity for Evil
CHAPTER 14 Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil
Irenaean Theodicy
CHAPTER 15 Soul-Making Theodicy
CHAPTER 16 Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy
Process Theodicy
CHAPTER 17 Divine Persuasion Rather than Coercion
CHAPTER 18 Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought
Openness Theodicy
CHAPTER 19 God, Evil, and Relational Risk
CHAPTER 20 God’s Providence Takes No Risks
Felix Culpa Theodicy
CHAPTER 21 Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa”
CHAPTER 22 Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World?
PART IV Issues in the Problem of Evil
God and the Best Possible World
CHAPTER 23 Must God Create the Best?
CHAPTER 24 God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds
Natural Evils and Natural Laws
CHAPTER 25 Natural Evils and Moral Choice
CHAPTER 26 Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil
Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World
CHAPTER 27 God and Gratuitous Evil
CHAPTER 28 Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil
Skeptical Theist Defense
CHAPTER 29 Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil
CHAPTER 30 The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil
Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure
CHAPTER 31 The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism
CHAPTER 32 The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence

Citation preview

THE PROBLEM OF EVIL

The Problem of Evil Selected Readings

Second Edition edited by MICHAEL L. PETERSON

University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana

University of Notre Dame Press Notre Dame, Indiana 46556 www.undpress.nd.edu Copyright © 2017 by the University of Notre Dame All Rights Reserved Published in the United States of America Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Peterson, Michael L., 1950– editor. Title: The problem of evil : selected readings / edited by Michael L. Peterson. Description: Second Edition. | Notre Dame : University of Notre Dame Press, 2016. Identifiers: LCCN 2016041897 (print) | LCCN 2016042780 (ebook) | ISBN 9780268100322 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 0268100322 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780268038472 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 0268038473 (pbk. : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780268100346 (pdf ) | ISBN 9780268100353 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Good and evil. Classification: LCC BJ1401 .P77 2016 (print) | LCC BJ1401 (ebook) | DDC 111/.84—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016041897

ISBN 9780268100346 ∞This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper). This e-Book was converted from the original source file by a third-party vendor. Readers who notice any formatting, textual, or readability issues are encouraged to contact the publisher at [email protected].

To my grandchildren . . . Mason Gates Peterson Daisy Newman Peterson Brody Lloyd Peterson Ruby Ann Peterson James Michael Peterson

CONTENTS



Preface to the Second Edition xi



Introduction: The Problem of Evil 1

PA RT I  

Statements of the Problem

Explorations in Great Literature CHAPTER 1



Job’s Complaint and the Whirlwind’s Answer From the Book of Job

The Lisbon Earthquake Voltaire

17

CHAPTER 2

25

CHAPTER 3

Rebellion 31 Fyodor Dostoevsky



Treatments in Traditional Philosophy CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6



No Evil Comes from God St. Thomas Aquinas

42

Best of All Possible Worlds Gottfried Leibniz

50

Evil Makes Belief in God Unreasonable David Hume

59

viii  Contents PA RT I I  

Versions of the Problem

The Logical Problem CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8



Evil and Omnipotence J. L. Mackie

81

The Free Will Defense Alvin Plantinga

95

The Evidential Problem CHAPTER 9



Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate William L. Rowe, Daniel Howard-Snyder, and Michael Bergmann

C H A P T E R 1 0  Christian



Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil Michael L. Peterson

130

166

The Existential Problem CHAPTER 11



On Regretting the Evils of This World William Hasker

C H A P T E R 1 2  Redemptive



Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil Marilyn M. Adams

PA RT I I I  

193 210

Perspectives in Theodicy

Augustinian Theodicy CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14



A Good Creation’s Capacity for Evil St. Augustine

235

Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil David Ray Griffin

242

Contents ix

Irenaean Theodicy CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16



Soul-Making Theodicy John Hick

262

Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy William L. Rowe

274

Process Theodicy CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18



Divine Persuasion Rather than Coercion David Ray Griffin

288

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 301 Bruce R. Reichenbach Openness Theodicy

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20



God, Evil, and Relational Risk John Sanders

327

God’s Providence Takes No Risks Paul Helm

344

Felix Culpa Theodicy CHAPTER 21



Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” Alvin Plantinga

C H A P T E R 2 2  Are

Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? Kevin Diller



PA RT I V  

363 390

Issues in the Problem of Evil

God and the Best Possible World CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24



Must God Create the Best? Robert M. Adams

413

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds Philip L. Quinn

428

x  Contents

Natural Evils and Natural Laws CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26



Natural Evils and Moral Choice Richard Swinburne

444

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil Eleonore Stump

459

Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28



God and Gratuitous Evil William Hasker

473

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil David O’Connor

488

Skeptical Theist Defense C H A P T E R 2 9  Skeptical



Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil Michael Bergmann

C H A P T E R 3 0  The



Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil Nick Trakakis

505

530

Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure C H A P T E R 3 1  The



Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism Paul Draper

C H A P T E R 3 2  The



Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence Peter van Inwagen

553

576

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

Western culture continues to witness serious and sustained inquiry into the problem of evil as it relates to theistic belief. Since the first edition of this anthology appeared in 1992, the philosophical literature has virtually exploded. This second edition is designed to present the main positions and strategies in a way that represents the development and structure of the ongoing debate. My hope is that this new edition will continue to be a resource for serious, thoughtful readers who are interested in the issues surrounding God and evil, as well as for scholars working in this area. I am grateful to a number of people who have contributed in one way or another to the success of this work. The great team at the University of Notre Dame Press was amazing. I owe a debt of gratitude to Stephen Little, Rebecca DeBoer, and Elizabeth Sain for the care and attention they provided throughout the process of bringing this book to print. Thomas Morris, general editor of the Library of Religious Philosophy series, originally encouraged me to produce a major anthology on the problem of evil. Words cannot adequately express my appreciation for my teacher and friend, Edward Madden, who is no longer with us. While I was doing a doctorate with Ed in philosophy of science, he and I shared countless hours off the clock discussing issues related to God and evil. Little did I suspect then that he would take early retirement and relocate geographically to be near me, making it possible to continue our discussions of the problem of evil for almost two decades. I owe a debt to Peter Hare, also deceased, for his many insights into the issues surrounding the problem.

xi

xii  Preface to the Second Edition

As always, my wife, Rebecca—my lifelong partner, lover, and best friend—was supportive during yet another publishing project. This project took longer than usual for a number of reasons, five of which are my grandchildren. Spending time thinking about evil became more difficult as I realized that I could be having fun with these guileless little people who are so good and pure: Mason, Daisy, Brody, Ruby, and James Peterson. I am not looking forward to the day when they realize that the condition of this world is far less than ideal—indeed, that it is deeply wounded and damaged. Yet I have confidence that, as their lives unfold, they will understand that this is fundamentally a very good world and that they will love the good, resist evil, and work for the betterment of all they touch. To these five budding world changers I dedicate this book.

Introduction

The Problem of Evil

The philosophical problem of evil is the challenge of reconciling belief in God with evil in the world. The theistic concept of God as supremely powerful, intelligent, and good makes the problem very difficult because such a being, it would seem, would make a much better world than this one. All three great theistic religions—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—face the challenge of addressing this issue. In contemporary analytic philosophy of religion, the problem of evil has undergone much technical refinement, leading to greater clarity about different formulations of the problem as well as strategies for response. Although most discussions of the problem officially focus on basic theism, many draw implicitly from elements of Christian understanding, and some explicitly invoke Christian claims beyond those of basic theism. The aim of this anthology is to present important material related to the problem of evil in a manner that reveals the structure of 1

2  The Problem of Evil

the ongoing discussion and gives organization to some of the major positions and arguments involved.

PA RT ONE: STATEMENTS OF THE PROBLEM

Part One contains various statements of the problem, three from great world literature and three from classical philosophy. The selections from world literature are an excerpt from the ancient book of Job, Voltaire’s poem on the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, and a famous passage from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov on the encounter between Ivan and Alyosha. The Old Testament book of Job is a dramatic treatment of the issue of God and suffering. In his personal suffering and anguish, the ancient patriarch Job develops new insights into God’s ways. The prevailing view in Job’s day was that righteous people prosper by deserving divine favor and wicked people suffer as divine punishment. One insight that emerges in the book of Job is that both human life and God are too complex for such simplistic formulas and that good people can indeed suffer. This insight is linked to the higher insight that a relationship with God is to be valued above all, regardless of one’s circumstances. The poem by François-Marie Arouet, pen name Voltaire, was inspired by the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, one of the great natural disasters in human history. The quake killed sixty thousand people in Lisbon alone, triggered seismic shocks felt throughout Europe, and created a tsunami, with giant waves hitting Spain and large waves even reaching Caribbean islands. When the quake occurred on November 1, All Saints’ Day, much of the population was attending church services, and thousands were killed or injured as churches collapsed. This event was a turning point in intellectual history because rationalist religious systems supporting unqualified optimism were seen by many in a different light. Voltaire’s subtitle—“an inquiry into the maxim, whatever is, is right”—signals that the poem targets Gottfried Leibniz’s view that this is the best of all possible worlds. In the passage from Dostoevsky, the fictional character Ivan Karamazov, a university professor, denies that there is any rationally or morally acceptable reason for God to allow the suffering of innocent children. His brother Alyosha, a novice clergy, reluctantly agrees that he would not, if he

Introduction 3

were God, consent to the suffering of a single child, even if that one child’s suffering was necessary to the higher harmony of all things. These writings are a sample of the poignant treatments of evil outside technical philosophy, where a vivid sense of the reality and perplexity of evil can be expressed in emotionally gripping ways. Readers might also consider the writings of John Milton, Emily Dickinson, Albert Camus, and Elie Wiesel, which contain deep reflections on good and evil. From classical philosophy, selections from Thomas Aquinas, Gottfried Leibniz, and David Hume are included for their historical and intellectual importance. The great Christian philosopher and theologian Thomas Aquinas argues that a supremely good God created all things good and cannot create evil. Evil in the creaturely world, then, is a defect in or corruption of what is originally good. Furthermore, since a supremely good being is the cause of other beings, there cannot be a supremely evil being as the cause of evil, as pagan dualisms suppose. Leibniz maintains that an absolutely perfect being must create the best of all possible worlds. So, evil in the world must be part of its being the best possible world among alternative worlds that God could have chosen to instantiate. In his famous philosophical dialogue, David Hume speaks through Philo to catalog terrible evils in order to pose the question of what sort of being would have created this world. Hume (via Philo speaking to Cleanthes and Demea) claims that it is not possible to infer the existence of a good God from the facts of evil but that the concomi­ tant presence of good also blocks an inference to a completely malicious being. Since the world contains a perplexing mix of good and evil, the most reasonable inference is to a creator that is completely indifferent to his sentient creatures—a point later carefully developed by Paul Draper.

PA RT T WO: V ER SIONS OF THE PROBLEM

In Part Two, key readings are featured on three different versions of the problem of evil: the logical, evidential, and existential versions. Beginning with this part, readings are paired so that the positions they take and the implications they generate may be seen more clearly in a dialectical context. In the first half of the twentieth century, there was not a lot of philosophical material on the problem of evil. Most philosophers simply assumed that

4  The Problem of Evil

logical positivism had shown religion to be intellectually substandard: that the concept of God was meaningless, that arguments for the existence of God were ineffective, and that the problem of evil had dealt a definitive blow to belief in God. In that climate of opinion, in 1955, J. L. Mackie published his argument that was designed to expose a logical contradiction between the existence of God and the existence of evil—an argument which, if valid, is a direct disproof of theism. As an essential part of his argument, Mackie relies on specific definitions of attributes of God, such as omnipotence, which are themselves not uncontroversial. In the period of renewal in philosophy of religion that began in the late 1970s, theistic responses to the problem of evil proliferated. Alvin Plantinga’s response, known as the free will defense, became classic. Plantinga points out that Mackie’s definitions— particularly of omnipotence—need not be accepted by theists. If God grants a kind of free will to creatures that is incompatible with any form of determinism, Plantinga argues, then it is not within God’s power to control the outcome of their choices, thus allowing the possibility for evil. Note that the point of this defense or any defense against the problem of evil is not to argue for the truth or plausibility of God or free will or any other aspect of theism but to show that the attack on theism fails. Given that many theists and nontheists came to agree that the free will defense shows that the logical argument against theism, as exemplified in Mackie, fails, many nontheistic professional philosophers developed a different type of argument to show why evil is still a problem for theism. What became known as the evidential argument claims that some fact or facts about evil count against the credibility or probability of theistic belief. William Rowe articulated his own rendition of the evidential argument in 1979 and in subsequent decades revised it several times in response to criticisms. Rowe claims that it is reasonable to think that at least some of the intense suffering in our world could have been prevented without losing a greater good or without allowing an equally bad or worse evil. Since Rowe assumes that theism entails that God is justified in permitting evils only if they are necessary to a greater good, he believes he has good grounds for atheism. The lead selection provided here is a dialogue of Rowe with Daniel HowardSnyder and Michael Bergmann, who are prominent representatives of the response known as the skeptical theist defense. Howard-Snyder and Bergmann’s basic point is that the human inability to discern God’s reasons for

Introduction 5

some evils does not constitute evidence that there are no such reasons. Their argument for this point is that we have no reason to think that our finite minds are able to grasp either all of the connections between goods and evils or all of the goods that there are to which evils may be connected. Yet such matters may well be known by infinite divine wisdom. My own essay that follows is a critical discussion of the general types of standard responses that are offered against the evidential argument. Whether a theodicy is Augustinian or Irenaean or Plantingian in approach, it assumes both that God would prevent or eliminate any evil that does not lead to a greater good (what I call “gratuitous evil”) and also, therefore, that a greater good for every evil or type of evil must be specified in order for the theodicy to be adequate. On the other hand, the skeptical theist defense tries to block the evidential argument from going through by discounting our rational and moral evaluations regarding whether a given evil or some category of evils is gratuitous. By contrast, I argue that traditional greater good theodicies have a view of meticulous providence that is not essential to theism and that the skeptical theist defense relies on a view of our ability to make reasonable judgments about gratuity that is also not essential to theism. I argue for a view of divine providence that is general and not meticulous such that the world contains genuine contingencies, including contingencies of evil free choice and contingencies in the way natural order intersects human interests. In addition to philosophical work on the logical and evidential versions of the problem of evil, some work has also been done on what we might call the existential version. This label calls attention to the “real-life” dimension of the problem in addition to the more abstract and general lines of reasoning that are typically pursued. William Hasker, in the selection here, argues that happy people who do not regret their own individual existence cannot meaningfully raise a problem of evil, since their existence and unique identity are causally dependent upon a great many past events, some of which are evil events. Marilyn Adams explores the redemptive or salvific nature of human suffering, providing what we might consider to be a forthrightly spiritual solution to the existential problem of evil. Although not speaking of all suffering categorically, Adams argues that suffering may, in the right context, provide a special personal sense of intimacy with God—who identifies powerfully with those who suffer— and also a glimpse into the inner

6  The Problem of Evil

life of God, whose nature is essentially self-giving, self-sacrificing love. The explorations by Hasker and Adams are fascinating forays into the human existential response to evil, but the admirable analytical rigor displayed in both treatments obviates any attempt to write off the existential dimension of the problem as merely subjective, somehow nonrational, or not worthy of philosophical investigation.

PA RT THR EE: PER SPECTI V ES IN THEODICY

Part Three highlights theodicy as the traditional way of responding to the problem of evil. Deriving from two classical Greek words, Theós (meaning God) and dikē (meaning justice), theodicy is the attempt to square God’s justice with the existence of evil. Although theodicy has been used to address both the logical and evidential versions of the problem, it is now standard to consider a defense per se—and particularly the free will defense—as the appropriate kind of answer to the logical version and theodicy as the conventional type of answer to the evidential version. However, deploying a skeptical theist defense against the evidential argument is a notable exception to developing a theodicy. A defense simply aims to block the claim that it is likely that there are no morally sufficient reasons for certain evils, whereas a theodicy seeks to offer a plausible account of God’s possible or actual reasons. Some theodicies revolve around a particular theme, such as free will or natural law or character development. However, the theodicies featured here are more global, systematically weaving together various themes into a comprehensive narrative about God’s nature and his purposes in the world. St. Augustine’s complex theodicy focuses on the causal genesis of evil in the world in order to accomplish two objectives: to exonerate God and to maintain the guilt of creatures. Augustine treats topics such as the origin of sin in the free choices of originally good creatures, God’s intent to bring good out of evil, God’s timeless perception of the goodness of the whole creation in spite of its negative aspects, and the creature’s inability to perceive all aspects of the divine plan. Clearly, some Augustinian ideas recur in the works of later Christian thinkers, such as Thomas Aquinas, subsequent Thomistic philosophers, John Calvin, Leibniz, Alvin Plantinga, and others. David Ray Griffin, a process philosopher, critiques Augustine’s theology,

Introduction 7

which is based on a view of God as immutable, perfectly good, omniscient, and omnipotent. According to Griffin, this strong view of the deity entails that there is no genuine evil in the universe—a position that is faithful neither to human experience nor to the Christian faith. Griffin observes that Augustine comes closest to acknowledging the problem of evil for theism in his discussion of sin, or evil willing, on the part of creatures, but he then contextualizes all evil by declaring that the universe is better for containing it than not containing it. The aesthetic theme in Augustine’s theodicy makes the negatives that occur in the creation—such as sin—serve the beauty of the whole, and the “fortunate fault” theme, which is common to various Christian orientations, affirms that sin is essentially linked to God’s great redemptive activity toward fallen creatures. John Hick’s “soul-making” theodicy purports to draw from St. Irenaeus of the Eastern Orthodox Christian tradition. Instead of focusing on the causal genesis of evil, the Iranaean tradition in theodicy emphasizes the evolving resolution of evil. Instead of interpreting evil in the world as a fall from a once perfect state, it treats evil as a necessary stage in the development of a spiritually mature creature from a relatively immature state. According to Hick, God’s process of soul-making is not completed in temporal existence but continues into the afterlife. He theorizes that the conditions required for soul-making include both “epistemic distance” (which means that the world appears to finite minds as if there is no God) and the presence of genuine challenges, risks, and temptations (which provide opportunities for free creatures to grow in virtue). In his critique of Hick’s argument, William Rowe points out that epistemic distance from God is not necessary for moral and spiritual freedom, since it is possible for creatures to fully know that God exists and yet make their own choices to move toward or away from God. As for Hick’s claim that evil which seems far in excess of what is needed for soulmaking is actually necessary for soul-making, Rowe maintains that this is paradoxical, bordering on incoherent. Pursuing further the difficult problem of excess evil, Rowe argues that Hick fails to explain either particular instances of horrendous evil or the great amount and severity of evil generally. David Ray Griffin represents the tradition of process theodicy in arguing, on metaphysical grounds, that the freedom of finite beings is not donated to them by God but is rather inherent in the nature of being actual. Therefore, the traditional understanding of omnipotence must be modified:

8  The Problem of Evil

God has all the power it is possible for him to have but not all the power that there is. Since finite freedom is not the result of divine self-limitation but a metaphysical feature of particular existence, beings in the world have the intrinsic power to resist the divine aims. So, rather than coercion, God employs maximum persuasive power as he continually attempts to draw free finite actualities into agreement with his ideal aims for them. Against Griffin, Bruce Reichenbach defends a more nuanced theistic view of God’s power. He also points out difficulties regarding how the concept of power plays out at two distinct levels of existence as understood in process metaphysics: the level of individuals and the level of the aggregates into which individuals are conjoined. Aggregates with no central self or soul to synthesize the experiences of the whole lack the power of self-determination, whereas aggregates with a self do possess this power. Furthermore, since God is an individual and not an aggregate, he lacks coercive power with respect to aggregates. In the end, says Reichenbach, the process deity is not even a personal being and therefore does not resemble the God of the Bible as understood by the community of faith. A position called open theism has attracted a great deal of interest since it arose in the early 1990s. Its explanation of evil draws heavily from two of its most basic themes: that God limits his own power by creating personal beings with genuine freedom and that God’s knowledge is contingent upon creaturely choices rather than timeless and fixed. In brief, the openness vision is that God and his creation are deeply relational in nature, which means that God’s overarching goal is for personal beings freely to seek relationship both with him and with their fellows. Genuine human-divine relationship, according to openness thinkers, requires both that God is open to creaturely choices that he does not meticulously control and that the human future is open as persons interact with God’s overtures toward them. So, this kind of genuinely relational universe involves the real possibility of evils that serve no greater good. Paul Helm argues, on the contrary, that God takes no risks in creating and guiding the universe. Elaborating on what he considers a biblical view, Helm takes the position that divine providence as it applies to personal evil is indeed “meticulous.” Attaching very strong views of power and knowledge to God, Helm argues that God always chooses whether to prohibit or allow evil, thus guaranteeing that his creation is free from the risk of an action being chosen or an event occurring outside of his control.

Introduction 9

Departing from his usual defensive stance with respect to the problem of evil, Alvin Plantinga’s essay included in Part Three articulates a “felix culpa” theodicy based on an ancient theme of the Christian church: that the human fall into sin is an exceedingly fortunate event because, in addressing sin, God enacts a plan of redemption that involves the incomparable good of the Incarnation and Atonement. So, if God’s intention is to create a highly valuable world that includes not only the good of his own existence but the good of Incarnation and Atonement, then, logically, he must will that the world contain sin, suffering, and evil. Kevin Diller responds by questioning Plantinga’s strategy of interpreting evil as a means to God’s far greater ends. Diller argues that this makes evil a functional good, somehow rational and fitting in God’s economy, thus distorting its true theological significance as needless and harmful but permitted rebellion and damage. Moreover, for Diller, only on a highly contestable scale of values can a world containing sin and evil be considered better than other imaginable worlds, since there are possible worlds with no sin and evil that still contain the wonderful good of God’s self-revelation and invitation to relational intimacy.

PA RT FOUR: ISSUES IN THE PROBLEM OF EV IL

Part Four consists of exchanges between philosophers regarding particu­ lar aspects of the ongoing discussion of God and evil. Robert Adams challenges the Leibnizian idea that God’s perfection requires that he create the best possible world because moral obligations do not apply to creatures who are merely possible beings. Adams also reasons that divine grace means that God does not choose to create finite beings because of their desirable characteristics and thus that God might select less excellent creatures than he could have selected. Philip Quinn disagrees with Adams, arguing that theism implies that God must do his best in creation. Although it is not wrong for God to actualize a less morally good world than he could have actualized, his doing so would simply show that he is not a superlatively good moral agent. Another controversy in the overall discussion of evil regards the role of natural laws in accounting for natural evils. The familiar line of argument is that a world run by natural laws is necessary for the sake of a stable environment for the conduct of our lives, although the regular operation of

10  The Problem of Evil

natural laws also creates pain, suffering, disaster, and other evils. In providing a theodicy for natural evils, Richard Swinburne ventures beyond this approach, arguing that the existence of natural evils is actually necessary to humans having meaningful freedom to commit morally good or evil actions. According to Swinburne, in order to acquire knowledge of what actions have good or evil consequences, persons may observe either other human actions or natural processes. He argues, however, that ultimately our knowledge of how to commit moral evil must be anchored in observation of naturally occurring evils. Eleonore Stump rejects Swinburne’s argument that natural evils are necessary for the knowledge that is connected to moral freedom because the relevant knowledge of how to bring about moral evil is available by other avenues (such as divine revelation or scientific study) rather than by induction from actual natural evils. She further argues that, even if Swinburne were correct that natural evils are necessary for producing knowledge to inform morally meaningful actions, he has yet to show why the value of this knowledge is sufficient to justify God in permitting such evils. For example, it is reasonable to believe that even the value of learning from natural evils how to avoid or escape them in the future is not adequate to justify God in permitting them in the first place. One critical issue in the ongoing discussion concerns the concept of gratuitous evil—that is, evil that is not necessary to achieve some greater good or to prevent another evil that is equally bad or worse. The controversy pertains to two key questions: whether it is rational to believe that gratuitous evils exist and whether standard theism requires God to prevent them. William Hasker argues that it is generally reasonable to believe that evils are gratuitous which do not seem to us to be necessary for a greater good. Hasker rejects the skeptical theist’s attempt to deny rational standing to judgments of gratuity because such denials impugn the general reliability of our human capacities for making rational and moral assessments. Approaching the discussion from the other direction, Hasker looks at the typical assumptions made by theists and nontheists alike that God must arrange the world or intervene in the world to make all evils serve a greater good—in effect, God must not allow gratuitous evil. Hasker develops a theistic understanding of why God can allow harmful and pointless evils without which the world would genuinely have been better. Such a view, he argues, preserves the kind of universe in which human actions and their

Introduction 11

consequences must be taken with utter seriousness. David O’Connor counters by arguing in detail that Hasker has presented no good reason to think that theism and gratuitous evil are compatible. O’Connor classifies Hasker’s arguments for the possibility of gratuitous evil in a theistic universe into two categories: those based on God’s essential nature and those based on God’s goals in world making. Much of the discussion centers around what conditions are required vis-à-vis human beliefs about the relation of God and gratuitous evil for the human moral and spiritual venture to be meaningful. Skeptical theism is now a well-known line of response to the evidential argument from evil. Rowe’s evidential argument, as found in Part One, gets traction by claiming that it is likely that there are evils which are not necessary for any greater goods. To make this claim, Rowe must provide a reason to think that it is likely that the goods we know of are in fact representative of the goods there are. However, as skeptical theists argue, for all we know, God perceives and pursues goods beyond our comprehension. This means that human beings are not in an epistemic position to make a judgment about many of the relations of goods and evils. The many exchanges between Rowe and skeptical theists on this and related points have led to the refinement of both positions. In his essay in Part Four, Michael Bergmann constructs a detailed case for why Rowe’s different ways of supporting his factual claim—that it is probable that there are evils which are not necessary for greater goods—all fail. The dual themes undergirding Bergmann’s perspective are, of course, that a strong emphasis on our cognitive limitations, on the one hand, and a recognition of the vastness and complexity of reality, on the other, are debilitating to the evidential argument. Nick Trakakis, in turn, defends Rowe against such skeptical theist arguments, largely by arguing from the plausibility of Rowe’s analogies, such as the analogy between God and a good parent. A young child may not understand the reasons why a loving, relationally healthy parent allows some form of temporary suffering (for instance, due to a medical procedure). However, the loving parent would at least assure that child that there were such reasons. For Rowe and others who advance the evidential argument from evil, God reveals to human beings neither the specific reasons nor the fact that he has reasons. On the good-parent analogy, it is reasonable to think that the goods for the sake of which a loving, self-revealing God allows evils would not be totally beyond our ken.

12  The Problem of Evil

The version of the evidential argument from evil offered here by Paul Draper frames the matter as follows: although theism may offer an explanation for evil that has some degree of plausibility on its own, there may be a competing hypothesis that explains evil better by comparison. Draper argues that the “hypothesis of indifference” explains the facts of pain and pleasure, including their perplexing distribution and the evolutionary functions they serve, better than theism does. Linking the concepts of antecedent probability and epistemic surprise, he claims that the facts of pain and pleasure as we know them are much more antecedently probable (that is, less epistemically surprising) given a universe that is indifferent to human goals and values than given a theistic universe. This, he maintains, accents a serious problem for the theist and provides a reason to think atheism is true. Peter van Inwagen in his essay does not directly reply to Draper’s argument, but he addresses a similar one that rests on the amount, intensity, and distribution of pain in the actual world. Van Inwagen points out that highly valuable rational creatures evolved over a long period of time, that pain (including its chance nature) is necessary to the evolutionary process, and that rational creatures are worth the pain involved in producing them. For God to bring about higher-level rational creatures apart from the laws of evolutionary development (for instance, by eliminating countless instances of animal suffering in evolutionary history) would be for God to create a massively irregular world, which is a defective world that cannot be preferred. The great value of rational creatures emerging in a regular world outweighs the cost in suffering. So, the patterns of suffering in this world are not evidence against theism—and neither are they evidence for the hypothesis of indifference. Van Inwagen further claims that any interesting and important hypothesis will need auxiliary hypotheses to help it account for difficult cases but that this does not mean that the difficult cases count as negative evidence.

R ETROSPECT A ND PROSPECT

In both quality and quantity, the philosophical literature on the problem of evil witnesses to the importance of the problem itself. The problem of evil arguably commands more attention than any other issue in the philosophy

Introduction 13

of religion and will very likely continue to do so, not only because of its intellectual complexity but also because of its grounding in real life. The present anthology allows the reader—whether professional philosopher, student, or interested layperson—to work through a number of issues related to how evil in the world affects belief in God. Future progress will be made as thoughtful persons—theists, nontheists, agnostics, and others— engage in honest discussion and debate. My hope is that this collection of readings will contribute to that end.

P A R T

I

Statements of the Problem Explorations in Great Literature Treatments in Traditional Philosophy

C H A P T E R

1

Job’s Complaint and the Whirlwind’s Answer F RO M T H E B O O K O F J O B

An assumption underlying the Old Testament is that we live in a divinely governed, just universe. The prevailing orthodoxy was that God has structured the world so that the righteous and the wicked are rewarded or punished according to what they deserve—a simple principle of moral cause and effect. Even the book of Proverbs, despite its occasional flashes of cynicism, essentially reflects this view. The book of Job, on the other hand, is unorthodox with respect to the accepted orthodoxy, for it frankly treats the difficult fact that the justice of God is not confirmed by human experience. One’s circumstances are not an accurate indicator of one’s standing with God. Thus, the book calls into question the Old Testament idea of what it means to live in a divinely governed, just universe. In a sense, the book of Job is a philosophical debate, set in the format of an old folk tale. It addresses the most perplexing of human problems: New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

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why do the innocent suffer? According to the story, Job was a morally virtuous and religiously devout ancient patriarch. Nevertheless, all sorts of evils befell Job, devastating his once prosperous and flourishing life. His seven sons and three daughters were killed, his many flocks destroyed, his slaves slaughtered, and he himself smitten with a terrible skin disease. So, Job’s own situation becomes a telling counterexample to the simple moral causeeffect principle. The exquisite intermingling of lofty theological ideas with profound psychological anguish characterizes this classic story of the Old Testament. The result is a vision of the value of a relationship with God in a complex world that cannot be explained in simplistic categories or reduced to extrinsic rewards.

The story begins with a description of Job and his relationship to God: There was once a man in the land of Uz whose name was Job. That man was blameless and upright, one who feared God and turned away from evil. 1:1

Terrible things began to happen to Job: his seven sons and three daughters are killed, his many flocks destroyed, his slaves slaughtered, and he himself smitten with a terrible skin disease. Job’s first reaction to the calamities in his life is to suffer in silence. Unable to restrain herself, Job’s wife urges him to “curse God and die.” But Job answers: “You speak as any foolish woman would speak. Shall we receive the good at the hand of God, and not receive the bad?” 2:10

Eventually, three of Job’s friends come to comfort him as he sits in misery and scrapes his sores. The friends—Eliphaz the Temanite, Bildad the Shuhite, and Zophar the Naamathite (2:11)—are unable to find words to express their sympathy and sit silently with him without speaking for seven days and seven nights. Job knows that they embrace the conventional orthodoxy which holds that prosperity is a reward for right living and misfortune is a punishment for sin—a conviction that he also held. However, Job’s physical suffering and psychological confusion prevent him from being silent any longer, causing him to burst forth bitterly:

Job’s Complaint and the Whirlwind’s Answer 19 “Why did I not die at birth, come forth from the womb and expire? Why were there knees to receive me, or breasts for me to suck? . . . Why is light given to one in misery, and life to the bitter in soul, who long for death, but it does not come, and dig for it more than for hidden treasures; who rejoice exceedingly, and are glad when they find the grave?” 3:11–12, 20–22

Job’s outburst shocks the comforters, and they begin to argue with him. The first comforter, Eliphaz, insists that God is probably disciplining Job for his own good: “How happy is the one whom God reproves; therefore do not despise the discipline of the Almighty. For he wounds, but he binds up; he strikes, but his hands heal.” 5:17–18

After listening to many such sanctimonious pronouncements, Job answers that he does not need any disciplining. Beginning to despair of any resolution with his human comforters, he cries out directly to God: “If I sin, what do I do to you, you watcher of humanity? Why have you made me your target? Why have I become a burden to you?” 7:20

Soon Bildad, the second comforter, rebukes Job, saying that God would certainly respond if Job were innocent: “How long will you say these things, and the words of your mouth be a great wind? Does God pervert justice? Or does the Almighty pervert the right? . . . if you are pure and upright, surely then he will rouse himself for you and restore to you your rightful place.” 8:2–3, 6

It seems to Job that God is treating him as if he has sinned and will not give him a fair hearing. Furthermore, Job persists in acknowledging God’s omniscience and omnipotence but sharpens his questions about God’s justice and goodness. Job declares:

20  Explorations in Great Literature “Though I am innocent, I cannot answer him; I must appeal for mercy to my accuser. If I summoned him and he answered me, I do not believe that he would listen to my voice. For he crushes me with a tempest, and multiplies my wounds without cause; He will not let me get my breath, but fills me with bitterness. If it is a contest of strength, he is the strong one! If it is a matter of justice, who can summon him? Though I am innocent, my own mouth would condemn me; though I am blameless, he would prove me perverse. I am blameless; I do not know myself; I loathe my life. It is all one; therefore I say, he destroys both the blameless and the wicked. When disaster brings sudden death, he mocks at the calamity of the innocent. The earth is given into the hand of the wicked; he covers the eyes of its judges—if it is not he, who then is it?” 9:15–24

As Job’s worst fears unfold, he feels like a condemned person who can do nothing to clear himself with a judge who is like no one else: “I become afraid of all my suffering, for I know you will not hold me innocent. I shall be condemned; why then do I labor in vain? If I wash myself with soap and cleanse my hands with lye, yet you will plunge me into filth, and my own clothes will abhor me. For he is not a mortal, as I am, that I might answer him, that we should come to trial together. There is no umpire between us, who might lay his hand on us both. If he would take his rod away from me, and not let dread of him terrify me, then I would speak without fear of him, for I know I am not what I am thought to be.” 9:28–35

The suffering Job gradually realizes that he cannot persuade his comforters of his own righteousness. So he turns his attention to God and the question of why righteous people suffer:

Job’s Complaint and the Whirlwind’s Answer 21 “I loathe my life; I will give free utterance to my complaint; I will speak in the bitterness of my soul. I will say to God, Do not condemn me; let me know why you contend against me. Does it seem good to you to oppress, to despise the work of your hands and favor the schemes of the wicked? Do you have eyes of flesh? Do you see as humans see? Are your days like the days of mortals, or your years like human years, that you seek out my iniquity and search for my sin, although you know that I am not guilty, and there is no one to deliver out of your hand?” 10:1–7

The third comforter, Zophar, is so outraged at this utterance that he indignantly insists not only that Job is guilty but also that he must be receiving a less painful correction than he deserves: “Should your babble put others to silence, and when you mock, shall no one shame you? For you say, ‘My conduct is pure, and I am clean in God’s sight.’ But O that God would speak, and open his lips to you, and that he would tell you the secrets of wisdom! For wisdom is manysided. Know then that God exacts of you less than your guilt deserves.” 11:3–6

In spite of his friends’ insistence that divine justice guarantees prosperity to the righteous and suffering to the wicked, Job states that it appears that God deals unfairly with human beings. Job claims that even in death—the place of Sheol—the wicked still reject God: “When I think of it I am dismayed, and shuddering seizes my flesh. Why do the wicked live on, reach old age, and grow mighty in power? Their children are established in their presence, and their offspring before their eyes. Their houses are safe from fear, and no rod of God is upon them. Their bull breeds without fail; their cow calves and never miscarries.

22  Explorations in Great Literature They send out their little ones like a flock, and their children dance around. They sing to the tambourine and the lyre, and rejoice to the sound of the pipe. They spend their days in prosperity, and in peace they go down to Sheol. They say to God, ‘Leave us alone! We do not desire to know your ways. What is the Almighty, that we should serve him? And what profit do we get if we pray to him?” 21:6–15

So the debate continues, point and counterpoint, Job against his three friends. As the discussion draws to a close, the young Elihu, a fourth comforter who did not enter the earlier dialogue, comes forward to try to refute both Job, for his self-justification, and the other three friends, for lacking an argument that is forceful enough: “God thunders wondrously with his voice; he does great things that we cannot comprehend. . . . The Almighty—we cannot find him; he is great in power and justice, and abundant righteousness he will not violate.” 37:5, 23

For all its pretense of knowing God’s ways, however, Elihu’s message turns out to be essentially the same as that of his cohorts. Job is psychologically and physically exhausted with his own problems and with the onslaught of accusations. In this situation, God enters the story through a storm that has been brewing. Speaking out of a mighty whirlwind, God harshly rebukes the three comforters for their lack of wisdom, ignores the young comforter entirely, and then confronts Job with a cascade of questions: “Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? Gird up your loins like a man, I will question you, and you shall declare to me. Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements—surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it?

Job’s Complaint and the Whirlwind’s Answer 23 On what were its bases sunk, or who laid its cornerstone when the morning stars sang together and all the heavenly beings shouted for joy? Or who shut in the sea with doors when it burst out from the womb?— when I made the clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling band, and prescribed bounds for it, and set bars and doors, and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther, and here shall your proud waves be stopped’? Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place, so that it might take hold of the skirts of the earth, and the wicked be shaken out of it? It is changed like clay under the seal, and it is dyed like a garment. Light is withheld from the wicked, and their uplifted arm is broken. Have you entered into the springs of the sea, or walked in the recesses of the deep? Have the gates of death been revealed to you, or have you seen the gates of deep darkness? Have you comprehended the expanse of the earth? Declare, if you know all this. Where is the way to the dwelling of light, and where is the place of darkness, that you may take it to its territory and that you may discern the paths to its home?” 38:2–20

Job is overwhelmed by his encounter with God. His earlier insistence on a strict and measurable justice in the world gives way to his emerging perception of God as still in sovereign control but governing the world by a wisdom that resists formulaic description. So, Job answers: “See, I am of small account; what shall I answer you? I lay my hand on my mouth. I have spoken once, and I will not answer; twice, but will proceed no further.” 40:4–5

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Then God begins another barrage of questions: “Gird up your loins like a man; I will question you, and you declare to me. Will you even put me in the wrong? Will you condemn me that you may be justified? Have you an arm like God, and can you thunder with a voice like his? Deck yourself with majesty and dignity; clothe yourself with glory and splendor. Pour out the overflowings of your anger, and look on all who are proud, and abase them. Look on all who are proud, and bring them low; tread down the wicked where they stand. Hide them all in the dust together; bind their faces in the world below. Then I will also acknowledge to you that your own right hand can give you victory.” 40:7–14

Job is further humbled by God’s second speech and, in response, utters these words: “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted. ‘Who is this that hides counsel without knowledge?’ Therefore I have uttered what I did not understand, things too wonderful for me, which I did not know. . . . I had heard of you by the hearing of the ear, but now my eye sees you; therefore I despise myself, and repent in dust and ashes.” 42:2–3, 5–6

Many scholars as well as general readers often interpret the end of the story as depicting a puny human finally succumbing to divine power or a rebellious sinner admitting wrongdoing. However, the word “repent” in the context of this Hebrew text clearly means to change one’s mind, perhaps with some regret for having held an incorrect opinion in the first place, but it does not mean to admit moral wrongdoing or spiritual rebellion. Seen in this light, Job is a faithful believer, an honest questioner, a righteous sufferer, and a religious pioneer.

C H A P T E R

2

The Lisbon Earthquake VO LTA I R E

Oh wretched man, earth-fated to be cursed; Abyss of plagues, and miseries the worst! Horrors on horrors, griefs on griefs must show, That man’s the victim of unceasing woe, And lamentations which inspire my strain, Prove that philosophy is false and vain. Approach in crowds, and meditate awhile Yon shattered walls, and view each ruined pile, Women and children heaped up mountain high, Limbs crushed which under ponderous marble lie; Wretches unnumbered in the pangs of death, Who mangled, torn, and panting for their breath, Buried beneath their sinking roofs expire, And end their wretched lives in torments dire. Voltaire, “The Lisbon Earthquake: An Inquiry into the Maxim, ‘Whatever Is, Is Right.’” Reprinted from The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, translated by William F. Fleming (New York: E. R. DuMont, 1901). Public domain.

25

26  Explorations in Great Literature Say, when you hear their piteous, half-formed cries, Or from their ashes see the smoke arise, Say, will you then eternal laws maintain, Which God to cruelties like these constrain? Whilst you these facts replete with horror view, Will you maintain death to their crimes was due? And can you then impute a sinful deed To babes who on their mothers’ bosoms bleed? Was then more vice in fallen Lisbon found, Than Paris, where voluptuous joys abound? Was less debauchery to London known, Where opulence luxurious holds her throne? Earth Lisbon swallows; the light sons of France Protract the feast, or lead the sprightly dance. Spectators who undaunted courage show, While you behold your dying brethren’s woe; With stoical tranquility of mind You seek the causes of these ills to find; But when like us Fate’s rigors you have felt, Become humane, like us you’ll learn to melt. When the earth gapes my body to entomb, I justly may complain of such a doom. Hemmed round on every side by cruel fate, The snares of death, the wicked’s furious hate, Preyed on by pain and by corroding grief Suffer me from complaint to find relief. ’Tis pride, you cry, seditious pride that still Asserts mankind should be exempt from ill. The awful truth on Tagus’ banks explore, Rummage the ruins on that bloody shore, Wretches interred alive in direful grave Ask if pride cries, “Good Heaven, thy creatures save.” If ‘tis presumption that makes mortals cry, “Heav’n, on our sufferings cast a pitying eye.” All’s right, you answer, the eternal cause Rules not by partial, but by general laws.

The Lisbon Earthquake 27 Say what advantage can result to all, From wretched Lisbon’s lamentable fall? Are you then sure, the power which could create The universe and fix the laws of fate, Could not have found for man a proper place, But earthquakes must destroy the human race? Will you thus limit the eternal mind? Should not our God to mercy be inclined? Cannot then God direct all nature’s course? Can power almighty be without resource? Humbly the great Creator I entreat, This gulf with sulphur and with fire replete, Might on the deserts spend its raging flame, God my respect, my love weak mortals claim; When man groans under such a load of woe, He is not proud, he only feels the blow. Would words like these to peace of mind restore The natives sad of that disastrous shore? Grieve not, that others’ bliss may overflow, Your sumptuous palaces are laid thus low; Your toppled towers shall other hands rebuild; With multitudes your walls one day be filled; Your ruin on the North shall wealth bestow, For general good from partial ills must flow; You seem as abject to the sovereign power, As worms which shall your carcasses devour. No comfort could such shocking words impart, But deeper wound the sad, afflicted heart. When I lament my present wretched state, Allege not the unchanging laws of fate; Urge not the links of the eternal chain, ’Tis false philosophy and wisdom vain . . . This is the fatal knot you should untie, Our evils do you cure when you deny? Men ever strove into the source to pry, Of evil, whose existence you deny.

28  Explorations in Great Literature If he whose hand the elements can wield, To the winds’ force makes rocky mountains yield; If thunder lays oaks level with the plain, From the bolts’ strokes they never suffer pain. But I can feel, my heart oppressed demands Aid of that God who formed me with His hands. Sons of the God supreme to suffer all Fated alike; we on our Father call. No vessel of the potter asks, we know, Why it was made so brittle, vile, and low? Vessels of speech as well as thought are void; The urn this moment formed and that destroyed, The potter never could with sense inspire, Devoid of thought it nothing can desire. The moralist still obstinate replies, Others’ enjoyments from your woes arise, To numerous insects shall my corpse give birth, When once it mixes with its mother earth: Small comfort ’tis that when Death’s ruthless power Closes my life, worms shall my flesh devour . . . Yet in this direful chaos you’d compose A general bliss from individuals’ woes? Oh worthless bliss! in injured reason’s sight, With faltering voice you cry, “What is, is right”? The universe confutes your boasting vain, Your heart retracts the error you maintain. Men, beasts, and elements know no repose From dire contention; earth’s the seat of woes: We strive in vain its secret source to find. Is ill the gift of our Creator kind? Do then fell Typhon’s cursed laws ordain Our ill, or Arimanius doom to pain? Shocked at such dire chimeras, I reject Monsters which fear could into gods erect. But how conceive a God, the source of love, Who on man lavished blessings from above, Then would the race with various plagues confound

The Lisbon Earthquake 29 Can mortals penetrate His views profound? Ill could not from a perfect being spring, Nor from another, since God’s sovereign king; And yet, sad truth! in this our world ’tis found, What contradictions here my soul confound! A God once dwelt on earth amongst mankind, Yet vices still lay waste the human mind; He could not do it, this proud sophist cries, He could, but he declined it, that replies; He surely will, ere these disputes have end, Lisbon’s foundations hidden thunders rend, And thirty cities’ shattered remnants fly, With ruin and combustion through the sky, From dismal Tagus’ ensanguined shore, To where of Cadiz’ sea the billows roar. Or man’s a sinful creature from his birth, And God to woe condemns the sons of earth; Or else the God who being rules and space, Untouched with pity for the human race, Indifferent, both from love and anger free, Still acts consistent to His first decree: Or matter has defects which still oppose God’s will, and thence all human evil flows; Or else this transient world by mortals trod, Is but a passage that conducts to God. Our transient sufferings here shall soon be o’er, And death will land us on a happier shore. But when we rise from this accursed abyss, Who by his merit can lay claim to bliss? Dangers and difficulties man surround, Doubts and perplexities his mind confound. To nature we apply for truth in vain, God should His will to human kind explain. He only can illume the human soul, Instruct the wise man, and the weak console. Without Him man of error still the sport, Thinks from each broken reed to find support.

30  Explorations in Great Literature Leibnitz can’t tell me from what secret cause In a world governed by the wisest laws, Lasting disorders, woes that never end With our vain pleasures real sufferings blend; Why ill the virtuous with the vicious shares? Why neither good nor bad misfortunes spares? I can’t conceive that “what is, ought to be,” In this each doctor knows as much as me . . . If in a life midst sorrows past and fears, With pleasure’s hand we wipe away our tears, Pleasure his light wings spreads, and quickly flies, Losses on losses, griefs on griefs arise. The mind from sad remembrance of the past Is with black melancholy overcast; Sad is the present if no future state, No blissful retribution mortals wait, If fate’s decrees the thinking being doom To lose existence in the silent tomb. All may be well; that hope can man sustain, All now is well; ’tis an illusion vain. The sages held me forth delusive light, Divine instructions only can be right. Humbly I sigh, submissive suffer pain, Nor more the ways of Providence arraign. In youthful prime I sung in strains more gay, Soft pleasure’s laws which lead mankind astray. But times change manners; taught by age and care Whilst I mistaken mortals’ weakness share, The light of truth I seek in this dark state, And without murmuring submit to fate. A caliph once when his last hour drew nigh, Prayed in such terms as these to the most high: “Being supreme, whose greatness knows no bound, I bring thee all that can’t in Thee be found; Defects and sorrows, ignorance and woe.” Hope he omitted, man’s sole bliss below.

C H A P T E R

3

Rebellion F YO D O R D O S TO E V S K Y

“I must admit one thing to you,” Ivan began. “I could never understand how one can love one’s neighbors. It’s just one’s neighbors, to my mind, that one can’t love, though one might love those at a distance. I once read somewhere of John the Merciful, a saint, that when a hungry, frozen beggar came to him, and asked him to warm him up, he took him into his bed, held him in his arms, and began breathing into his mouth, which was putrid and loathsome from some awful disease. I am convinced that he did that from the laceration of falsity, for the sake of the love imposed by duty, as a penance laid on him. For anyone to love a man, he must be hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone.” “Father Zosima has talked of that more than once,” observed Alyosha; “he, too, said that the face of a man often hinders many people not practised in love, from loving him. But yet there’s a great deal of love in mankind, and almost Christ-like love. I know that myself, Ivan.” “Rebellion,” from The Brothers Karamazov, A Norton Critical Edition, by Fyodor Dostoevsky, ed. Ralph E. Matlaw, trans. Constance Garnett, rev. Ralph E. Matlaw. Copyright © 1976 by W. W. Norton & Company, Inc. Used by permission of W. W. Norton & Company, Inc.

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“Well, I know nothing of it so far, and can’t understand it, and the innumerable mass of mankind are with me there. The question is, whether that’s due to men’s bad qualities or whether it’s inherent in their nature. To my thinking, Christ-like love for men is a miracle impossible on earth. He was God. But we are not gods. Suppose I, for instance, suffer intensely. Another can never know how much I suffer, because he is another and not I. And what’s more, a man is rarely ready to admit another’s suffering (as though it were a distinction). Why won’t he admit it, do you think? Because I smell unpleasant, because I have a stupid face, because I once trod on his foot. Besides there is suffering and suffering; degrading, humiliating suffering such as humbles me—hunger, for instance—my benefactor will perhaps allow me; but when you come to higher suffering—for an idea, for instance—he will very rarely admit that, perhaps because my face strikes him not at all as what he fancies a man should have who suffers for an idea. And so he deprives me instantly of his favor, and not at all from badness of heart. Beggars, especially genteel beggars, ought never to show themselves, but to ask for charity through the newspapers. One can love one’s neighbors in the abstract, or even at a distance, but at close quarters it’s almost impossible. If it were as on the stage, in the ballet, where if beggars come in, they wear silken rags and tattered lace and beg for alms dancing gracefully, then one might like looking at them. But even then we would not love them. But enough of that. I simply wanted to show you my point of view. I meant to speak of the suffering of mankind generally, but we had better confine ourselves to the sufferings of the children. That reduces the scope of my argument to a tenth of what it would be. Still we’d better keep to the children, though it does weaken my case. But, in the first place, children can be loved even at close quarters, even when they are dirty, even when they are ugly (I fancy, though, children never are ugly). The second reason why I won’t speak of grown-up people is that, besides being disgusting and unworthy of love, they have retribution—they’ve eaten the apple and know good and evil, and they have become ‘like God.’ They go on eating it still. But the children haven’t eaten anything, and are so far innocent. Are you fond of children, Alyosha? I know you are, and you will understand why I prefer to speak of them. If they, too, suffer horribly on earth, they must suffer for their fathers, they must be punished for their fathers, who have eaten the apple; but that reasoning is of the other world and is incomprehensible for

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the heart of man here on earth. The innocent must not suffer for another’s sins, and especially such innocents! You may be surprised at me, Alyosha, but I am awfully fond of children, too. And observe, cruel people, the violent, the rapacious, the Karamazovs are sometimes very fond of children. Children while they are quite little—up to seven, for instance—are so remote from grown-up people; they are different creatures, as it were, of a different species. I knew a criminal in prison who had, in the course of his career as a burglar, murdered whole families, including several children. But when he was in prison, he had a strange affection for them. He spent all his time at his window, watching the children playing in the prison yard. He trained one little boy to come up to his window and made great friends with him. . . . You don’t know why I am telling you all this, Alyosha? My head aches and I am sad.” “You speak with a strange air,” observed Alyosha uneasily, “as though you were not quite yourself.” “By the way, a Bulgarian I met lately in Moscow,” Ivan went on, seeming not to hear his brother’s words, “told me about the crimes committed by Turks and Circassians in all parts of Bulgaria through fear of a general rising of the Slavs. They burn villages, murder, rape women and children, they nail their prisoners to the fences by the ears, leave them so till morning, and in the morning they hang them—all sorts of things you can’t imagine. People talk sometimes of bestial cruelty, but that’s a great injustice and insult to the beast; a beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that’s all he can do. He would never think of nailing people by the ears, even if he were able to do it. These Turks took a pleasure in torturing children, too; cutting the unborn child from the mother’s womb, and tossing babies up in the air and catching them on the points of their bayonets before their mother’s eyes. Doing it before the mother’s eyes was what gave zest to the amusement. Here is another scene that I thought very interesting. Imagine a trembling mother with her baby in her arms, a circle of invading Turks around her. They’ve planned a diversion; they pet the baby, laugh to make it laugh. They succeed, the baby laughs. At that moment a Turk points a pistol four inches from the baby’s face. The baby laughs with glee, holds out its little hands to the pistol, and he pulls the trigger in the baby’s face and blows out its brains. Artistic, wasn’t it? By the way, Turks are particularly fond of sweet things, they say.”

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“Brother, what are you driving at?” asked Alyosha. “I think if the devil doesn’t exist, but man has created him, he has created him in his own image and likeness.” “Just as he did God, then?” observed Alyosha. “It’s wonderful how you can turn words, as Polonius says in Hamlet,” laughed Ivan. “You turn my words against me. Well, I am glad. Yours must be a fine God, if man created Him in His image and likeness. You asked just now what I was driving at. You see, I am fond of collecting certain little facts, and, would you believe, I even copy anecdotes of a certain sort from newspapers and stories, and I’ve already got a fine collection. The Turks, of course, have gone into it, but they are foreigners. I have specimens from home that are even better than the Turks. You know we prefer beating— rods and scourges—that’s our national institution. Nailing ears is unthinkable for us, for we are, after all, Europeans. But the rod and the scourge we have always with us and they cannot be taken from us. Abroad now they scarcely do any beating. Perhaps manners are more humane, or laws have been passed, so that they don’t dare to flog men now. But they make up for it in another way just as national as ours. And so national that it would be practically impossible among us, though I believe we are being inoculated with it, since the religious movement began in our aristocracy. I have a charming pamphlet, translated from the French, describing how quite recently, five years ago, a murderer, Richard, was executed—a young man, of twenty-three, I believe who repented and was converted to the Christian faith at the very scaffold. This Richard was an illegitimate child who was given as a child of six by his parents to some shepherds on the Swiss mountains. They brought him up to work for them. He grew up like a little wild beast among them. The shepherds taught him nothing, and scarcely fed or clothed him, but sent him out at age seven to herd the flock in cold and wet, and no one hesitated or scrupled to treat him so. Quite the contrary, they thought they had every right, for Richard had been given to them as a chattel, and they did not even see the necessity of feeding him. Richard himself describes how in those years, like the Prodigal Son in the Gospel, he longed to eat of the mash given to the pigs, which were fattened for sale. But they wouldn’t even give him that, and beat him when he stole from the pigs. And that was how he spent all his childhood and his youth, till he grew up and was strong enough to go away and be a thief. The savage began to earn his

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living as a day laborer in Geneva. He drank what he earned, he lived like a monster, and finished by killing and robbing an old man. He was caught, tried, and condemned to death. They are not sentimentalists there. And in prison he was immediately surrounded by pastors, members of Christian brotherhoods, philanthropic ladies, and the like. They taught him to read and write in prison, and expounded the Gospel to him. They exhorted him, worked upon him, drummed at him incessantly, till at last he solemnly confessed his crime. He was converted. He wrote to the court himself that he was a monster, but that in the end God had vouchsafed him light and shown grace. All Geneva was in excitement about him—all philanthropic and religious Geneva. All the aristocratic and well-bred society of the town rushed to the prison, kissed Richard and embraced him; ‘You are our brother, you have found grace.’ And Richard does nothing but weep with emotion, ‘Yes, I’ve found grace! All my youth and childhood I was glad of pigs’ food, but now even I have found grace. I am dying in the Lord.’ ‘Yes, Richard, die in the Lord; you have shed blood and must die in the Lord. Though it’s not your fault that you knew not the Lord, when you coveted the pig’s food and were beaten for stealing it (which was very wrong of you, for stealing is forbidden); but you’ve shed blood and you must die.’ And on the last day, Richard, perfectly limp, did nothing but cry and repeat every minute ‘This is my happiest day. I am going to the Lord.’ ‘Yes,’ cry the pastors and the judges and philanthropic ladies. ‘This is the happiest day of your life, for you are going to the Lord!’ They all walk or drive to the scaffold in procession behind the prison van. At the scaffold they call to Richard: ‘Die, brother, die in the Lord, for even thou hast found grace!’ And so, covered with his brothers’ kisses, Richard is dragged on to the scaffold, and led to the guillotine. And they chopped off his head in brotherly fashion, because he had found grace. Yes, that’s characteristic. That pamphlet is translated into Russian by some Russian philanthropists of aristocratic rank and evangelical aspirations, and has been distributed gratis for the enlightenment of the people. The case of Richard is interesting because it’s national. Though to us it’s absurd to cut off a man’s head, because he has become our brother and has found grace, yet we have our own speciality, which is all but worse. Our historical pastime is the direct satisfaction of inflicting pain. There are lines in Nekrasov describing how a peasant lashes a horse on the eyes, ‘on its meek eyes,’ everyone must have seen it. It’s peculiarly Russian. He describes

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how a feeble little nag had foundered under too heavy a load and cannot move. The peasant beats it, beats it savagely, beats it at last not knowing what he is doing in the intoxication of cruelty, thrashes it mercilessly over and over again. ‘However weak you are, you must pull, if you die for it.’ The nag strains, and then he begins lashing the poor defenseless creature on its weeping, on its ‘meek eyes.’ The frantic beast tugs and draws the load, trembling all over, gasping for breath, moving sideways, with a sore of unnatural spasmodic action—it’s awful in Nekrasov. But that’s only a horse, and God has given horses to be beaten. So the Tatars have taught us, and they left us the knout as a remembrance of it. But men, too, can be beaten. A well-educated, cultured gentleman and his wife beat their own child with a birch rod; a girl of seven. I have an exact account of it. The papa was glad that the birch was covered with twigs. ‘It stings more,’ said he, and so he began stinging his daughter. I know for a fact there are people who at every blow are worked up to sensuality, to literal sensuality, which increases progressively at every blow they inflict. They beat for a minute, for five minutes, for ten minutes, more often and more savagely. The child screams. At last the child cannot scream, it gasps, ‘Daddy daddy!’ By some diabolical unseemly chance the case was brought into court. A lawyer is engaged. The Russian people have long called a lawyer ‘a conscience for hire.’ The lawyer protests in his client’s defense. ‘It’s such a simple thing,’ he says, ‘an everyday domestic event. A father corrects his child. To our shame be it said, it is brought into court.’ The jury, convinced by him, gives a favorable verdict. The public roars with delight that the torturer is acquitted. Ah, pity I wasn’t there! I would have proposed to raise a subscription in his honor! . . . Charming pictures. “But I’ve still better things about children. I’ve collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, ‘most worthy and respectable people, of good education and breeding.’ You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. It’s just their defenselessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a beast lies hidden—the beast of rage, the beast of

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lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the beast of lawlessness let off the chain, the beast of diseases that follow on vice, gout, kidney disease, and so on. “This poor girl of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of cruelty— shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn’t ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared her face and made her eat that excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child’s groans locked up in that vile place! Can you understand why a little creature, who can’t even understand what’s done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in that vile place, in the dark and the cold, and weep her sanguine meek, unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that infamy, my friend and my brother, my pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this rigmarole must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child’s prayer to ‘dear, kind God’! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones! I am making you suffer, Alyoshka, you are not yourself. I’ll leave off if you like.” “Never mind, I want to suffer too,” muttered Alyosha. “One picture, only one more, because it’s so curious, so characteristic, and I have only just read it in some collection of Russian antiquities in the Archive, or the Past. I’ve forgotten the name. I must look it up. It was in the darkest days of serfdom at the beginning of the century, and long live the Liberator of the People! There was in those days a general of aristocratic connections, the owner of great estates, one of those men—somewhat exceptional, I believe, even then—who, retiring from the service into a life of leisure, are convinced that they’ve earned the power of life and death over their subjects. There were such men then. So our general, settled on his property of two thousand souls, lives in pomp, and domineers over his poor neighbors as though they were dependents and buffoons. He has kennels of

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hundreds of hounds and nearly a hundred dog-boys—all mounted, and in uniform. One day a serf boy, a little child of eight, threw a stone in play and hurt the paw of the general’s favorite hound. ‘Why is my favorite dog lame?’ He is told that the boy threw a stone that hurt the dog’s paw. ‘So you did it.’ The general looked the child up and down. ‘Take him.’ He was taken— taken from his mother and kept shut up all night. Early that morning the general comes out in full pomp, mounts his horse with the hounds, his dependents, dog-boys, and the huntsmen, all mounted around him. The servants are summoned for their edification, and in front of them all stands the mother of the child. The child is brought from the lockup. It’s a gloomy cold, foggy autumn day, a capital day for hunting. The general orders the child to be undressed; the child is stripped naked. He shivers, numb with terror, not daring to cry. . . . ‘Make him run,’ commands the general. ‘Run! run!’ shout the dog-boys. The boy runs. . . . ‘At him!’ yells the general, and he sets the whole pack of hounds on the child. The hounds catch him, and tear him to pieces before his mother’s eyes! . . . I believe the general was afterwards declared incapable of administering his estates. Well—what did he deserve? To be shot? To be shot for the satisfaction of our moral feelings? Speak, Alyoshka!” “To be shot,” murmured Alyosha, lifting his eyes to Ivan with a pale, twisted smile. “Bravo!” shouted Ivan delighted. “If even you say so, it means . . . You’re a pretty monk! So there is a little devil sitting in your heart, Alyoshka Karamazov!” “What I said was absurd, but—” “That’s just the point, that ‘but’!” cried Ivan. “Let me tell you, novice, that the absurd is only too necessary on earth. The world stands on absurdities, and perhaps nothing would have come to pass in it without them. We know what we know!” “What do you know?” “I understand nothing,” Ivan went on, as though in delirium. “I don’t want to understand anything now. I want to stick to the fact. I made up my mind long ago not to understand. If I try to understand anything, I shall be false to the fact and I have determined to stick to the fact.” “Why are you trying me?” Alyosha cried out with a bitter outburst. “Will you say what you mean at last?”

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“Of course, I will; that’s what I’ve been leading up to. You are dear to me, I don’t want to let you go, and I won’t give you up to your Zosima.” Ivan for a minute was silent, his face became all at once very sad. “Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its center, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug, and I recognize in all humility that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidean understanding, all I know is that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that cause follows effect, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level—but that’s only Euclidean nonsense, I know that, and I can’t consent to live by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that cause follows effect simply and directly, and that I know it—I must have retribution, or I will destroy myself. And not retribution in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven’t suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when everyone suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That’s a question I can’t answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions, but I’ve only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It’s beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such solidarity in sin with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their fathers’ crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester

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will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn’t grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: ‘Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.’ When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can’t accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child’s torturer, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ but I don’t want to cry aloud then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It’s not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to ‘dear, kind God’! It’s not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don’t want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don’t want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable suffering of her mother’s heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don’t want harmony. From love for humanity I don’t want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for

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harmony; it’s beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha, only I most respectfully return Him the ticket.” “That’s rebellion,” murmured Alyosha, looking down. “Rebellion? I am sorry you call it that,” said Ivan earnestly. “One can hardly live in rebellion, and I want to live. Tell me yourself, I challenge you—answer. Imagine that you are creating a fabric of human destiny with the object of making men happy in the end, giving them peace and rest at last, but that it was essential and inevitable to torture to death only one tiny creature—that little child beating its breast with its fist, for instance—and to found that edifice on its unavenged tears, would you consent to be the architect on those conditions? Tell me and tell the truth.” “No, I wouldn’t consent,” said Alyosha softly.

C H A P T E R

4

No Evil Comes from God S T. T H O M A S A Q U I N A S

We next inquire into the cause of evil. Concerning this there are three points of inquiry: (1) Whether good can be the cause of evil? (2) Whether the supreme good, God, is the cause of evil? (3) Whether there be any supreme evil, which is the first cause of all evils?

FIR ST A RTICLE W HETHER GOOD C A N BE THE C AUSE OF EV IL?

We proceed thus to the First Article:— Objection 1. It would seem that good cannot be the cause of evil. For it is said (Matth. vii 18): A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit. Obj. 2. Further, one contrary cannot be the cause of another. But evil is the contrary to good. Therefore good cannot be the cause of evil. From Summa Theologica, Part I, Question 49, Articles 1–3. Trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province, Christian Classics, Westminster, MD.

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No Evil Comes from God 43

Obj. 3. Further, a deficient effect can proceed only from a deficient cause. But evil is a deficient effect. Therefore its cause, if it has one, is deficient. But everything deficient is an evil. Therefore the cause of evil can only be evil. Obj. 4. Further, Dionysius says (Div. Nom. iv) that evil has no cause. Therefore good is not the cause of evil. On the contrary, Augustine says (Contra Julian. i. 9): There is no possible source of evil except good. I answer that, It must be said that every evil in some way has a cause. For evil is the absence of the good, which is natural and due to a thing. But that anything fail from its natural and due disposition, can come only from some cause drawing it out of its proper disposition. For a heavy thing is not moved upwards except by some impelling force; nor does an agent fail in its action except from some impediment. But only good can be a cause; because nothing can be a cause except inasmuch as it is a being, and every being, as such, is good. And if we consider the special kinds of causes, we see that the agent, the form, and the end, import some kind of perfection which belongs to the notion of good. Even matter, as a potentiality to good, has the nature of good. Now that good is the cause of evil by way of the material cause was shown above (Q. 48, A. 3). For it was shown that good is the subject of evil. But evil has no formal cause, rather it is a privation of form; likewise, neither has it a final cause, but rather it is a privation of order to the proper end; since not only the end has the nature of good, but also the useful, which is ordered to the end. Evil, however, has a cause by way of an agent, not directly, but accidentally. In proof of this, we must know that evil is caused in the action otherwise than in the effect. In the action evil is caused by reason of the defect of some principle of action, either of the principal or the instrumental agent; thus the defect in the movement of an animal may happen by reason of the weakness of the motive power, as in the case of children, or by reason only of the ineptitude of the instrument, as in the lame. On the other hand, evil is caused in a thing, but not in the proper effect of the agent, sometimes by the power of the agent, sometimes by reason of a defect, either of the agent or of the matter. It is caused by reason of the power or perfection of the agent when there necessarily follows on the form intended by the agent the

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privation of another form; as, for instance, when on the form of fire there follows the privation of the form of air or of water. Therefore, as the more perfect the fire is in strength, so much the more perfectly does it impress its own form, so also the more perfectly does it corrupt the contrary. Hence that evil and corruption befall air and water comes from the perfection of the fire: but this is accidental; because fire does not aim at the privation of the form of water, but at the bringing in of its own form, though by doing this it also accidentally causes the other. But if there is a defect in the proper effect of the fire—as, for instance, that it fails to heat—this comes either by defect of the action, which implies the defect of some principle, as was said above, or by the indisposition of the matter, which does not receive the action of fire, the agent. But this very fact that it is a deficient being is accidental to good to which of itself it belongs to act. Hence it is true that evil in no way has any but an accidental cause: and thus is good the cause of evil. Reply Obj. 1. As Augustine says (Contra Julian. i): The Lord calls an evil will the evil tree, and a good will a good tree. Now, a good will does not produce a morally bad act, since it is from the good will itself that a moral act is judged to be good. Nevertheless, the movement itself of an evil will is caused by the rational creature, which is good; and thus good is the cause of evil. Reply Obj. 2. Good does not cause that evil which is contrary to itself, but some other evil: thus the goodness of the fire causes evil to the water, and man, good as to his nature, causes an act morally evil. And, as explained above (Q. 19, A. 9), this is by accident. Moreover it does happen sometimes that one contrary causes another by accident: for instance, the exterior surrounding cold heats (the body) through the concentration of the inward heat. Reply Obj. 3. Evil has a deficient cause in voluntary things otherwise than in natural things. For the natural agent produces the same kind of effect as it is itself, unless it is impeded by some exterior thing, and this amounts to some defect belonging to it. Hence evil never follows in the effect, unless some other evil pre-exists in the agent or in the matter, as was said above. But in voluntary things the defect of the action comes from the will actually deficient, inasmuch as it does not actually subject itself to its proper rule. This defect, however, is not a fault, but fault follows upon it from the fact that the will acts with this defect. Reply Obj. 4. Evil has no direct cause, but only an accidental cause, as was said above.

No Evil Comes from God 45 SECOND A RTICLE W HETHER THE SUPR EME GOOD, GOD, IS THE C AUSE OF EV IL?

We proceed thus to the Second Article:— Objection 1. It would seem that the supreme good, God, is the cause of evil. For it is said (Isa. xlv. 5, 7): I am the Lord, and there is no other God, forming the light, and creating darkness, making peace, and creating evil. And (Amos iii. 6), Shall there be evil in a city, which the Lord hath not done? Obj. 2. Further, the effect of the secondary cause is reduced to the first cause. But good is the cause of evil, as was said above (A. 1). Therefore, since God is the cause of every good, as was shown above (Q. 2, A. 3; Q. 6, AA. 1, 4), it follows that also every evil is from God. Obj. 3. Further, as is said by the Philosopher (Phys. ii, text. 30), the cause of born safety and danger of the ship is the same. But God is the cause of the safety of all things. Therefore He is the cause of all perdition and of all evil. On the contrary, Augustine says (QQ. 83, qu. 21), that, God is not the author of evil because He is not the cause of tending to not-being. I answer that, As appears from what was said (A. 1), the evil which consists in the defect of action is always caused by the defect of the agent. But in God there is no defect, but the highest perfection, as was shown above (Q. 4, A. 1). Hence, the evil which consists in defect of action, or which is caused by defect of the agent, is not reduced to God as to its cause. But the evil which consists in the corruption of some things is reduced to God as the cause. And this appears as regards both natural things and voluntary things. For it was said (A. 1) that some agent inasmuch as it produces by its power a form to which follows corruption and defect, causes by its power that corruption and defect. But it is manifest that the form which God chiefly intends in things created is the good of the order of the universe. Now, the order of the universe requires, as was said above (Q. 22, A. 2 ad 2; Q. 48, A. 2), that there should be some things that can, and do sometimes, fail. And thus God, by causing in things the good of the order of the universe, consequently and as it were by accident, causes the corruptions of things, according to 1 Kings ii. 6: The Lord killeth and maketh alive. But when we read that God hath not made death (Wis. i. 13), the sense is that God does not will death for its own sake. Nevertheless the order of justice

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belongs to the order of the universe; and this requires that penalty should be dealt out to sinners. And so God is the author of the evil which is penalty, but not of the evil which is fault, by reason of what is said above. Reply Obj. 1. These passages refer to the evil of penalty, and not to the evil of fault. Reply Obj. 2. The effect of the deficient secondary cause is reduced to the first non-deficient cause as regards what it has of being and perfection, but not as regards what it has of defect; just as whatever there is of motion in the act of limping is caused by the motive power, whereas what there is of obliqueness in it does not come from the motive power, but from the curvature of the leg. And, likewise, whatever there is of being and action in a bad action, is reduced to God as the cause; whereas whatever defect is in it is not caused by God, but by the deficient secondary cause. Reply Obj. 3. The sinking of a ship is attributed to the sailor as the cause, from the fact that he does not fulfil what the safety of the ship requires; but God does not fail in doing what is necessary for the safety of all. Hence there is no parity.

THIR D A RTICLE W HETHER THER E BE ONE SUPR EME EV IL W HICH IS THE C AUSE OF EV ERY EV IL?

We proceed thus to the Third Article:— Objection 1. It would seem that there is one supreme evil which is the cause of every evil. For contrary effects have contrary causes. But contrariety is found in things, according to Ecclus. xxxiii. 15: Good is set against evil, and life against death; so also is the sinner against a just man. Therefore there are many contrary principles, one of good, the other of evil. Obj. 2. Further, if one contrary is in nature, so is the other. But the supreme good is in nature, and is the cause of every good, as was shown above (Q. 2, A. 3; Q. 6, AA. 2, 4). Therefore, also, there is a supreme evil opposed to it as the cause of every evil. Obj. 3. Further, as we find good and better things, so we find evil and worse. But good and better are so considered in relation to what is best. Therefore evil and worse are so considered in relation to some supreme evil.

No Evil Comes from God 47

Obj. 4. Further, everything participated is reduced to what is essential. But things which are evil among us are evil not essentially, but by participation. Therefore we must seek for some supreme essential evil, which is the cause of every evil. Obj. 5. Further, whatever is accidental is reduced to that which is per se. But good is the accidental cause of evil. Therefore, we must suppose some supreme evil which is the per se cause of evils. Nor can it be said that evil has no per se cause, but only an accidental cause; for it would then follow that evil would not exist in the many, but only in the few. Obj. 6. Further, the evil of the effect is reduced to the evil of the cause; because the deficient effect comes from the deficient cause, as was said above (AA. 1, 2). But we cannot proceed to infinity in this matter. Therefore, we must suppose one first evil as the cause of every evil. On the contrary, The supreme good is the cause of every being, as was shown above (Q. 2, A. 3; Q. 6, A. 4). Therefore there cannot be any principle opposed to it as the cause of evils. I answer that, It appears from what precedes that there is no one first principle of evil, as there is one first principle of good. First, indeed, because the first principle of good is essentially good, as was shown above (Q. 6, AA. 3, 4). But nothing can be essentially bad. For it was shown above that every being, as such, is good (Q. 5, A. 3); and that evil can exist only in good as in its subject (Q. 48; A. 3). Secondly, because the first principle of good is the highest and perfect good which pre-contains in itself all goodness, as shown above (Q. 6, A. 2). But there cannot be a supreme evil; because, as was shown above (Q. 48, A. 4), although evil always lessens good, yet it never wholly consumes it; and thus, while good ever remains, nothing can be wholly and perfectly bad. Therefore, the Philosopher says (Ethic. iv. 5) that if the wholly evil could be, it would destroy itself; because all good being destroyed (which it need be for something to be wholly evil), evil itself would be taken away, since its subject is good. Thirdly, because the very nature of evil is against the idea of a first principle; both because every evil is caused by good, as was shown above (A. 1), and because evil can be only an accidental cause, and thus it cannot be the first cause, for the accidental cause is subsequent to the direct cause. Those, however, who upheld two first principles, one good and the other evil, fell into this error from the same cause, whence also arose other

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strange notions of the ancients; namely, because they failed to consider the universal cause of all being, and considered only the particular causes of particular effects. For on that account, if they found a thing hurtful to something by the power of its own nature, they thought that the very nature of that thing was evil; as, for instance, if one should say that the nature of fire was evil because it burnt the house of a poor man. The judgment, however, of the goodness of anything does not depend upon its order to any particular thing, but rather upon what it is in itself, and on its order to the whole universe, wherein every part has its own perfectly ordered place, as was said above (Q. 47, A. 2 ad 1). Likewise, because they found two contrary particular causes of two contrary particular effects, they did not know how to reduce these contrary particular causes to the universal common cause; and therefore they extended the contrariety of causes even to the first principles. But since all contrarieties agree in something common, it is necessary to search for one common cause for them above their own contrary proper causes; as above the contrary qualities of the elements exists the power of a heavenly body; and above all things that exist, no matter how, there exists one first principle of being, as was shown above (Q. 2, A. 3). Reply Obj. 1. Contraries agree in one genus, and they also agree in the nature of being; and therefore, although they have contrary particular causes, nevertheless we must come at last to one first common cause. Reply Obj. 2. Privation and habit belong naturally to the same subject. Now the subject of privation is a being in potentiality, as was said above (Q. 48, A. 3). Hence, since evil is privation of good, as appears from what was said above (ibid., AA. 1, 2, 3), it is opposed to that good which has some potentiality, but not to the supreme good, who is pure act. Reply Obj. 3. Increase in intensity is in proportion to the nature of a thing. And as the form is a perfection, so privation removes a perfection. Hence every form, perfection, and good is intensified by approach to the perfect term; but privation and evil by receding from that term. Hence a thing is not said to be evil and worse, by reason of access to the supreme evil, in the same way as it is said to be good and better, by reason of access to the supreme good. Reply Obj. 4. No being is called evil by participation, but by privation of participation. Hence it is not necessary to reduce it to any essential evil.

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Reply Obj. 5. Evil can only have an accidental cause, as was shown above (A. 1). Hence reduction to any per se cause of evil is impossible. And to say that evil is in the greater number is simply false. For things which are generated and corrupted, in which alone can there be natural evil, are the smaller part of the whole universe. And again, in every species the defect of nature is in the smaller number. In man alone does evil appear as in the greater number; because the good of man as regards the senses is not the good of man as man—that is, in regard to reason; and more men seek good in regard to the senses than good according to reason. Reply Obj. 6. In the causes of evil we do not proceed to infinity, but reduce all evils to some good cause, whence evil follows accidentally.

C H A P T E R

5

Best of All Possible Worlds G OT T F R I E D L E I B N I Z

GOD WOU LD CHOOSE THE BEST WOR LD

I. Objection. Whoever does not choose the best is lacking in power, or in knowledge, or in goodness. God did not choose the best in creating this world. Therefore, God has been lacking in power, or in knowledge, or in goodness. Answer. I deny the minor, that is, the second premise of this syllogism; and our opponent proves it by this. Prosyllogism. Whoever makes things in which there is evil, which could have been made without any evil, or the making of which could have been omitted, does not choose the best. God has made a world in which there is evil; a world, I say, which could have been made without any evil, or the making of which could have been omitted altogether. Therefore, God has not chosen the best. From Gottfried Leibniz, The Theodicy, in The Philosophical Works of Leibniz, trans. George Duncan (New Haven, CT: Tuttle, Morehouse, & Taylor, 1890).

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Answer. I grant the minor of this prosyllogism; for it must be confessed that there is evil in this world which God has made, and that it was possible to make a world without evil, or even not to create a world at all, for its creation has depended on the free will of God; but I deny the major, that is, the first of the two premises of the prosyllogism, and I might content myself with simply demanding its proof; but in order to make the matter clearer, I have wished to justify this denial by showing that the best plan is not always that which seeks to avoid evil, since it may happen that the evil is accompanied by a greater good. For example, a general of an army will prefer a great victory with a slight wound to a condition without wound and without victory. We have proved this more fully in the large work by making it clear, by instances taken from mathematics and elsewhere, that an imperfection in the part may be required for a greater perfection in the whole. In this I have followed the opinion of St. Augustine, who has said a hundred times, that God has permitted evil in order to bring about good, that is, a greater good; and that of Thomas Aquinas (in libr. II. sent. dist. 32, qu. I, art. 1), that the permitting of evil tends to the good of the universe. I have shown that the ancients called Adam’s fall felix culpa, a happy sin, because it had been retrieved with immense advantage by the incarnation of the Son of God, who has given to the universe something nobler than anything that ever would have been among creatures except for it. For the sake of a clearer understanding, I have added, following many good authors, that it was in accordance with order and the general good that God allowed to certain creatures the opportunity of exercising their liberty, even when he foresaw that they would turn to evil, but which he could so well rectify; because it was not fitting that, in order to hinder sin, God should always act in an extraordinary manner. To overthrow this objection, therefore, it is sufficient to show that a world with evil might be better than a world without evil; but I have gone even farther, in the work, and have even proved that this universe must be in reality better than every other possible universe. . . .

FOR EK NOW LEDGE IS COMPATIBLE W ITH HUM A N FR EEDOM

III. Objection. If it is always impossible not to sin, it is always unjust to punish. Now, it is always impossible not to sin; or, in other words, every sin is necessary.

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Therefore, it is always unjust to punish. The minor of this is proved thus: 1. Prosyllogism. All that is predetermined is necessary. Every event is predetermined. Therefore, every event (and consequently sin also) is necessary. Again this second minor is proved thus: 2. Prosyllogism. That which is future, that which is foreseen, that which is involved in the causes, is predetermined. Every event is such. Therefore, every event is predetermined. Answer. I admit in a certain sense the conclusion of the second prosyllogism, which is the minor of the first; but I shall deny the major of the first prosyllogism, namely, that every thing predetermined is necessary; understanding by the necessity of sinning, for example, or by the impossibility of not sinning, or of not performing any action, the necessity with which we are here concerned, that is, that which is essential and absolute, and which destroys the morality of an action and the justice of punishments. For if anyone understood another necessity or impossibility, namely, a necessity which should be only moral, or which was only hypothetical (as will be explained shortly); it is clear that I should deny the major of the objection itself. I might content myself with this answer and demand the proof of the proposition denied; but I have again desired to explain my procedure in this work, in order to better elucidate the matter and to throw more light on the whole subject, by explaining the necessity which ought to be rejected and the determination which must take place. That necessity which is contrary to morality and which ought to be rejected, and which would render punishment unjust, is an insurmountable necessity which would make all opposition useless, even if we should wish with all our heart to avoid the necessary action, and should make all possible efforts to that end. Now, it is manifest that this is not applicable to voluntary actions, because we would not perform them if we did not choose to. Also their prevision and predetermination are not absolute, but presuppose the will: if it is certain that we shall perform them, it is not less certain that we shall choose to perform them. These voluntary actions and their consequences will not take place no matter what we do or whether we wish them or not; but, through that which we shall do and through that which we shall wish to do, which leads to them. And this is involved in prevision and in predetermination, and even constitutes their ground. And the

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necessity of such an event is called conditional or hypothetical, or the necessity of consequence, because it supposes the will, and the other requisites; whereas the necessity which destroys morality and renders punishment unjust and reward useless, exists in things which will be whatever we may do or whatever we may wish to do, and, in a word, is in that which is essential; and this is what is called an absolute necessity. Thus it is to no purpose, as regards what is absolutely necessary, to make prohibitions or commands, to propose penalties or prizes, to praise or to blame; it will be none the less. On the other hand, in voluntary actions and in that which depends upon them, precepts armed with power to punish and to recompense are very often of use and are included in the order of causes which make an action exist. And it is for this reason that not only cares and labors but also prayers are useful; God having had these prayers in view before he regulated things and having had that consideration for them which was proper. This is why the precept which says ora et labora (pray and work), holds altogether good; and not only those who (under the vain pretext of the necessity of events) pretend that the care which business demands may be neglected, but also those who reason against prayer, fall into what the ancients even then called the lazy sophism. Thus the predetermination of events by causes is just what contributes to morality instead of destroying it, and causes incline the will, without compelling it. This is why the determination in question is not a necessitation—it is certain (to him who knows all) that the effect will follow this inclination; but this effect does not follow by a necessary consequence, that is, one the contrary of which implies contradiction. It is also by an internal inclination such as this that the will is determined, without there being any necessity. Suppose that one has the greatest passion in the world (a great thirst, for example), you will admit to me that the soul can find some reason for resisting it, if it were only that of showing its power. Thus, although one may never be in a perfect indifference of equilibrium and there may be always a preponderance of inclination for the side taken, it, nevertheless, never renders the resolution taken absolutely necessary.

GOD W ILLS PER FECTION BU T PER MITS SIN

IV. Objection. Whoever can prevent the sin of another and does not do so, but rather contributes to it although he is well informed of it, is accessory to it.

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God can prevent the sin of intelligent creatures; but he does not do so, and rather contributes to it by his concurrence and by the opportunities which he brings about, although he has a perfect knowledge of it. Hence, etc. Answer. I deny the major of this syllogism. For it is possible that one could prevent sin, but ought not, because he could not do it without himself committing a sin, or (when God is in question) without performing an unreasonable action. Examples have been given and the application to God himself has been made. It is possible also that we contribute to evil and that sometimes we even open the road to it, in doing things which we are obliged to do; and, when we do our duty or (in speaking of God) when, after thorough consideration, we do that which reason demands, we are not responsible for the results, even when we foresee them. We do not desire these evils; but we are willing to permit them for the sake of a greater good which we cannot reasonably help preferring to other considerations. And this is a consequent will, which results from antecedent wills by which we will the good. I know that some persons, in speaking of the antecedent and consequent will of God, have understood by the antecedent that which wills that all men should be saved; and by the consequent, that which wills, in consequence of persistent sin, that some should be damned. But these are merely illustrations of a more general idea, and it may be said for the same reason that God, by his antecedent will, wills that men should not sin; and by his consequent or final and decreeing will (that which is always followed by its effect), he wills to permit them to sin, this permission being the result of superior reasons. And we have the right to say in general that the antecedent will of God tends to the production of good and the prevention of evil, each taken in itself and as if alone (particulariter et secundum quid, Thom. I, qu. 19, art. 6), according to the measure of the degree of each good and each evil; but that the divine consequent or final or total will tends toward the production of as many goods as may be put together, the combination of which becomes in this way determined, and includes also the permission of some evils and the exclusion of some goods, as the best possible plan for the universe demands. Arminius, in his Antiperkinsus, has very well explained that the will of God may be called consequent, not only in relation to the action of the creature considered beforehand in the divine understanding, but also in relation to other anterior divine acts of will. But this considera-

Best of All Possible Worlds 55

tion of the passage cited from Thomas Aquinas, and that from Scotus (I. dist. 46, qu. XI), is enough to show that they make this distinction as I have done here. Nevertheless, if anyone objects to this use of terms let him substitute deliberating will, in place of antecedent, and final or decreeing will, in place of consequent. For I do not wish to dispute over words.

GOD DOES NOT C AUSE SIN

V. Objection. Whoever produces all that is real in a thing, is its cause. God produces all that is real in sin. Hence, God is the cause of sin. Answer. I might content myself with denying the major or the minor, since the term real admits of interpretations which would render these propositions false. But in order to explain more clearly, I will make a distinction. Real signifies either that which is positive only, or, it includes also privative beings: in the first case, I deny the major and admit the minor; in the second case, I do the contrary. I might have limited myself to this, but I have chosen to proceed still farther and give the reason for this distinction. I have been very glad therefore to draw attention to the fact that every reality purely positive or absolute is a perfection; and that imperfection comes from limitation, that is, from the privative: for to limit is to refuse progress, or the greatest possible progress. Now God is the cause of all perfections and consequently of all realities considered as purely positive. But limitations or privations result from the original imperfection of creatures, which limits their receptivity. And it is with them as with a loaded vessel, which the river causes to move more or less slowly according to the weight which it carries: thus its speed depends upon the river, but the retardation which limits this speed comes from the load. Thus in the Theodicy, we have shown how the creature, in causing sin, is a defective cause; how errors and evil inclinations are born of privation; and how privation is accidentally efficient; and I have justified the opinion of St. Augustine (lib. I, ad Simpl. qu. 2) who explains, for example, how God makes the soul obdurate, not by giving it something evil, but because the effect of his good impression is limited by the soul’s resistance and by the circumstances which contribute to this resistance, so that he does not give it all the good which would overcome its evil.

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Nec (inquit) ab illo erogatur aliquid quo homo fit deterior, sed tantum quo fit melior non erogatur. But if God had wished to do more, he would have had to make either other natures for creatures or other miracles to change their natures, things which the best plan could not admit. It is as if the current of the river must be more rapid than its fall admitted or that the boats should be loaded more lightly, if it were necessary to make them move more quickly. And the original limitation or imperfection of creatures requires that even the best plan of the universe could not receive more good, and could not be exempt from certain evils, which, however, are to result in a greater good. There are certain disorders in the parts which marvelously enhance the beauty of the whole; just as certain dissonances, when properly used, render harmony more beautiful. But this depends on what has already been said in answer to the first objection.

GOD IS NOT CU LPA BLE FOR NOT PR EV ENTING SIN

VII. Objection. Whoever gives only to some, and not to all, the means which produces in them effectively a good will and salutary final faith, has not sufficient goodness. God does this. Hence, etc. Answer. I deny the major of this. It is true that God could overcome the greatest resistance of the human heart; and does it, too, sometimes, either by internal grace, or by external circumstances which have a great effect on souls; but he does not always do this. Whence comes this distinction? it may be asked, and why does his goodness seem limited? It is because, as I have already said in answering the first objection, it would not have been in order always to act in an extraordinary manner, and to reverse the connection of things. The reasons of this connection, by means of which one is placed in more favorable circumstances than another, are hidden in the depths of the wisdom of God; they depend upon the universal harmony. The best plan of the universe, which God could not fail to choose, made it so. We judge from the event itself; since God has made it, it was not possible to do better. Far from being true that this conduct is contrary to goodness, it is supreme goodness which led him to it. This objection with its solution

Best of All Possible Worlds 57

might have been drawn from what was said in regard to the first objection; but it seemed useful to touch upon it separately.

GOD FR EELY CHOOSES THE BEST WOR LD

VIII. Objection. Whoever cannot fail to choose the best, is not free. God cannot fail to choose the best. Hence, God is not free. Answer. I deny the major of this argument; it is rather true liberty, and the most perfect, to be able to use one’s free will for the best, and to always exercise this power, without ever being turned aside either by external force or by internal passions, the first of which causes slavery of the body, the second, slavery of the soul. There is nothing less servile, and nothing more in accordance with the highest degree of freedom, than to be always led toward the good, and always by one’s own inclination, without any constraint and without any displeasure. And to object therefore that God had need of external things, is only a sophism. He created them freely; but having proposed to himself an end, which is to exercise his goodness, wisdom has determined him to choose the means best fitted to attain this end. To call this a need, is to take that term in an unusual sense which frees it from all imperfection, just as when we speak of the wrath of God. Seneca has somewhere said that God commanded but once but that he obeys always, because he obeys laws which he willed to prescribe to himself: semel jussit, semper paret. But he might better have said that God always commands and that he is always obeyed; for in willing, he always follows the inclination of his own nature, and all other things always follow his will. And as this will is always the same, it cannot be said that he obeys only that will which he formerly had. Nevertheless, although his will is always infallible and always tends toward the best, the evil, or the lesser good, which he rejects, does not cease to be possible in itself; otherwise the necessity of the good would be geometrical (so to speak), or metaphysical, and altogether absolute; the contingency of things would be destroyed, and there would be no choice. But this sort of necessity, which does not destroy the possibility of the contrary, has this name only by analogy; it becomes effective, not by the pure essence of things, but by that which is outside of

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them, above them, namely, by the will of God. This necessity is called moral, because, to the sage, necessity and what ought to be are equivalent things; and when it always has its effect, as it really has in the perfect sage, that is, in God, it may be said that it is a happy necessity. The nearer creatures approach to it, the nearer they approach to perfect happiness. Also this kind of necessity is not that which we try to avoid and which destroys morality, rewards, and praise. For that which it brings, does not happen whatever we may do or will, but because we will it so. And a will to which it is natural to choose well, merits praise so much the more; also it carries its reward with it, which is sovereign happiness. And as this constitution of the divine nature gives entire satisfaction to him who possesses it, it is also the best and the most desirable for the creatures who are all dependent on God. If the will of God did not have for a rule the principle of the best, it would either tend toward evil, which would be the worst; or it would be in some way indifferent to good and to evil, and would be guided by chance: but a will which would allow itself always to act by chance, would not be worth more for the government of the universe than the fortuitous concourse of atoms, without there being any divinity therein. And even if God should abandon himself to chance only in some cases and in a certain way (as he would do, if he did not always work entirely for the best and if he were capable of preferring a lesser work to a greater, that is, an evil to a good, since that which prevents a greater good is an evil), he would be imperfect, as well as the object of his choice; he would not merit entire confidence; he would act without reason in such a case, and the government of the universe would be like certain games, equally divided between reason and chance. All this proves that this objection which is made against the choice of the best, perverts the notions of the free and of the necessary, and represents to us the best even as evil: which is either malicious or ridiculous.

C H A P T E R

6

Evil Makes Belief in God Unreasonable D AV I D H U M E

PA RT X

It is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man feels, in a manner, the truth of religion within his own breast, and, from a consciousness of his imbecility and misery rather than from any reasoning, is led to seek protection from that Being on whom he and all nature is dependent. So anxious or so tedious are even the best scenes of life that futurity is still the object of all our hopes and fears. We incessantly look forward and endeavor, by prayers, adoration, and sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers whom we find, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. Wretched creatures that we are! What resource for us amidst the innumerable ills of life, did not religion suggest some methods of atonement, and appease those terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and tormented? I am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best and indeed the only method of bringing everyone to a due sense of religion is by just representaFrom David Hume, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, parts X and XI.

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tions of the misery and wickedness of men. And for that purpose a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more requisite than that of reasoning and argument. For is it necessary to prove what everyone feels within himself ? It is only necessary to make us feel it, if possible, more intimately and sensibly. The people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently convinced of this great and melancholy truth. The miseries of life, the unhappiness of man, the general corruptions of our nature, the unsatisfactory enjoyment of pleasures, riches, honors—these phrases have become almost proverbial in all languages. And who can doubt of what all men declare from their own immediate feeling and experience? In this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly agreed with the vulgar; and in all letters, sacred and profane, the topic of human misery has been insisted on with the most pathetic eloquence that sorrow and melancholy could inspire. The poets, who speak from sentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has therefore the more authority, abound in images of this nature. From Homer down to Dr. Young, the whole inspired tribe have ever been sensible that no other representation of things would suit the feeling and observation of each individual. As to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek them. Look round this library of Cleanthes. I shall venture to affirm that, except authors of particular sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have no occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of those innumerable writers from whom the sense of human misery has not, in some passage or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. At least, the chance is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever, so far as I can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it. There you must excuse me, said Philo: Leibniz has denied it, and is perhaps the first who ventured upon so bold and paradoxical an opinion; at least; the first who made it essential to his philosophical system. And by being the first, replied Demea, might he not have been sensible of his error? For is this a subject in which philosophers can propose to make discoveries especially in so late an age? And can any man hope by a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning) to bear down the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and consciousness? And why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption from the lot of all other animals? The whole earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and pol-

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luted. A perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures. Necessity, hunger, want stimulate the strong and courageous; fear, anxiety, terror agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into life gives anguish to the newborn infant and to its wretched parent; weakness, impotence, distress attend each stage of that life, and it is, at last, finished in agony and horror. Observe, too, says Philo, the curious artifices of nature in order to embitter the life of every living being. The stronger prey upon the weaker and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety. The weaker, too, in their turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest them without relaxation. Consider that innumerable race of insects, which either are bred on the body of each animal or, flying about, infix their stings in him. These insects have others still less than themselves which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and behind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with enemies which incessantly seek his misery and destruction. Man alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an exception to this rule. For by combination in society he can easily master lions, tigers, and bears, whose greater strength and agility naturally enable them to prey upon him. On the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that the uniform and equal maxims of nature are most apparent. Man, it is true, can, by combination, surmount all his real enemies and become master of the whole animal creation; but does he not immediately raise up to himself imaginary enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him with superstitious terrors and blast every enjoyment of life? His pleasure, as he imagines, becomes in their eyes a crime; his food and repose give them umbrage and offense; his very sleep and dreams furnish new materials to anxious fear; and even death, his refuge from every other ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes. Nor does the wolf molest more the timid flock than superstition does the anxious breast of wretched mortals. Besides, consider, Demea: This very society by which we surmount those wild beasts, our natural enemies, what new enemies does it not raise to us? What woe and misery does it not occasion? Man is the greatest enemy of man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, war, calumny, treachery, fraud—by these they mutually torment each other, and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed were it not for the dread of still greater ills which must attend their separation.

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But though these external insults, said Demea, from animals, from men, from all the elements, which assault us form a frightful catalog of woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within ourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body. How many lie under the lingering torment of diseases? Hear the pathetic enumeration of the great poet. Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs, Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence. Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: Despair Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch. And over them triumphant Death his dart Shook: but delay’d to strike, though oft invok’d With vows, as their chief good and final hope.

The disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though more secret, are not perhaps less dismal and vexatious. Remorse, shame, anguish, rage, disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair—who has ever passed through life without cruel inroads from these tormentors? How many have scarcely ever felt any better sensations? Labor and poverty, so abhorred by everyone, are the certain lot of the far greater number; and those few privileged persons who enjoy ease and opulence never reach contentment or true felicity. All the goods of life united would not make a very happy man, but all the ills united would make a wretch indeed; and any one of them almost (and who can be free from every one?), nay, often the absence of one good (and who can possess all?) is sufficient to render life ineligible. Were a stranger to drop on a sudden into this world, I would show him, as a specimen of its ills, a hospital full of diseases, a prison crowded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle strewed with carcases, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under tyranny, famine, or pestilence. To turn the gay side of life to him and give him a notion of its pleasures—whither should I conduct him? To a ball, to an opera, to court? He might justly think that I was only showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow.

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There is no evading such striking instances, said Philo, but by apologies which still further aggravate the charge. Why have all men, I ask, in all ages, complained incessantly of the miseries of life? . . . They have no just reason, says one: these complaints proceed only from their discontented, repining, anxious disposition. . . . And can there possibly, I reply, be a more certain foundation of misery than such a wretched temper? But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my antagonist, why do they remain in life? . . . Not satisfied with life, afraid of death—this is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terrified, not bribed to the continuance of our existence. It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few refined spirits indulge, and which has spread these complaints among the whole race of mankind. . . . And what is this delicacy, I ask, which you blame? Is it anything but a greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains of life? And if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much more alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy, what judgment must we form in general of human life? Let men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be easy. They are willing artificers of their own misery. . . . No! reply I: an anxious languor follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble, their activity and ambition. I can observe something like what you mention in some others, replied Cleanthes, but I confess I feel little or nothing of it in myself, and hope that it is not so common as you represent it. If you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea, I congratulate you on so happy a singularity. Others, seemingly the most prosperous, have not been ashamed to vent their complaints in the most melancholy strains. Let us attend to the great, the fortunate emperor, Charles V, when, tired with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive dominions into the hands of his son. In the last harangue which he made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed that the greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been mixed with so many adversities that he might truly say he had never enjoyed any satisfaction or contentment. But did the retired life in which he sought for shelter afford him any greater happiness? If we may credit his son’s account, his repentance commenced the very day of his resignation. Cicero’s fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the greatest luster and renown; yet what pathetic complaints of the ills of life do his familiar letters,

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as well as philosophical discourses, contain. And suitably to his own experience, he introduces Cato, the great, the fortunate Cato protesting in his old age that had he a new life in his offer he would reject the present. Ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they would live over again the last ten or twenty years of their life. No! but the next twenty, they say, will be better: And from the dregs of life, hope to receive What the first sprightly running could not give.

Thus, at last, they find (such is the greatness of human misery, it reconciles even contradictions) that they complain at once of the shortness of life and of its vanity and sorrow. And is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after all these reflections, and infinitely more which might be suggested, you can still persevere in your anthropomorphism, and assert the moral attributes of the Deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and rectitude, to be of the same nature with these virtues in human creatures? His power, we allow, is infinite; whatever he wills is executed; but neither man nor any other animal is happy; therefore, he does not will their happiness. His wisdom is infinite; he is never mistaken in choosing the means to any end; but the course of nature tends not to human or animal felicity; therefore, it is not established for that purpose. Through the whole compass of human knowledge there are no inferences more certain and infallible than these. In what respect, then, do his benevolence and mercy resemble the benevolence and mercy of men? Epicurus’ old questions are yet unanswered. Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then he is impotent. Is he able, but not willing? then is he malevolent. Is he both able and willing? whence then is evil? You ascribe, Cleanthes, (and I believe justly) a purpose and intention to nature. But what, I beseech you, is the object of that curious artifice and machinery which she has displayed in all animals—the preservation alone of individuals, and propagation of the species? It seems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be barely upheld in the universe, without any care or concern for the happiness of the members that compose it. No resource for this purpose: no machinery in order merely to give pleasure or ease; no fund

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of pure joy and contentment; no indulgence without some want or necessity accompanying it. At least, the few phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite phenomena of still greater importance. Our sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of all kinds, gives satisfaction, without being absolutely necessary to the preservation and propagation of the species. But what racking pains, on the other hand, arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheumatisms, where the injury to the animal machinery is either small or incurable? Mirth, laughter, play, frolic seem gratuitous satisfactions which have no further tendency; spleen, melancholy, discontent, superstition are pains of the same nature. How then does the Divine benevolence display itself, in the sense of you anthropomorphites? None but we mystics, as you were pleased to call us, can account for this strange mixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes infinitely perfect but incomprehensible. And have you, at last, said Cleanthes smiling, betrayed your intentions, Philo? Your long agreement with Demea did indeed a little surprise me, but I find you were all the while erecting a concealed battery against me. And I must confess that you have now fallen upon a subject worthy of your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. If you can make out the present point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted, there is an end at once of all religion. For to what purpose establish the natural attributes of the Deity, while the moral are still doubtful and uncertain? You take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at opinions the most innocent and the most generally received, even amongst the religious and devout themselves; and nothing can be more surprising than to find a topic like this—concerning the wickedness and misery of man—charged with no less than atheism and profaneness. Have not all pious divines and preachers who have indulged their rhetoric on so fertile a subject, have they not easily, I say, given a solution of any difficulties which may attend it? This world is but a point in comparison of the universe; this life but a moment in comparison of eternity. The present evil phenomena, therefore, are rectified in other regions, and in some future period of existence. And the eyes of men, being then opened to larger views of things, see the whole connection of general laws, and trace, with adoration, the benevolence and rectitude of the Deity through all the mazes and intricacies of his providence.

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No! replied Cleanthes, no! These arbitrary suppositions can never be admitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and uncontroverted. Whence can any cause be known but from its known effects? Whence can any hypothesis be proved but from the apparent phenomena? To establish one hypothesis upon another is building entirely in the air; and the utmost we ever attain by these conjectures and fictions is to ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion, but never can we, upon such terms, establish its reality. The only method of supporting Divine benevolence—and it is what I willingly embrace—is to deny absolutely the misery and wickedness of man. Your representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views mostly fictitious; your inferences contrary to fact and experience. Health is more common than sickness; pleasure than pain; happiness than misery. And for one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon computation, a hundred enjoyments. Admitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is extremely doubtful, you must at the same time allow that, if pain be less frequent than pleasure, it is infinitely more violent and durable. One hour of it is often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of our common insipid enjoyments; and how many days, weeks, and months are passed by several in the most acute torments? Pleasure, scarcely in one instance, is ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture; and in no one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch and altitude. The spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, the fabric is disordered, and the enjoyment quickly degenerates into fatigue and uneasiness. But pain often, good God, how often! rises to torture and agony; and the longer it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony and torture. Patience is exhausted, courage languishes, melancholy seizes us, and nothing terminates our misery but the removal of its cause or another event which is the sole cure of all evil, but which, from our natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and consternation. But not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo, though most obvious, certain, and important, I must use the freedom to admonish you, Cleanthes, that you have put the controversy upon a most dangerous issue, and are unawares introducing a total skepticism into the most essential articles of natural and revealed theology. What! no method of fixing a just foundation for religion unless we allow the happiness of human life, and maintain a continued existence even in this world, with all our present

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pains, infirmities, vexations, and follies, to be eligible and desirable! But this is contrary to everyone’s feeling and experience; it is contrary to an authority so established as nothing can subvert. No decisive proofs can ever be produced against this authority; nor is it possible for you to compute, estimate, and compare all the pains and all the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals; and thus, by your resting the whole system of religion on a point which, from its very nature, must forever be uncertain, you tacitly confess that that system is equally uncertain. But allowing you what never will be believed, at least, what you never possibly can prove, that animal or, at least, human happiness in this life exceeds its misery, you have yet done nothing; for this is not, by any means, what we expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and infinite goodness. Why is there any misery at all in the world? Not by chance, surely. From some cause then. Is it from the intention of the Deity? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it contrary to his intention? But he is almighty. Nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning, so short, so clear, so decisive, except we assert that these subjects exceed all human capacity, and that our common measures of truth and falsehood are not applicable to them—a topic which I have all along insisted on, but which you have, from the beginning, rejected with scorn and indignation. But I will be contented to retire still from this entrenchment, for I deny that you can ever force me in it. I will allow that pain or misery in man is compatible with infinite power and goodness in the Deity, even in your sense of these attributes: what are you advanced by all these concessions? A mere possible compatibility is not sufficient. You must prove these pure, unmixed, and uncontrollable attributes from the present mixed and confused phenomena, and from these alone. A hopeful undertaking! Were the phenomena ever so pure and unmixed, yet, being finite, they would be insufficient for that purpose. How much more, where they are also so jarring and discordant! Here, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argument. Here I triumph. Formerly, when we argued concerning the natural attributes of intelligence and design, I needed all my skeptical and metaphysical subtlety to elude your grasp. In many views of the universe and of its parts, particularly the latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes strike us with such irresistible force that all objections appear (what I believe they really are) mere

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cavils and sophisms; nor can we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any weight on them. But there is no view of human life or of the condition of mankind from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the moral attributes or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with infinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes of faith alone. It is your turn now to tug the laboring oar, and to support your philosophical subtleties against the dictates of plain reason and experience.

PA RT X I

I scruple not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have been apt to suspect the frequent repetition of the word infinite, which we meet with in all theological writers, to savor more of panegyric than of philosophy, and that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion, would be better served were we to rest contented with more accurate and more moderate expressions. The terms admirable, excellent, superlatively great, wise, and holy—these sufficiently fill the imaginations of men, and anything beyond, besides that it leads into absurdities, has no influence on the affections or sentiments. Thus, in the present subject, if we abandon all human analogy, as seems your intention, Demea, I am afraid we abandon all religion and retain no conception of the great object of our adoration. If we preserve human analogy, we must forever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture of evil in the universe with infinite attributes; much less can we ever prove the latter from the former. But supposing the Author of nature to be finitely perfect, though far exceeding mankind, a satisfactory account may then be given of natural and moral evil, and every untoward phenomenon be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then be chosen in order to avoid a greater; inconveniences be submitted to in order to reach a desirable end; and, in a word, benevolence, regulated by wisdom and limited by necessity, may produce just such a world as the present. You, Philo, who are so prompt at starting views and reflections and analogies, I would gladly hear, at length, without interruption, your opinion of this new theory; and if it deserve our attention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form. My sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being made a mystery of; and, therefore, without any ceremony, I shall deliver what occurs to me

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with regard to the present subject. It must, I think, be allowed that, if a very limited intelligence whom we shall suppose utterly unacquainted with the universe were assured that it were the production of a very good, wise, and powerful Being, however finite, he would, from his conjectures, form beforehand a different notion of it from what we find it to be by experience; nor would he ever imagine, merely from these attributes of the cause of which he is informed, that the effect could be so full of vice and misery and disorder, as it appears in this life. Supposing now that this person were brought into the world, still assured that it was the workmanship of such a sublime and benevolent Being, he might, perhaps, be surprised at the disappointment, but would never retract his former belief if founded on any very solid argument, since such a limited intelligence must be sensible of his own blandness and ignorance, and must allow that there may be many solutions of those phenomena which will forever escape his comprehension. But supposing, which is the real case with regard to man, that this creature is not antecedently convinced of a supreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, but is left to gather such a belief from the appearances of things—this entirely alters the case, nor will he ever find any reason for such a conclusion. He may be fully convinced of the narrow limits of his understanding, but this will not help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness of superior powers since he must form that inference from what he knows, not from what he is ignorant of. The more you exaggerate his weakness and ignorance, the more diffident you render him, and give him the greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach of his faculties. You are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely from the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposition or conjecture. Did I show you a house or palace where there was not one apartment convenient or agreeable, where the windows, doors, fires, passages, stairs, and the whole economy of the building were the source of noise, confusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and cold, you would certainly blame the contrivance, without any further examination. The architect would in vain display his subtlety, and prove to you that, if this door or that window were altered, greater ills would ensue. What he says may be strictly true: the alteration of one particular, while the other parts of the building remain, may only augment the inconveniences. But still you would assert in general that, if the architect had had skill and good intentions, he might

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have formed such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the parts in such a manner as would have remedied all or most of these inconveniences. His ignorance, or even your own ignorance of such a plan, will never convince you of the impossibility of it. If you find any inconveniences and deformities in the building, you will always, without entering into any detail, condemn the architect. In short, I repeat the question: Is the world, considered in general and as it appears to us in this life, different from what a man or such a limited being would, beforehand, expect from a very powerful, wise, and benevolent Deity? It must be strange prejudice to assert the contrary. And from thence I conclude that, however consistent the world may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures with the idea of such a Deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning his existence. The consistency is not absolutely denied, only the inference. Conjectures, especially where infinity is excluded from the Divine attributes, may perhaps be sufficient to prove a consistency, but can never be foundations for any inference. There seem to be four circumstances on which depend all or the greatest part of the ills that molest sensible creatures; and it is not impossible but all these circumstances may be necessary and unavoidable. We know so little beyond common life, or even of common life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe, there is no conjecture, however wild, which may not be just, nor any one, however plausible, which may not be erroneous. All that belongs to human understanding, in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be skeptical or at least cautious, and not to admit of any hypothesis whatever, much less of any which is supported by no appearance of probability. Now this I assert to be the case with regard to all the causes of evil and the circumstances on which it depends. None of them appear to human reason in the least degree necessary or unavoidable, nor can we suppose them such, without the utmost license of imagination. The first circumstance which introduces evil is that contrivance or economy of the animal creation by which pains, as well as pleasures, are employed to excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant in the great work of self-preservation. Now pleasure alone, in its various degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this purpose. All animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment; but when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst, hunger, weariness, instead of pain, they

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might feel a diminution of pleasure by which they might be prompted to seek that object which is necessary to their subsistence. Men pursue pleasure as eagerly as they avoid pain; at least, they might have been so constituted. It seems, therefore, plainly possible to carry on the business of life without any pain. Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of such a sensation? If animals can be free from it an hour, they might enjoy a perpetual exemption from it, and it required as particular a contrivance of their organs to produce that feeling as to endow them with sight, hearing, or any of the senses. Shall we conjecture that such a contrivance was necessary, without any appearance of reason, and shall we build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth? But a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain were it not for the second circumstance, viz., the conducting of the world by general laws; and this seems nowise necessary to a very perfect Being. It is true, if everything were conducted by particular volitions, the course of nature would be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his reason in the conduct of life. But might not other particular volitions remedy this inconvenience? In short, might not the Deity exterminate all ill, wherever it were to be found, and produce all good, without any preparation or long progress of causes and effects? Besides, we must consider that, according to the present economy of the world, the course of nature, though supposed exactly regular, yet to us appears not so, and many events are uncertain, and many disappoint our expectations. Health and sickness, calm and tempest, with an infinite number of other accidents whose causes are unknown and variable, have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular persons and on the prosperity of public societies; and indeed all human life, in a manner, depends on such accidents. A being, therefore, who knows the secret springs of the universe might easily, by particular volitions, turn all these accidents to the good of mankind and render the whole world happy, without discovering himself in any operation. A fleet whose purposes were salutary to society might always meet with a fair wind. Good princes enjoy sound health and long life. Persons born to power and authority be framed with good tempers and virtuous dispositions. A few such events as these, regularly and wisely conducted, would change the face of the world, and yet would no more seem to disturb the course of nature or confound human conduct than the present economy

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of things where the causes are secret and variable and compounded. Some small touches given to Caligula’s brain in his infancy might have converted him into a Trajan. One wave, a little higher than the rest, by burying Caesar and his fortune in the bottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable part of mankind. There may, for aught we know, be good reasons why Providence interposes not in this manner, but they are unknown to us; and, though the mere supposition that such reasons exist may be sufficient to save the conclusion concerning the Divine attributes, yet surely it can never be sufficient to establish that conclusion. If everything in the universe be conducted by general laws, and if animals be rendered susceptible of pain, it scarcely seems possible but some ill must arise in the various shocks of matter and the various concurrence and opposition of general laws; but this ill would be very rare were it not for the third circumstance which I proposed to mention, viz., the great frugality with which all powers and faculties are distributed to every particular being. So well adjusted are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well fitted to their preservation, that, as far as history or tradition reaches, there appears not to be any single species which has yet been extinguished in the universe. Every animal has the requisite endowments, but these endowments are bestowed with so scrupulous an economy that any considerable diminution must entirely destroy the creature. Wherever one power is increased, there is a proportional abatement in the others. Animals which excel in swiftness are commonly defective in force. Those which possess both are either imperfect in some of their senses or are oppressed with the most craving wants. The human species, whose chief excellence is reason and sagacity, is of all others the most necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily advantages, without clothes, without arms, without food, without lodging, without any convenience of life, except what they owe to their own skill and industry. In short, nature seems to have formed an exact calculation of the necessities of her creatures and, like a rigid master, has afforded them little more powers or endowments than what are strictly sufficient to supply those necessities. An indulgent parent would have bestowed a large stock in order to guard against accidents, and secure the happiness and welfare of the creature in the most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every course of life would not have been so surrounded with precipices that the least departure from the true path, by mistake or necessity, must involve us in misery and

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ruin. Some reserve, some fund, would have been provided to ensure happiness, nor would the powers and the necessities have been adjusted with so rigid an economy. The Author of nature is inconceivably powerful; his force is supposed great, if not altogether inexhaustible, nor is there any reason, as far as we can judge, to make him observe this strict frugality in his dealings with his creatures. It would have been better, were his power extremely limited, to have created fewer animals, and to have endowed these with more faculties for their happiness and preservation. A builder is never esteemed prudent who undertakes a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to finish. In order to cure most of the ills of human life, I require not that man should have the wings of the eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the force of the ox, the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile or rhinoceros; much less do I demand the sagacity of an angel or cherubim. I am contented to take an increase in one single power or faculty of his soul. Let him be endowed with a greater propensity to industry and labor, a more vigorous spring and activity of mind, a more constant bent to business and application. Let the whole species possess naturally an equal diligence with that which many individuals are able to attain by habit and reflection, and the most beneficial consequences, without any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary result of this endowment. Almost all the moral as well as natural evils of human life arise from idleness; and were our species, by the original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice or infirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the improvement of arts and manufactures, the exact execution of every office and duty, immediately follow; and men at once may fully reach that state of society which is so imperfectly attained by the best-regulated government. But as industry is a power, and the most valuable of any, nature seems determined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a very sparing hand, and rather to punish him severely for his deficiency in it than to reward him for his attainments. She has so contrived his frame that nothing but the most violent necessity can oblige him to labor; and she employs all his other wants to overcome, at least in part, the want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a faculty of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave him. Here our demands may be allowed very humble, and therefore the more reasonable. If we required the endowments of superior penetration and judgment, of a more delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence and friendship, we might be

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told that we impiously pretend to break the order of nature, that we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank of being, that the presents which we require, not being suitable to our state and condition, would only be pernicious to us. But it is hard, I dare to repeat it, it is hard that, being placed in a world so full of wants and necessities, where almost every being and element is either our foe or refuses its assistance . . . we should also have our own temper to struggle with, and should be deprived of that faculty which can alone fence against these multiplied evils. The fourth circumstance whence arises the misery and ill of the universe is the inaccurate workmanship of all the springs and principles of the great machine of nature. It must be acknowledged that there are few parts of the universe which seem not to serve some purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible defect and disorder in the whole. The parts hang all together, nor can one be couched without affecting the rest, in a greater or less degree. But at the same time, it must be observed that none of these parts or principles, however useful, are so accurately adjusted as to keep precisely within those bounds in which their utility consists; but they are, all of them, apt, on every occasion, to run into the one extreme or the other. One would imagine that this grand production had not received the last hand of the maker—so little finished is every part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is executed. Thus the winds are requisite to convey the vapors along the surface of the globe, and to assist men in navigation; but how often, rising up to tempests and hurricanes, do they become pernicious? Rains are necessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the earth; but how often are they defective? how often excessive? Heat is requisite to all life and vege­ tation, but is not always found in the due proportion. On the mixture and secretion of the humors and juices of the body depend the health and prosperity of the animal; but the parts perform not regularly their proper function. What more useful than all the passions of the mind, ambition, vanity, love, anger? But how often do they break their bounds and cause the greatest convulsions in society? There is nothing so advantageous in the universe but what frequently becomes pernicious, by its excess or defect; nor has nature guarded, with the requisite accuracy, against all disorder or confusion. The irregularity is never perhaps so great as to destroy any species, but is often sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery. On the concurrence, then, of these four circumstances does all or the greatest part of natural evil depend. Were all living creatures incapable of

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pain, or were the world administered by particular volitions, evil never could have found access into the universe; and were animals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties, beyond what strict necessity requires, or were the several springs and principles of the universe so accurately framed as to preserve always the just temperament and medium, there must have been very little ill in comparison with what we feel at present. What then shall we pronounce on this occasion? Shall we say that these circumstances are not necessary, and they might easily have been altered in the contrivance of the universe? This decision seems too presumptuous for creatures so blind and ignorant. Let us be more modest in our conclusions. Let us allow that, if the goodness of the Deity (I mean a goodness like the human) could be established on any tolerable reasons a priori, these phenomena however untoward, would not be sufficient to subvert that principle, but might easily, in some unknown manner, be reconcilable to it. But let us still assert that, as this goodness is not antecedently established but must be inferred from the phenomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference while there are so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might so easily have been remedied, as far as human understanding can be allowed to judge on such a subject. I am skeptic enough to allow that the bad appearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings, may be compatible with such attributes as you suppose, but surely they can never prove these attributes. Such a conclusion cannot result from skepticism, but must arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in the reasonings which we deduce from these phenomena. Look round this universe. What an immense profusion of beings, animated and organized, sensible and active! You admire this prodigious variety and fecundity. But inspect a little more narrowly these living existences, the only beings worth regarding. How hostile and destructive to each other! How insufficient all of them for their own happiness! How contemptible or odious to the spectator! The whole presents nothing but the idea of a blind nature, impregnated by a great vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, without discernment or parental care, her maimed and abortive children! Here the Manichean system occurs as a proper hypothesis to solve the difficulty; and, no doubt, in some respects it is very specious and has more probability than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible account of the strange mixture of good and ill which appears in life. But if we consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and agreement of the parts of the

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universe, we shall not discover in it any marks of the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being. There is indeed an opposition of pains and pleasures in the feelings of sensible creatures; but are not all the operations of nature carried on by an opposition of principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and heavy? The true conclusion is that the original Source of all things is entirely indifferent to all these principles, and has no more regard to good above ill than to heat above cold, or to drought above moisture, or to light above heavy. There may four hypotheses be framed concerning the first causes of the universe: that they are endowed with perfect goodness; that they have perfect malice; that they are opposite and have both goodness and malice; that they have neither goodness nor malice. Mixed phenomena can never prove the two former unmixed principles; and the uniformity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. The fourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable. What I have said concerning natural evil will apply to moral [evil] with little or no variation; and we have no more reason to infer that the rectitude of the Supreme Being resembles human rectitude than that his benevolence resembles the human. Nay, it will be thought that we have still greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as we feel them, since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more predominant above moral good than natural evil above natural good. But even though this should not be allowed, and though the virtue which is in mankind should be acknowledged much superior to the vice, yet, so long as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very much puzzle you anthropomorphites how to account for it. You must assign a cause for it, without having recourse to the first cause. But as every effect must have a cause, and that cause another, you must either carry on the progression in infinitum or rest on that original principle, who is the ultimate cause of all things. . . . Hold! hold! cried Demea: Whither does your imagination hurry you? I joined in alliance with you in order to prove the incomprehensible nature of the Divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes, who would measure everything by human rule and standard. But I now find you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and infidels, and betraying that holy cause which you seemingly espoused. Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than Cleanthes himself ?

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And are you so late in perceiving it? replied Cleanthes. Believe me, Demea, your friend Philo, from the beginning, has been amusing himself at both our expense; and it must be confessed that the injudicious reasoning of our vulgar theology has given him but too just a handle of ridicule. The total infirmity of human reason, the absolute incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and universal misery, and still greater wickedness of men—these are strange topics, surely, to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors. In ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these principles may safely be espoused; and perhaps no views of things are more proper to promote superstition than such as encourage the blind amazement, the diffidence, and melancholy of mankind. But at present . . . Blame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance of these reverend gentlemen. They know how to change their style with the times. Formerly, it was a most popular theological topic to maintain that human life was vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains which are incident to men. But of late years, divines, we find, begin to retract this position and maintain, though still with some hesitation, that there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than pains, even in this life. When religion stood entirely upon temper and education, it was thought proper to encourage melancholy, as, indeed, mankind never have recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. But as men have now learned to form principles and to draw consequences, it is necessary to change the batteries, and to make use of such arguments as will endure at least some scrutiny and examination. This variation is the same (and from the same causes) with that which I formerly remarked with regard to skepticism. Thus Philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, and his censure of established opinions. But I could observe that Demea did not at all relish the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion soon after, on some pretense or other, to leave the company.

P A R T

I I

Versions of the Problem The Logical Problem The Evidential Problem The Existential Problem

C H A P T E R

7

Evil and Omnipotence J .  L . M A C K I E

The traditional arguments for the existence of God have been fairly thoroughly criticized by philosophers. But the theologian can, if he wishes, accept this criticism. He can admit that no rational proof of God’s existence is possible. And he can still retain all that is essential to his position, by holding that God’s existence is known in some other, nonrational way. I think, however, that a more telling criticism can be made by way of the traditional problem of evil. Here it can be shown, not that religious beliefs lack rational support, but that they are positively irrational, that the several parts of the essential theological doctrine are inconsistent with one another, so that the theologian can maintain his position as a whole only by a much more extreme rejection of reason than in the former case. He must now be prepared to believe, not merely what cannot be proved, but what can be disproved from other beliefs that he also holds. The problem of evil, in the sense in which I shall be using the phrase, is a problem only for someone who believes that there is a God who is both J. L. Mackie, “Evil and Omnipotence,” Mind 64, no. 254 (1955): 200–212, by permission of Oxford University Press.

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omnipotent and wholly good. And it is a logical problem, the problem of clarifying and reconciling a number of beliefs: it is not a scientific problem that might be solved by further observations, or a practical problem that might be solved by a decision or an action. These points are obvious; I mention them only because they are sometimes ignored by theologians, who sometimes parry a statement of the problem with such remarks as “Well, can you solve the problem yourself ?” or “This is a mystery which may be revealed to us later” or “Evil is something to be faced and overcome, not to be merely discussed.” In its simplest form the problem is this: God is omnipotent; God is wholly good; and yet evil exists. There seems to be some contradiction between these three propositions, so that if any two of them were true the third would be false. But at the same time all three are essential parts of most theological positions: the theologian, it seems, at once must adhere and cannot consistently adhere to all three. (The problem does not arise only for theists, but I shall discuss it in the form in which it presents itself for ordinary theism.) However, the contradiction does not arise immediately; to show it we need some additional premises, or perhaps some quasi-logical rules connecting the terms “good,” “evil,” and “omnipotent.” These additional principles are that good is opposed to evil, in such a way that a good thing always eliminates evil as far as it can, and that there are no limits to what an omnipotent thing can do. From these it follows that a good omnipotent thing eliminates evil completely, and then the propositions that a good omnipotent thing exists, and that evil exists, are incompatible.

A DEQUATE SOLU TIONS

Now once the problem is fully stated it is clear that it can be solved, in the sense that the problem will not arise if one gives up at least one of the propositions that constitute it. If you are prepared to say that God is not wholly good, or not quite omnipotent, or that evil does not exist, or that good is not opposed to the kind of evil that exists, or that there are limits to what an omnipotent thing can do, then the problem of evil will not arise for you. There are, then, quite a number of adequate solutions of the problem of evil, and some of these have been adopted, or almost adopted, by various

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thinkers. For example, a few have been prepared to deny God’s omnipotence, and rather more have been prepared to keep the term “omnipotence” but severely to restrict its meaning, recording quite a number of things that an omnipotent being cannot do. Some have said that evil is an illusion, perhaps because they held that the whole world of temporal, changing things is an illusion, and that what we call evil belongs only to this world, or perhaps because they held that although temporal things are much as we see them, those that we call evil are not really evil. Some have said that what we call evil is merely the privation of good, that evil in a positive sense, evil that would really be opposed to good, does not exist. Many have agreed with Pope that disorder is harmony not understood, and that partial evil is universal good. Whether any of these views is true is, of course, another question. But each of them gives an adequate solution of the problems of evil in the sense that if you accept it this problem does not arise for you, though you may, of course, have other problems to face. But often enough these adequate solutions are only almost adopted. The thinkers who restrict God’s power, but keep the term “omnipotence,” may reasonably be suspected of thinking, in other contexts, that his power is really unlimited. Those who say that evil is an illusion may also be thinking, inconsistently, that this illusion is itself an evil. Those who say that “evil” is merely privation of good may also be thinking, inconsistently, that privation of good is an evil. (The fallacy here is akin to some forms of the “naturalistic fallacy” in ethics, where some think, for example, that “good” is just what contributes to evolutionary progress, and that evolutionary progress is itself good.) If Pope meant what he said in the first line of his couplet, that “disorder” is only harmony not understood, the “partial evil” of the second line must, for consistency, mean “that which, taken in isolation, falsely appears to be evil,” but it would more naturally mean “that which, in isolation, really is evil.” The second line, in fact, hesitates between two views, that “partial evil” isn’t really evil, since only the universal quality is real, and that “partial evil” is really an evil, but only a little one. In addition, therefore, to adequate solutions, we must recognize unsatisfactory inconsistent solutions, in which there is only a half-hearted or temporary rejection of one of the propositions which together constitute the problem. In these, one of the constituent propositions is explicitly rejected, but it is covertly reasserted or assumed elsewhere in the system.

84  The Logical Problem FA LL ACIOUS SOLU TIONS

Besides these half-hearted solutions, which explicitly reject but implicitly assert one of the constituent propositions, there are definitely fallacious solutions which explicitly maintain all the constituent propositions, but implicitly reject at least one of them in the course of the argument that explains away the problem of evil. There are, in fact, many so-called solutions which purport to remove the contradiction without abandoning any of its constituent propositions. These must be fallacious, as we can see from the very statement of the problem, but it is not so easy to see in each case precisely where the fallacy lies. I suggest that in all cases the fallacy has the general form suggested above: in order to solve the problem one (or perhaps more) of its constituent propositions is given up, but in such a way that it appears to have been retained, and can therefore be asserted without qualification in other contexts. Sometimes there is a further complication: the supposed solution moves to and fro between, say, two of the constituent propositions, at one point asserting the first of these but covertly abandoning the second, at another point asserting the second but covertly abandoning the first. These fallacious solutions often turn upon some equivocation with the words “good” and “evil,” or upon some vagueness about the way in which good and evil are opposed to one another, or about how much is meant by “omnipotence.” I propose to examine some of these so-called solutions, and to exhibit their fallacies in detail. Incidentally, I shall also be considering whether an adequate solution could be reached by a minor modification of one or more of the constituent propositions, which would, however, still satisfy all the essential requirements of ordinary theism. 1. “Good cannot exist without evil” or “Evil is necessary as a counterpart to good.” It is sometimes suggested that evil is necessary as a counterpart to good, that if there were no evil there could be no good either, and that this solves the problem of evil. It is true that it points to an answer to the question “Why should there be evil?” But it does so only by qualifying some of the propositions that constitute the problem.

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First, it sets a limit to what God can do, saying that God cannot create good without simultaneously creating evil, and this means either that God is not omnipotent or that there are some limits to what an omnipotent thing can do. It may be replied that these limits are always presupposed, that omnipotence has never meant the power to do what is logically impossible, and on the present view the existence of good without evil would be a logical impossibility. This interpretation of omnipotence may, indeed, be accepted as a modification of our original account which does not reject anything that is essential to theism, and I shall in general assume it in the subsequent discussion. It is, perhaps, the most common theistic view, but I think that some theists at least have maintained that God can do what is logically impossible. Many theists, at any rate, have held that logic itself is created or laid down by God, that logic is the way in which God arbitrarily chooses to think. (This is, of course, parallel to the ethical view that morally right actions are those which God arbitrarily chooses to command, and the two views encounter similar difficulties.) And this account of logic is clearly inconsistent with the view that God is bound by logical necessities—unless it is possible for an omnipotent being to bind himself, an issue which we shall consider later, when we come to the Paradox of Omnipotence. This solution of the problem of evil cannot, therefore, be consistently adopted along with the view that logic is itself created by God. But, secondly, this solution denies that evil is opposed to good in our original sense. If good and evil are counterparts, a good thing will not “eliminate evil as far as it can.” Indeed, this view suggests that good and evil are not strictly qualities of things at all. Perhaps the suggestion is that good and evil are related in much the same way as great and small. Certainly, when the term “great” is used relatively as a condensation of “greater than so-and-so,” and “small” is used correspondingly, greatness and smallness are counterparts and cannot exist without each other. But in this sense greatness is not a quality, not an intrinsic feature of anything; and it would be absurd to think of a movement in favor of greatness and against smallness in this sense. Such a movement would be self-defeating, since relative greatness can be promoted only by a simultaneous promotion of relative smallness. I feel sure that no theists would be content to regard God’s goodness as analogous to this—as if what he supports were not the good but the better, and as if he had the paradoxical aim that all things should be better than other things.

86  The Logical Problem

This point is obscured by the fact that “great” and “small” seem to have an absolute as well as a relative sense. I cannot discuss here whether there is absolute magnitude or not, but if there is, there could be an absolute sense for “great,” it could mean of at least a certain size, and it would make sense to speak of all things getting bigger, of a universe that was expanding all over, and therefore it would make sense to speak of promoting greatness. But in this sense great and small are not logically necessary counterparts: either quality could exist without the other. There would be no logical impossibility in everything’s being small or in everything’s being great. Neither in the absolute nor in the relative sense, then, of “great” and “small” do these terms provide an analogy of the sort that would be needed to support this solution of the problem of evil. In neither case are greatness and smallness both necessary counterparts and mutually opposed forces or possible objects for support and attack. It may be replied that good and evil are necessary counterparts in the same way as any quality and its logical opposite: redness can occur, it is suggested, only if nonredness also occurs. But unless evil is merely the privation of good, they are not logical opposites, and some further argument would be needed to show that they are counterparts in the same way as genuine logical opposites. Let us assume that this could be given. There is still doubt of the correctness of the metaphysical principle that a quality must have a real opposite: I suggest that it is not really impossible that everything should be, say, red, that the truth is merely that if everything were red we should not notice redness, and so we should have no word “red”; we observe and give names to qualities only if they have real opposites. If so, the principle that a term must have an opposite would belong only to our language or to our thought, and would not be an ontological principle, and, correspondingly, the rule that good cannot exist without evil would not state a logical necessity of a sort that God would just have to put up with. God might have made everything good, though we should not have noticed it if he had. But, finally, even if we concede that this is an ontological principle, it will provide a solution for the problem of evil only if one is prepared to say, “Evil exists, but only just enough evil to serve as the counterpart of good.” I doubt whether any theist will accept this. After all, the ontological requirement that nonredness should occur would be satisfied even if all the universe, except for a minute speck, were red, and, if there were a correspond-

Evil and Omnipotence 87

ing requirement for evil as a counterpart to good, a minute dose of evil would presumably do. But theists are not usually willing to say, in all contexts, that all the evil that occurs is a minute and necessary dose. 2. “Evil is necessary as a means to good.” It is sometimes suggested that evil is necessary for good not as a counterpart but as a means. In its simple form this has little plausibility as a solution of the problem of evil, since it obviously implies a severe restriction of God’s power. It would be a causal law that you cannot have a certain end without a certain means, so that if God has to introduce evil as a means to good, he must be subject to at least some causal laws. This certainly conflicts with what a theist normally means by omnipotence. This view of God as limited by causal laws also conflicts with the view that causal laws are themselves made by God, which is more widely held than the corresponding view about the laws of logic. This conflict would, indeed, be resolved if it were possible for an omnipotent being to bind himself, and this possibility has still to be considered. Unless a favorable answer can be given to this question, the suggestion that evil is necessary as a means to good solves the problem of evil only by denying one of its constituent propositions, either that God is omnipotent or that “omnipotent” means what it says. 3. “The universe is better with some evil in it than it could be if there were no evil.” Much more important is a solution which at first seems to be a mere variant of the previous one, that evil may contribute to the goodness of a whole in which it is found, so that the universe as a whole is better as it is, with some evil in it, than it would be if there were no evil. This solution may be developed in either of two ways. It may be supported by an aesthetic analogy, by the fact that contrasts heighten beauty, that in a musical work, for example, there may occur discords which somehow add to the beauty of the work as a whole. Alternatively, it may be worked out in connection with the notion of progress, that the best possible organization of the universe will not be static, but progressive, that the gradual overcoming of evil by good is really a finer thing than would be the eternal unchallenged supremacy of good.

88  The Logical Problem

In either case, this solution usually starts from the assumption that the evil whose existence gives rise to the problem of evil is primarily what is called physical evil, that is to say, pain. In Hume’s rather half-hearted presentation of the problem of evil, the evils that he stresses are pain and disease, and those who reply to him argue that the existence of pain and disease makes possible the existence of sympathy, benevolence, heroism, and the gradually successful struggle of doctors and reformers to overcome these evils. In fact, theists often seize the opportunity to accuse those who stress the problem of evil of taking a low, materialistic view of good and evil, equating these with pleasure and pain, and of ignoring the more spiritual goods which can arise in the struggle against evils. But let us see exactly what is being done here. Let us call pain and misery “first order evil” or “evil (1).” What contrasts with this, namely, pleasure and happiness, will be called “first order good” or “good (1).” Distinct from this is “second order good” or “good (2)” which somehow emerges in a complex situation in which evil (1) is a necessary component—logically, not merely causally, necessary. (Exactly how it emerges does not matter: in the crudest version of this solution good [2] is simply the heightening of happiness by the contrast with misery, in other versions it includes sympathy with suffering, heroism in facing danger, and the gradual decrease of first order evil and increase of first order good.) It is also being assumed that second order good is more important than first order good or evil, in particular that it more than outweighs the first order evil it involves. Now this is a particularly subtle attempt to solve the problem of evil. It defends God’s goodness and omnipotence on the ground that (on a sufficiently long view) this is the best of all logically possible worlds, because it includes the important second order goods, and yet it admits that real evils, namely first order evils, exist. But does it still hold that good and evil are opposed? Not, clearly, in the sense that we set out originally: good does not tend to eliminate evil in general. Instead, we have a modified, a more complex pattern. First order good (e.g., happiness) contrasts with first order evil (e.g., misery): these two are opposed in a fairly mechanical way; some second order goods (e.g., benevolence) try to maximize first order good and minimize first order evil; but God’s goodness is not this, it is rather the will to maximize second order good. We might, therefore, call God’s goodness an example of a third order goodness, or good (3). While this account is different from our original one, it might well be held to be an improvement on

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it, to give a more accurate description of the way in which good is opposed to evil, and to be consistent with the essential theist position. There might, however, be several objections to this solution. First, some might argue that such qualities as benevolence—and a fortiori the third order goodness which promotes benevolence—have a merely derivative value, that they are not higher sorts of good, but merely means to good (1), that is, to happiness, so that it would be absurd for God to keep misery in existence in order to make possible the virtues of benevolence, heroism, etc. The theist who adopts the present solution must, of course, deny this, but he can do so with some plausibility, so I should not press this objection. Secondly, it follows from this solution that God is not in our sense benevolent or sympathetic: he is not concerned to minimize evil (1), but only to promote good (2); and this might be a disturbing conclusion for some theists. But, thirdly, the fatal objection is this. Our analysis shows dearly the possibility of the existence of a second order evil, an evil (2) contrasting with good (2) as evil (1) contrasts with good (1). This would include malevolence, cruelty, callousness, cowardice, and states in which good (1) is decreasing and evil (1) increasing. And just as good (2) is held to be the important kind of good, the kind that God is concerned to promote, so evil (2) will, by analogy, be the important kind of evil, the kind which God, if he were wholly good and omnipotent, would eliminate. And yet evil (2) plainly exists, and indeed most theists (in other contexts) stress its existence more than that of evil (1). We should, therefore, state the problem of evil in terms of second order evil, and against this form of the problem the present solution is useless. An attempt might be made to use this solution again, at a higher level, to explain the occurrence of evil (2): indeed the next main solution that we shall examine does just this, with the help of some new notions. Without any fresh notions, such a solution would have little plausibility: for example, we could hardly say that the really important good was a good (3), such as the increase of benevolence in proportion to cruelty, which logically required for its occurrence the occurrence of some second order evil. But even if evil (2) could be explained in this way, it is fairly clear that there would be third order evils contrasting with this third order good: and we should be well on the way to an infinite regress, where the solution of a problem of evil, stated in terms of evil (n), indicated the existence of an evil (n + 1), and a further problem to be solved.

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4. “Evil is due to human free will.” Perhaps the most important proposed solution of the problem of evil is that evil is not to be ascribed to God at all, but to the independent actions of human beings, supposed to have been endowed by God with freedom of the will. This solution may be combined with the preceding one: first order evil (e.g., pain) may be justified as a logically necessary component in second order good (e.g., sympathy) while second order evil (e.g., cruelty) is not justified, but is so ascribed to human beings that God cannot be held responsible for it. This combination evades my third criticism of the preceding solution. The free-will solution also involves the preceding solution at a higher level. To explain why a wholly good God gave men free will although it would lead to some important evils, it must be argued that it is better on the whole that men should act freely, and sometimes err, than that they should be innocent automata, acting rightly in a wholly determined way. Freedom, that is to say, is now treated as third order good, and as being more valuable than second order goods (such as sympathy and heroism) would be if they were deterministically produced, and it is being assumed that second order evils, such as cruelty, are logically necessary accompaniments of freedom, just as pain is a logically necessary precondition of sympathy. I think that this solution is unsatisfactory primarily because of the incoherence of the notion of freedom of the will: but I cannot discuss this topic adequately here, although some of my criticisms will touch upon it. First I should query the assumption that second order evils are logically necessary accompaniments of freedom. I should ask this: if God has made men such that in their free choices they sometimes prefer what is good and sometimes what is evil, why could he not have made men such that they always freely choose the good? If there is no logical impossibility in a man’s freely choosing the good on one, or on several, occasions, there cannot be a logical impossibility in his freely choosing the good on every occasion. God was not, then, faced with a choice between making innocent automata and making beings who, in acting freely, would sometimes go wrong: there was open to him the obviously better possibility of making beings who would act freely but always go right. Clearly, his failure to avail himself of this possibility is inconsistent with his being both omnipotent and wholly good.

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If it is replied that this objection is absurd, that the making of some wrong choices is logically necessary for freedom, it would seem that “freedom” must here mean complete randomness or indeterminacy, including randomness with regard to the alternatives good and evil, in other words that men’s choices and consequent actions can be “free” only if they are not determined by their characters. Only on this assumption can God escape the responsibility for men’s actions; for if he made them as they are, but did not determine their wrong choices, this can only be because the wrong choices are not determined by men as they are. But then if freedom is randomness, how can it be a characteristic of will? And, still more, how can it be the most important good? What value or merit would there be in free choices if these were random actions which were not determined by the nature of the agent? I conclude that to make this solution plausible two different senses of “freedom” must be confused, one sense which will justify the view that freedom is a third order good, more valuable than other goods would be without it, and another sense, sheer randomness, to prevent us from ascribing to God a decision to make men such that they sometimes go wrong when he might have made them such that they would always freely go right. This criticism is sufficient to dispose of this solution. But besides this there is a fundamental difficulty in the notion of an omnipotent God creating men with free will, for if men’s wills are really free this must mean that even God cannot control them, that is, that God is no longer omnipotent. It may be objected that God’s gift of freedom to men does not mean that he cannot control their wills, but that he always refrains from controlling their wills? But why, we may ask, should God refrain from controlling evil wills? Why should he not leave men free to will rightly, but intervene when he sees them beginning to will wrongly? If God could do this, but does not, and if he is wholly good, the only explanation could be that even a wrong free act of will is not really evil, that its freedom is a value which outweighs its wrongness, so that there would be a loss of value if God took away the wrongness and the freedom together. But this is utterly opposed to what theists say about sin in other contexts. The present solution of the problem of evil, then, can be maintained only in the form that God has made men so free that he cannot control their wills. This leads us to what I call the “Paradox of Omnipotence”: can an omnipotent being make things which he cannot subsequently control? Or,

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what is practically equivalent to this, can an omnipotent being make rules which then bind himself ? (These are practically equivalent because any such rules could be regarded as setting certain things beyond his control, and vice versa.) The second of these formulations is relevant to the suggestions that we have already met, that an omnipotent God creates the rules of logic or causal laws, and is then bound by them. It is clear that this is a paradox: the questions cannot be answered satisfactorily either in the affirmative or in the negative. If we answer “Yes,” it follows that if God actually makes things which he cannot control, or makes rules which bind himself, he is not omnipotent once he has made them: there are then things which he cannot do. But if we answer “No,” we are immediately asserting that there are things which he cannot do, that is to say that he is already not omnipotent. It cannot be replied that the question which sets this paradox is not a proper question. It would make perfectly good sense to say that a human mechanic has made a machine which he cannot control: if there is any difficulty about the question it lies in the notion of omnipotence itself. This, incidentally, shows that although we have approached this paradox from the free-will theory, it is equally a problem for a theological determinist. No one thinks that machines have free will, yet they may well be beyond the control of their makers. The determinist might reply that anyone who makes anything determines its ways of acting, and so determines its subsequent behavior: even the human mechanic does this by his choice of materials and structure for his machine, though he does not know all about either of these: the mechanic thus determines, though he may not foresee, his machine’s actions. And since God is omniscient, and since his creation of things is total, he both determines and foresees the ways in which his creatures will act. We may grant this, but it is beside the point. The question is not whether God originally determined the future actions of his creatures, but whether he can subsequently control their actions, or whether he was able in his original creation to put things beyond his subsequent control. Even on determinist principles the answers “Yes” and “No” are equally irreconcilable with God’s omnipotence. Before suggesting a solution of this paradox, I would point out that there is a parallel Paradox of Sovereignty. Can a legal sovereign make a law restricting its own future legislative power? For example, could the British

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parliament make a law forbidding any future parliament to socialize banking, and also forbidding the future repeal of this law itself ? Or could the British parliament, which was legally sovereign in Australia in, say, 1899, pass a valid law, or series of laws, which made it no longer sovereign in 1933? Again, neither the affirmative not the negative answer is really satisfactory. If we were to answer “Yes,” we should be admitting the validity of a law which, if it were actually made, would mean that parliament was no longer sovereign. If we were to answer “No,” we should be admitting that there is a law, not logically absurd, which parliament cannot validly make, that is, that parliament is not now a legal sovereign. This paradox can be solved in the following way. We should distinguish between first order laws, that is laws governing the actions of individuals and bodies other than the legislature, and second order laws, that is laws about laws, laws governing the actions of the legislature itself. Correspondingly, we should distinguish two orders of sovereignty, first order sovereignty (sovereignty [1]) which is unlimited authority to make first order laws, and second order sovereignty (sovereignty [2]) which is unlimited authority to make second order laws. If we say that parliament is sovereign we might mean that any parliament at any time has sovereignty (1), or we might mean that parliament has both sovereignty (1) and sovereignty (2) at present, but we cannot without contradiction mean both that the present parliament has sovereignty (2) and that every parliament at every time has sovereignty (1), for if the present parliament has sovereignty (2) it may use it to take away the sovereignty (1) of later parliaments. What the paradox shows is that we cannot ascribe to any continuing institution legal sovereignty in an inclusive sense. The analogy between omnipotence and sovereignty shows that the paradox of omnipotence can be solved in a similar way. We must distinguish between first order omnipotence (omnipotence [1]), that is unlimited power to act, and second order omnipotence (omnipotence [2]), that is unlimited power to determine what powers to act things shall have. Then we could consistently say that God all the time has omnipotence (1), but if so no beings at any time have powers to act independently of God. Or we could say that God at one time had omnipotence (2), and used it to assign independent powers to act to certain things, so that God thereafter did not have omnipotence (1). But what the paradox shows is that we cannot consistently ascribe to any continuing being omnipotence in an inclusive sense.

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An alternative solution of this paradox would be simply to deny that God is a continuing being, that any times can be assigned to his actions at all. But on this assumption (which also has difficulties of its own) no meaning can be given to the assertion that God made men with wills so free that he could not control them. The paradox of omnipotence can be avoided by putting God outside time, but the free-will solution of the problem of evil cannot be saved in this way, and equally it remains impossible to hold that an omnipotent God binds himself by causal or logical laws.

CONCLUSION

Of the proposed solutions of the problem of evil which we have examined, none has stood up to criticism. There may be other solutions which require examination, but this study strongly suggests that there is no valid solution of the problem which does not modify at least one of the constituent propositions in a way which would seriously affect the essential core of the theistic position. Quite apart from the problem of evil, the paradox of omnipotence has shown that God’s omnipotence must in any case be restricted in one way or another, that unqualified omnipotence cannot be ascribed to any being that continues through time. And if God and his actions are not in time, can omnipotence, or power of any sort, be meaningfully ascribed to him?

C H A P T E R

8

The Free Will Defense A LV I N P L A N T I N G A

In a widely discussed piece entitled “Evil and Omnipotence” John Mackie repeats this claim: I think, however, that a more telling criticism can be made by way of the traditional problem of evil. Here it can be shown, not that religious beliefs lack rational support, but that they are positively irrational, that the several parts of the essential theological doctrine are inconsistent with one another. . . .1

Is Mackie right? Does the theist contradict himself ? But we must ask a prior question: just what is being claimed here? That theistic belief contains an inconsistency or contradiction, of course. But what, exactly, is an inconsistency or contradiction? There are several kinds. An explicit contradiction is a proposition of a certain sort—a conjunctive proposition, one conjunct of which is the denial or negation of the other conjunct. For example: From Alvin Plantinga, God, Freedom, and Evil (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1977), 12–49, used by permission.

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Paul is a good tennis player, and it’s false that Paul is a good tennis player. (People seldom assert explicit contradictions). Is Mackie charging the theist with accepting such a contradiction? Presumably not; what he says is: In its simplest form the problem is this: God is omnipotent; God is wholly good; yet evil exists. There seems to be some contradiction between these three propositions, so that if any two of them were true the third would be false. But at the same time all three are essential parts of most theological positions; the theologian, it seems, at once must adhere and cannot consistently adhere to all three.2

According to Mackie, then, the theist accepts a group or set of three propositions; this set is inconsistent. Its members, of course are, (1) God is omnipotent (2) God is wholly good and (3) Evil exists. Call this set A; the claim is that A is an inconsistent set. But what is it for a set to be inconsistent or contradictory? Following our definition of an explicit contradiction, we might say that a set of propositions is explicitly contradictory if one of the members is the denial or negation of another member. But then, of course, it is evident that the set we are discussing is not explicitly contradictory; the denials of (1), (2), and (3), respectively, are (1′) God is not omnipotent (or it’s false that God is omnipotent) (2′) God is not wholly good and (3′) There is no evil none of which is in set A.

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Of course many sets are pretty clearly contradictory, in an important way, but not explicitly contradictory. For example, set B: (4) If all men are mortal, then Socrates is mortal (5) All men are mortal (6) Socrates is not mortal. This set is not explicitly contradictory; yet surely some significant sense of that term applies to it. What is important here is that by using only the rules of ordinary logic—the laws of propositional logic and quantification theory found in any introductory text on the subject—we can deduce an explicit contradiction from the set. Or to put it differently, we can use the laws of logic to deduce a proposition from the set, which proposition, when added to the set, yields a new set that is explicitly contradictory. For by using the law modus ponens (if p, then q; p; therefore q) we can deduce (7) Socrates is mortal from (4) and (5). The result of adding (7) to B is the set {(4), (5), (6), (7)}. This set, of course, is explicitly contradictory in that (6) is the denial of (7). We might say that any set which shares this characteristic with set B is formally contradictory. So a formally contradictory set is one from whose members an explicit contradiction can be deduced by the laws of logic. Is Mackie claiming that set A is formally contradictory? If he is, he’s wrong. No laws of logic permit us to deduce the denial of one of the propositions in A from the other members. Set A isn’t formally contradictory either. But there is still another way in which a set of propositions can be contradictory or inconsistent. Consider set C, whose members are (8) George is older than Paul (9) Paul is older than Nick and (10) George is not older than Nick.

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This set is neither explicitly nor formally contradictory; we can’t, just by using the laws of logic, deduce the denial of any of these propositions from the others. And yet there is a good sense in which it is inconsistent or contradictory. For clearly it is not possible that its three members all be true. It is necessarily true that (11) If George is older than Paul, and Paul is older than Nick, then George is older than Nick. And if we add (11) to set C, we get a set that is formally contradictory; (8), (9), and (11) yield, by the laws of ordinary logic, the denial of (10). I said that (11) is necessarily true; but what does that mean? Of course we might say that a proposition is necessarily true if it is impossible that it be false, or if its negation is not possibly true. This would be to explain necessity in terms of possibility. Chances are, however, that anyone who does not know what necessity is will be equally at a loss about possibility; the explanation is not likely to be very successful. Perhaps all we can do by way of explanation is to give some examples and hope for the best. In the first place many propositions can be established by the laws of logic alone—for example, (12) If all men are mortal and Socrates is a man, then Socrates is mortal. Such propositions are truths of logic; and all of them are necessary in the sense of question. But truths of arithmetic and mathematics generally are also necessarily true. Still further, there is a host of propositions that are neither truths of logic nor truths of mathematics but are nonetheless necessarily true; (11) would be an example, as well as (13) Nobody is taller than himself (14) Red is a color (15) No numbers are persons (16) No prime number is a prime minister and (17) Bachelors are unmarried.

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So here we have an important kind of necessity—let’s call it “broadly logical necessity.” Of course there is a correlative kind of possibility: a proposition p is possibly true (in the broadly logical sense) just in case its negation or denial is not necessarily true (in that same broadly logical sense). This sense of necessity and possibility must be distinguished from another that we may call causal or natural necessity and possibility. Consider (18) Henry Kissinger has swum the Atlantic. Although this proposition has an implausible ring, it is not necessarily false in the broadly logical sense (and its denial is not necessarily true in that sense). But there is a good sense in which it is impossible: it is causally or naturally impossible. Human beings, unlike dolphins, just don’t have the physical equipment demanded for this feat. Unlike Superman, furthermore, the rest of us are incapable of leaping tall buildings at a single bound or (without auxiliary power of some kind) traveling faster than a speeding bullet. These things are impossible for us—but not logically impossible, even in the broad sense. So there are several senses of necessity and possibility here. There are a number of propositions, furthermore, of which it’s difficult to say whether they are or aren’t possible in the broadly logical sense; some of these are subjects of philosophical controversy. Is it possible, for example, for a person never to be conscious during his entire existence? Is it possible for a (human) person to exist disembodied? If that’s possible, is it possible that there be a person who at no time at all during his entire existence has a body? Is it possible to see without eyes? These are propositions about whose possibility in that broadly logical sense there is disagreement and dispute. Now return to set C. What is characteristic of it is the fact that the conjunction of its members—the proposition expressed by the result of putting “and’s” between (8), (9), and (10)—is necessarily false. Or we might put it like this: what characterizes set C is the fact that we can get a formally contradictory set by adding a necessarily true proposition—namely (11). Suppose we say that a set is implicitly contradictory if it resembles C in this respect. That is, a set S of propositions is implicitly contradictory if there is a necessary proposition p such that the result of adding p to S is a formally contradictory set. Another way to put it: S is implicitly contradictory if there is some necessarily true proposition p such that by using just the laws

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of ordinary logic, we can deduce an explicit contradiction from p together with the members of S. And when Mackie says that set A is contradictory, we may properly take him, I think, as holding that it is implicitly contradictory in the explained sense. As he puts it: However, the contradiction does not arise immediately; to show it we need some additional premises, or perhaps some quasi-logical rules connecting the terms “good” and “evil” and “omnipotent.” These additional principles are that good is opposed to evil, in such a way that a good thing always eliminates evil as far as it can, and that there are no limits to what an omnipotent thing can do. From these it follows that a good omnipotent thing eliminates evil completely, and then the propositions that a good omnipotent thing exists, and that evil exists, are incompatible.3

Here Mackie refers to “additional premises”; he also calls them “additional principles” and “quasi-logical rules”; he says we need them to show the contradiction. What he means, I think, is that to get a formally contradictory set we must add some more propositions to set A; and if we aim to show that set A is implicitly contradictory, these propositions must be necessary truths—“quasi-logical rules” as Mackie calls them. The two additional principles he suggests are (19) A good thing always eliminates evil as far as it can and (20) There are no limits to what an omnipotent being can do. And, of course, if Mackie means to show that set A is implicitly contradictory, then he must hold that (19) and (20) are not merely true but necessarily true. But, are they? What about (20) first? What does it mean to say that a being is omnipotent? That he is all-powerful, or almighty, presumably. But are there no limits at all to the power of such a being? Could he create square circles, for example, or married bachelors? Most theologians and theistic philosophers who hold that God is omnipotent, do not hold that He can create

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round squares or bring it about that He both exists and does not exist. These theologians and philosophers may hold that there are no nonlogical limits to what an omnipotent being can do, but they concede that not even an omnipotent being can bring about logically impossible states of affairs or cause necessarily false propositions to be true. Some theists, on the other hand— Martin Luther and Descartes, perhaps—have apparently thought that God’s power is unlimited even by the laws of logic. For these theists the question whether set A is contradictory will not be of much interest. As theists they believe (1) and (2), and they also, presumably, believe (3). But they remain undisturbed by the claim that (1), (2), and (3) are jointly inconsistent—because, as they say, God can do what is logically impossible. Hence He can bring it about that the members of set A are all true, even if that set is contradictory (concentrating very intensely upon this suggestion is likely to make you dizzy). So the theist who thinks that the power of God isn’t limited at all, not even by the laws of logic, will be unimpressed by Mackie’s argument and won’t find any difficulty in the contradiction set A is alleged to contain. This view is not very popular, however, and for good reason; it is quite incoherent. What the theist typically means when he says that God is omnipotent is not that there are no limits to God’s power, but at most that there are no nonlogical limits to what He can do; and given this qualification, it is perhaps initially plausible to suppose that (20) is necessarily true. But what about (19), the proposition that every good thing eliminates every evil state of affairs that it can eliminate? Is that necessarily true? Is it true at all? Suppose, first of all, that your friend Paul unwisely goes for a drive on a wintry day and runs out of gas on a deserted road. The temperature dips to –10°, and a miserably cold wind comes up. You are sitting comfortably at home (twenty-five miles from Paul) roasting chestnuts in a roaring blaze. Your car is in the garage; in the trunk there is the full five-gallon can of gasoline you always keep for emergencies. Paul’s discomfort and danger are certainly an evil, and one which you could eliminate. You don’t do so. But presumably you don’t thereby forfeit your claim to being a “good thing”—you simply didn’t know of Paul’s plight. And so (19) does not appear to be necessary. It says that every good thing has a certain property— the property of eliminating every evil that it can. And if the case I described is possible—a good person’s failing through ignorance to eliminate a certain evil he can eliminate—then (19) is by no means necessarily true.

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But perhaps Mackie could sensibly claim that if you didn’t know about Paul’s plight, then in fact you were not, at the time in question, able to eliminate the evil in question; and perhaps he’d be right. In any event he could revise (19) to take into account the kind of case I mentioned: (19a) Every good thing always eliminates every evil that it knows about and can eliminate. {(1), (2), (3), (20), (19a)}, you’ll notice is not a formally contradictory set—to get a formal contradiction we must add a proposition specifying that God knows about every evil state of affairs. But most theists do believe that God is omniscient or all-knowing; so if this new set—the set that results when we add to set A the proposition that God is omniscient—is implicitly contradictory then Mackie should be satisfied and the theist confounded. (And, henceforth, set A will be the old set A together with the proposition that God is omniscient.) But is (19a) necessary? Hardly. Suppose you know that Paul is marooned as in the previous example, and you also know another friend is similarly marooned fifty miles in the opposite direction. Suppose, furthermore, that while you can rescue one or the other, you simply can’t rescue both. Then each of the two evils is such that it is within your power to eliminate it; and you know about them both. But you can’t eliminate both; and you don’t forfeit your claim to being a good person by eliminating only one—it wasn’t within your power to do more. So the fact that you don’t doesn’t mean that you are not a good person. Therefore (19a) is false; it is not a necessary truth or even a truth that every good thing eliminates every evil it knows about and can eliminate. We can see the same thing another way. You’ve been rock climbing. Still something of a novice, you’ve acquired a few cuts and bruises by in­ elegantly using your knees rather than your feet. One of these bruises is fairly painful. You mention it to a physician friend, who predicts the pain will leave of its own accord in a day or two. Meanwhile, he says, there’s nothing he can do, short of amputating your leg above the knee, to remove the pain. Now the pain in your knee is an evil state of affairs. All else being equal, it would be better if you had no such pain. And it is within the power of your friend to eliminate this evil state of affairs. Does his failure to do so mean

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that he is not a good person? Of course not; for he could eliminate this evil state of affairs only by bringing about another, much worse evil. And so it is once again evident that (19a) is false. It is entirely possible that a good person fail to eliminate an evil state of affairs that he knows about and can eliminate. This would take place, if, as in the present example, he couldn’t eliminate the evil without bringing about a greater evil. A slightly different kind of case shows the same thing. A really impressive good state of affairs G will outweigh a trivial E—that is, the conjunctive state of affairs G and E is itself a good state of affairs. And surely a good person would not be obligated to eliminate a given evil if he could do so only by eliminating a good that outweighed it. Therefore (19a) is not necessarily true; it can’t be used to show that set A is implicitly contradictory. These difficulties might suggest another revision of (19); we might try (19b) A good being eliminates every evil E that it knows about and that it can eliminate without either bringing about a greater evil or eliminating a good state of affairs that outweighs E. Is this necessarily true? It takes care of the second of the two difficulties afflicting (19a) but leaves the first untouched. We can see this as follows. First, suppose we say that a being properly eliminates an evil state of affairs if it eliminates that evil without either eliminating an outweighing good or bringing about a greater evil. It is then obviously possible that a person find himself in a situation where he could properly eliminate an evil E and could also properly eliminate another evil E ′, but couldn’t properly eliminate them both. You’re rock climbing again, this time on the dreaded north face of the Grand Teton. You and your party come upon Curt and Bob, two mountaineers stranded 125 feet apart on the face. They untied to reach their cigarettes and then carelessly dropped the rope while lighting up. A violent, dangerous thunderstorm is approaching. You have time to rescue one of the stranded climbers and retreat before the storm hits; if you rescue both, however, you and your party and the two climbers will be caught on the face during the thunderstorm, which will very likely destroy your entire party. In this case you can eliminate one evil (Curt’s being stranded on the face) without causing more evil or eliminating a greater good; and you are also able to properly eliminate the other evil (Bob’s being thus stranded).

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But you can’t properly eliminate them both. And so the fact that you don’t rescue Curt, say, even though you could have, doesn’t show that you aren’t a good person. Here, then, each of the evils is such that you can properly eliminate it; but you can’t properly eliminate them both, and hence can’t be blamed for failing to eliminate one of them. So neither (19a) nor (19b) is necessarily true. You may be tempted to reply that the sort of counterexamples offered—examples where someone is able to eliminate an evil A and also able to eliminate a different evil B, but unable to eliminate them both—are irrelevant to the case of a being who, like God, is both omnipotent and omniscient. That is, you may think that if an omnipotent and omniscient being is able to eliminate each of two evils, it follows that he can eliminate them both. Perhaps this is so; but it is not strictly to the point. The fact is the counterexamples show that (19a) and (19b) are not necessarily true and hence can’t be used to show that set A is implicitly inconsistent. What the reply does suggest is that perhaps the atheologian will have more success if he works the properties of omniscience and omnipotence into (19). Perhaps he could say something like (19c) An omnipotent and omniscient good being eliminates every evil that it can properly eliminate. And suppose, for purposes of argument, we concede the necessary truth of (19c). Will it serve Mackie’s purposes? Not obviously. For we don’t get a set that is formally contradictory by adding (20) and (19c) to set A. This set (call it A′) contains the following six members: (1) God is omnipotent (2) God is wholly good (2′) God is omniscient (3) Evil exists (19c) An omnipotent and omniscient good being eliminates every evil that it can properly eliminate and (20) There are no nonlogical limits to what an omniscient being can do.

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Now if A′ were formally contradictory, then from any five of its members we could deduce the denial of the sixth by the laws of ordinary logic. That is, any five would formally entail the denial of the sixth. So if A′ were formally inconsistent, the denial of (3) would be formally entailed by the remaining five. That is, (1), (2), (2′), (19c), and (20) would formally entail (3′) There is no evil. But they don’t; what they formally entail is not that there is no evil at all but only that (3′′) There is no evil that God can properly eliminate. So (19c) doesn’t really help either—not because it is not necessarily true but because its addition [with (20)] to set A does not yield a formally contradictory set. Obviously, what the atheologian must add to get a formally contradictory set is (21) If God is omniscient and omnipotent, then he can properly eliminate every evil state of affairs. Suppose we agree that the set consisting in A plus (19c), (20), and (21) is formally contradictory. So if (19c), (20), and (21) are all necessarily true, then set A is implicitly contradictory. We’ve already conceded that (19c) and (20) are indeed necessary. So we must take a look at (21). Is this proposition necessarily true? No. To see this let us ask the following question. Under what conditions would an omnipotent being be unable to eliminate a certain evil E without eliminating an outweighing good? Well, suppose that E is included in some good state of affairs that outweighs it. That is, suppose there is some good state of affairs G so related to E that it is impossible that G obtain or be actual and E fail to obtain. (Another way to put this: a state of affairs S includes S′ if the conjunctive state of affairs S but not S′ is impossible, or if it is necessary that S′ obtains if S does.) Now suppose that some good state

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of affairs G includes an evil state of affairs E that it outweighs. Then not even an omnipotent being could eliminate E without eliminating G. But are there any cases where a good state of affairs includes, in this sense, an evil that it outweighs?4 Indeed there are such states of affairs. To take an artificial example, let’s suppose that E is Paul’s suffering from a minor abrasion and G is your being deliriously happy. The conjunctive state of affairs, G and E—the state of affairs that obtains if and only if both G and E obtain—is then a good state of affairs: it is better, all else being equal, that you be intensely happy and Paul suffer a mildly annoying abrasion than that this state of affairs not obtain. So G and E is a good state of affairs. And clearly G and E includes E: obviously it is necessarily true that if you are deliriously happy and Paul is suffering from an abrasion, then Paul is suffering from an abrasion. But perhaps you think this example trivial, tricky, slippery, and irrelevant. If so, take heart; other examples abound. Certain kinds of values, certain familiar kinds of good states of affairs, can’t exist apart from evil of some sort. For example, there are people who display a sort of creative moral heroism in the face of suffering and adversity—a heroism that inspires others and creates a good situation out of a bad one. In a situation like this the evil, of course, remains evil; but the total state of affairs—someone’s bearing pain magnificently, for example—may be good. If it is, then the good present must outweigh the evil; otherwise the total situation would not be good. But, of course, it is not possible that such a good state of affairs obtain unless some evil also obtain. It is a necessary truth that if someone bears pain magnificently, then someone is in pain. The conclusion to be drawn, therefore, is that (21) is not necessarily true. And our discussion thus far shows at the very least that it is no easy matter to find necessarily true propositions that yield a formally contradictory set when added to set A.5 One wonders, therefore, why the many atheologians who confidently assert that this set is contradictory make no attempt whatever to show that it is. For the most part they are content just to assert that there is a contradiction here. Even Mackie, who sees that some “additional premises” or “quasi-logical rules” are needed, makes scarcely a beginning towards finding some additional premises that are necessarily true and that together with the members of set A formally entail an explicit contradiction.

The Free Will Defense 107 C A N W E SHOW TH AT THER E IS NO INCONSISTENCY HER E?

To summarize our conclusions so far: although many atheologians claim that the theist is involved in contradiction when he asserts the members of set A, this set, obviously, is neither explicitly nor formally contradictory; the claim, presumably, must be that it is implicitly contradictory. To make good this claim the atheologian must find some necessarily true proposition p (it could be a conjunction of several propositions) such that the addition of p to set A yields a set that is formally contradictory. No atheologian has produced even a plausible candidate for this role, and it certainly is not easy to see what such a proposition might be. Now we might think we should simply declare set A implicitly consistent on the principle that a proposition (or set) is to be presumed consistent or possible until proven otherwise. This course, however, leads to trouble. The same principle would impel us to declare the atheologian’s claim—that set A is inconsistent— possible or consistent. But the claim that a given set of propositions is implicitly contradictory is itself either necessarily true or necessarily false; so if such a claim is possible, it is not necessarily false and is, therefore, true (in fact, necessarily true). If we followed the suggested principle, therefore, we should be obliged to declare set A implicitly consistent (since it hasn’t been shown to be otherwise), but we should have to say the same thing about the atheologian’s claim, since we haven’t shown that claim to be inconsistent or impossible. The atheologian’s claim, furthermore, is necessarily true if it is possible. Accordingly, if we accept the above principle, we shall have to declare set A both implicitly consistent and implicitly inconsistent. So all we can say at this point is that set A has not been shown to be implicitly inconsistent. Can we go any further? One way to go on would be to try to show that set A is implicitly consistent or possible in the broadly logical sense. But what is involved in showing such a thing? Although there are various ways to approach this matter, they all resemble one another in an important respect. They all amount to this: to show that a set S is consistent you think of a possible state of affairs (it needn’t actually obtain) which is such that if it were actual, then all of the members of S would be true. This procedure is sometimes called giving a model of S. For example, you might construct an axiom set and then show that it is consistent by giving a model of it; this is

108  The Logical Problem

how it was shown that the denial of Euclid’s parallel postulate is formally consistent with the rest of his postulates. There are various special cases of this procedure to fit special circumstances. Suppose, for example, you have a pair of propositions p and q and wish to show them consistent. And suppose we say that a proposition p1 entails a proposition p2 if it is impossible that p1 be true and p2 false—if the conjunctive proposition p1 and not p2 is necessarily false. Then one way to show that p is consistent with q is to find some proposition r whose conjunction with p is both possible, in the broadly logical sense, and entails q. A rude and unlettered behaviorist, for example, might hold that thinking is really nothing but movements of the larynx; he might go on to hold that P  Jones did not move his larynx after April 30 is inconsistent (in the broadly logical sense) with Q  Jones did some thinking during May. By way of rebuttal, we might point out that P appears to be consistent with R  While convalescing from an April 30 laryngotomy, Jones whiled away the idle hours by writing (in May) a splendid paper on Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason. So the conjunction of P and R appears to be consistent; but obviously it also entails Q (you can’t write even a passable paper on Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason without doing some thinking); so P and Q are consistent. We can see that this is a special case of the procedure I mentioned above as follows. This proposition R is consistent with P; so the proposition P and R is possible, describes a possible state of affairs. But P and R entails Q; hence if P and R were true, Q would also be true, and hence both P and Q would be true. So this is really a case of producing a possible state of affairs such that, if it were actual, all the members of the set in question (in this case the pair set of P and Q) would be true. How does this apply to the case before us? As follows, let us conjoin propositions (1), (2), and (2′) and henceforth call the result (1):

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(1) God is omniscient, omnipotent, and wholly good. The problem, then, is to show that (1) and (3) (evil exists) are consistent. This could be done, as we’ve seen, by finding a proposition r that is consistent with (1) and such that (1) and (r) together entail (3). One proposition that might do the trick is (22) God creates a world containing evil and has a good reason for doing so. If (22) is consistent with (1), then it follows that (1) and (3) (and hence set A) are consistent. Accordingly, one thing some theists have tried is to show that (22) and (1) are consistent. One can attempt this in at least two ways. On the one hand, we could try to apply the same method again. Conceive of a possible state of affairs such that, if it obtained, an omnipotent, omniscient, and wholly good God would have a good reason for permitting evil. On the other, someone might try to specify what God’s reason is for permitting evil and try to show, if it is not obvious, that it is a good reason. St. Augustine, for example, one of the greatest and most influential philosopher­-theologians of the Christian Church, writes as follows: . . . some people see with perfect truth that a creature is better if, while possessing free will, it remains always fixed upon God and never sins; then, reflecting on men’s sins, they are grieved, not because they continue to sin, but because they were created. They say: He should have made us such that we never willed to sin, but always to enjoy the unchangeable truth. They should not lament or be angry. God has not compelled men to sin just because He created them and gave them the power to choose between sinning and not sinning. There are angels who have never sinned and never will sin. Such is the generosity of God’s goodness that He has not refrained from creating even that creature which He foreknew would not only sin, but remain in the will to sin. As a runaway horse is better than a stone which does not run away because it lacks self-movement and sense perception, so the creature is more excellent which sins by free will than that which does nor sin only because it has no free will.6

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In broadest terms Augustine claims that God could create a better, more perfect universe by permitting evil than He could by refusing to do so: Neither the sins nor the misery are necessary to the perfection of the universe, but souls as such are necessary, which have the power to sin if they so will, and become miserable if they sin. If misery persisted after their sins had been abolished, or if there were misery before there were sins, then it might be right to say that the order and government of the universe were at fault. Again, if there were sins but no consequent misery, that order is equally dishonored by lack of equity.7

Augustine tries to tell us what God’s reason is for permitting evil. At bottom, he says, it’s that God can create a more perfect universe by permitting evil. A really top-notch universe requires the existence of free, rational, and moral agents; and some of the free creatures He created went wrong. But the universe with the free creatures it contains and the evil they commit is better than it would have been had it contained neither the free creatures nor this evil. Such an attempt to specify God’s reason for permitting evil is what I earlier called a theodicy; in the words of John Milton it is an attempt to “justify the ways of God to man,” to show that God is just in permitting evil. Augustine’s kind of theodicy might be called a Free Will Theodicy, since the idea of rational creatures with free will plays such a prominent role in it. A theodicist, then, attempts to tell us why God permits evil. Quite distinct from a Free Will Theodicy is what I shall call a Free Will Defense. Here the aim is not to say what God’s reason is, but at most what God’s reason might possibly be. We could put the difference like this. The Free Will Theodicist and Free Will Defender are both trying to show that (1) is consistent with (22), and of course if so, then set A is consistent. The Free Will Theodicist tries to do this by finding some proposition r which in conjunction with (1) entails (22); he claims, furthermore, that this proposition is true, not just consistent with (1). He tries to tell us what God’s reason for permitting evil really is. The Free Will Defender, on the other hand, though he also tries to find a proposition r that is consistent with (1) and in conjunction with it entails (22), does not claim to know or even believe that r is true. And here, of course, he is perfectly within his rights. His aim is to

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show that (1) is consistent with (22); all he need do then is find an r that is consistent with (1) and such that (1) and (r) entail (22); whether r is true is quite beside the point. So there is a significant difference between a Free Will Theodicy and a Free Will Defense. The latter is sufficient (if successful) to show that set A is consistent; in a way a Free Will Theodicy goes beyond what is required. On the other hand, a theodicy would be much more satisfying, if possible to achieve. No doubt the theist would rather know what God’s reason is for permitting evil than simply that it’s possible that He has a good one. But in the present context (that of investigating the consistency of set A), the latter is all that’s needed. Neither a defense nor a theodicy, of course, gives any hint to what God’s reason for some specific evil—the death or suffering of someone close to you, for example—might be. And there is still another function—a sort of pastoral function8 —in the neighborhood that neither serves. Confronted with evil in his own life or suddenly coming to realize more clearly than before the extent and magnitude of evil, a believer in God may undergo a crisis of faith. He may be tempted to follow the advice of Job’s “friends”; he may be tempted to “curse God and die.” Neither a Free Will Defense nor a Free Will Theodicy is designed to be of much help or comfort to one suffering from such a storm in the soul (although in a specific case, of course, one or the other could prove useful). Neither is to be thought of first of all as a means of pastoral counseling. Probably neither will enable someone to find peace with himself and with God in the face of the evil the world contains. But then, of course, neither is intended for that purpose.

THE FR EE W ILL DEFENSE

In what follows I shall focus attention upon the Free Will Defense. I shall examine it more closely, state it more exactly, and consider objections to it; and I shall argue that in the end it is successful. Earlier we saw that among good states of affairs there are some that not even God can bring about without bringing about evil: those goods, namely, that entail or include evil states of affairs. The Free Will Defense can be looked upon as an effort to show that there may be a very different kind of good that God can’t bring

112  The Logical Problem

about without permitting evil. These are good states of affairs that don’t include evil; they do not entail the existence of any evil whatever; nonetheless God Himself can’t bring them about without permitting evil. So how does the Free Will Defense work? And what does the Free Will Defender mean when he says that people are or may be free? What is relevant to the Free Will Defense is the idea of being free with respect to an action. If a person is free with respect to a given action, then he is free to perform that action and free to refrain from performing it; no antecedent conditions and/or causal laws determine that he will perform the action, or that he won’t. It is within his power, at the time in question, to take or perform the action and within his power to refrain from it. Freedom so conceived is not to be confused with unpredictability. You might be able to predict what you will do in a given situation even if you are free, in that situation, to do something else. If I know you well, I may be able to predict what action you will take in response to a certain set of conditions; it does not follow that you are not free with respect to that action. Secondly, I shall say that an action is morally significant, for a given person, if it would be wrong for him to perform the action but right to refrain or vice versa. Keeping a promise, for example, would ordinarily be morally significant for a person, as would refusing induction into the army. On the other hand, having Cheerios for breakfast (instead of Wheaties) would not normally be morally significant. Further, suppose we say that a person is significantly free, on a given occasion, if he is then free with respect to a morally significant action. And finally we must distinguish between moral evil and natural evil. The former is evil that results from free human activity; natural evil is any other kind of evil.9 Given these definitions and distinctions, we can make a preliminary statement of the Free Will Defense as follows. A world containing creatures who are significantly free (and freely perform more good than evil actions) is more valuable, all else being equal, than a world containing no free creatures at all. Now God can create free creatures, but He can’t cause or determine them to do only what is right. For if He does so, then they aren’t significantly free after all; they do not do what is right freely. To create creatures capable of moral good, therefore, He must create creatures capable of moral evil; and He can’t give these creatures the freedom to perform evil and at the same time prevent them from doing so. As it

The Free Will Defense 113

turned out, sadly enough, some of the free creatures God created went wrong in the exercise of their freedom; this is the source of moral evil. The fact that free creatures sometimes go wrong, however, counts neither against God’s omnipotence nor against His goodness; for He could have forestalled the occurrence of moral evil only by removing the possibility of moral good. I said earlier that the Free Will Defender tries to find a proposition that is consistent with (1) God is omniscient, omnipotent, and wholly good and together with (1) entails that there is evil. According to the Free Will Defense, we must find this proposition somewhere in the above story. The heart of the Free Will Defense is the claim that it is possible that God could not have created a universe containing moral good (or as much moral good as this world contains) without creating one that also contained moral evil. And if so, then it is possible that God has a good reason for creating a world containing evil. Now this defense has met with several kinds of objections. For example, some philosophers say that causal determinism and freedom, contrary to what we might have thought, are not really incompatible.10 But if so, then God could have created free creatures who were free, and free to do what is wrong, but nevertheless were causally determined to do only what is right. Thus He could have created creatures who were free to do what was wrong, while nevertheless preventing them from ever performing any wrong actions—simply by seeing to it that they were causally determined to do only what is right. Of course this contradicts the Free Will Defense, according to which there is inconsistency in supposing that God determines free creatures to do only what is right. But is it really possible that all of a person’s actions are causally determined while some of them are free? How could that be so? According to one version of the doctrine in question, to say that George acts freely on a given occasion is to say only this: if George had chosen to do otherwise, he would have done otherwise. Now George’s action A is causally determined if some event E—some event beyond his control—has already occurred, where the state of affairs consisting in E’s occurrence conjoined with George’s refraining from performing A, is a causally impossible state of

114  The Logical Problem

affairs. Then one can consistently hold both that all of a man’s actions are causally determined and that some of them are free in the above sense. For suppose that all of a man’s actions are causally determined and that he couldn’t, on any occasion, have made any choice or performed any action different from the ones he did make and perform. It could still be true that if he had chosen to do otherwise, he would have done otherwise. Granted, he couldn’t have chosen to do otherwise; but this is consistent with saying that if he had, things would have gone differently. This objection to the Free Will Defense seems utterly implausible. One might as well claim that being in jail doesn’t really limit one’s freedom on the grounds that if one were not in jail, he’d be free to come and go as he pleased. So I shall say no more about this objection here.11 A second objection is more formidable. In essence it goes like this. Surely it is possible to do only what is right, even if one is free to do wrong. It is possible, in that broadly logical sense, that there would be a world containing free creatures who always do what is right. There is certainly no contradiction or inconsistency in this idea. But God is omnipotent; his power has no nonlogical limitations. So if it’s possible that there be a world containing creatures who are free to do what is wrong but never in fact do so, then it follows that an omnipotent God could create such a world. If so, however, the Free Will Defense must be mistaken in its insistence upon the possibility that God is omnipotent but unable to create a world containing moral good without permitting moral evil. J. L. Mackie . . . states this objection: If God has made men such that in their free choices they sometimes prefer what is good and sometimes what is evil, why could he not have made men such that they always freely choose the good? If there is no logical impossibility in a man’s freely choosing the good on one, or on several occasions, there cannot be a logical impossibility in his freely choosing the good on every occasion. God was not, then, faced with a choice between making innocent automata and making beings who, in acting freely, would sometimes go wrong; there was open to him the obviously better possibility of making beings who would act freely but always go right. Clearly, his failure to avail himself of this possibility is inconsistent with his being both omnipotent and wholly good.12

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Now what, exactly, is Mackie’s point here? This. According to the Free Will Defense, it is possible both that God is omnipotent and that He was unable to create a world containing moral good without creating one containing moral evil. But, replies Mackie, this limitation on His power to create is inconsistent with God’s omnipotence. For surely it’s possible that there be a world containing perfectly virtuous persons—persons who are significantly free but always do what is right. Surely there are possible worlds that contain moral good but no moral evil. But God, if He is omnipotent, can create any possible world He chooses. So it is not possible, contrary to the Free Will Defense, both that God is omnipotent and that he could create a world containing moral good only by creating one containing moral evil. If He is omnipotent, the only limitations of His power are logical limitations; in which case there are no possible worlds He could not have created. This is a subtle and important point. According to the great German philosopher G. W. Leibniz, this world, the actual world, must be the best of all possible worlds. His reasoning goes as follows. Before God created anything at all, He was confronted with an enormous range of choices; He could create or bring into actuality any of the myriads of different possible worlds. Being perfectly good, He must have chosen to create the best world He could; being omnipotent, He was able to create any possible world He pleased. He must, therefore, have chosen the best of all possible worlds; and hence this world, the one He did create, must be the best possible. Now Mackie, of course, agrees with Leibniz that God, if omnipotent, could have created any world He pleased and would have created the best world he could. But while Leibniz draws the conclusion that this world, despite appearances, must be the best possible, Mackie concludes instead that there is no omnipotent, wholly good God. For, he says, it is obvious enough that this present world is not the best of all possible worlds. The Free Will Defender disagrees with both Leibniz and Mackie. In the first place, he might say, what is the reason for supposing that there is such a thing as the best of all possible worlds? No matter how marvelous a world is—containing no matter how many persons enjoying unalloyed bliss—isn’t it possible that there be an even better world containing even more persons enjoying even more unalloyed bliss? But what is really characteristic and central to the Free Will Defense is the claim that God, though omnipotent, could not have actualized just any possible world He pleased.

116  The Logical Problem WAS IT W ITHIN GOD’S POW ER TO CR E ATE A N Y POSSIBLE WOR LD HE PLE ASED?

This is indeed the crucial question for the Free Will Defense. If we wish to discuss it with insight and authority, we shall have to look into the idea of possible worlds. And a sensible first question is this: what sort of thing is a possible world? The basic idea is that a possible world is a way things could have been; it is a state of affairs of some kind. Earlier we spoke of states of affairs, in particular of good and evil states of affairs. Suppose we look at this idea in more detail. What sort of thing is a state of affairs? The following would be examples: Nixon’s having won the 1972 election 7 + 5’s being equal to 12 All men’s being mortal and Gary, Indiana’s, having a really nasty pollution problem. These are actual states of affairs: states of affairs that do in fact obtain. And corresponding to each such actual state of affairs there is a true proposition— in the above cases, the corresponding propositions would be Nixon won the 1972 presidential election, 7 + 5 is equal to 12, all men are mortal, and Gary, Indiana, has a really nasty pollution problem. A proposition p corresponds to a state of affairs s, in this sense, if it is impossible that p be true and s fail to obtain and impossible that s obtain and p fail to be true. But just as there are false propositions, so there are states of affairs that do not obtain or are not actual. Kissinger’s having swum the Atlantic and Hubert Horatio Humphrey’s having run a mile in four minutes would be examples. Some states of affairs that do not obtain are impossible: e.g., Hubert’s having drawn a square circle, 7 + 5’s being equal to 75, and Agnew’s having a brother who was an only child. The propositions corresponding to these states of affairs, of course, are necessarily false. So there are states of affairs that obtain or are actual and also states of affairs that don’t obtain. Among the latter some are impossible and others are possible. And a possible world is a

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possible state of affairs. Of course not every possible state of affairs is a possible world; Hubert’s having run a mile in four minutes is a possible state of affairs but not a possible world. No doubt it is an element of many possible worlds, but it isn’t itself inclusive enough to be one. To be a possible world, a state of affairs must be very large—so large as to be complete or maximal. To get at this idea of completeness we need a couple of definitions. As we have already seen a state of affairs A includes a state of affairs B if it is not possible that A obtain and B not obtain or if the conjunctive state of affairs A but not B—the state of affairs that obtains if and only if A obtains and B does not—is not possible. For example, Jim Whittaker’s being the first American to climb Mt. Everest includes Jim Whittaker’s being an American. It also includes Mt. Everest’s being climbed, something’s being climbed, no Ameri­ can’s having climbed Everest before Whittaker did, and the like. Inclusion among states of affairs is like entailment among propositions; and where a state of affairs A includes a state of affairs B, the proposition corresponding to A entails the one corresponding to B. Accordingly, Jim Whittaker is the first American to climb Everest entails Mt. Everest has been climbed, something has been climbed, and no American climbed Everest before Whittaker did. Now suppose we say further that a state of affairs A precludes a state of affairs B if it is not possible that both obtain, or if the conjunctive state of affairs A and B is impossible. Thus Whittaker’s being the first American to climb Mt. Everest precludes Luther Jerstad’s being the first American to climb Everest, as well as Whittaker’s never having climbed any mountains. If A precludes B, then A’s corresponding proposition entails the denial of the one corresponding to B. Still further, let’s say that the complement of a state of affairs is the state of affairs that obtains just in case A does not obtain. [Or we might say that the complement (call it Ā) of A is the state of affairs corresponding to the denial or negation of the proposition corresponding to A.] Given these definitions, we can say what it is for a state of affairs to be complete: A is a complete state of affairs if and only if for every state of affairs B, either A includes B or A precludes B. (We could express the same thing by saying that if A is a complete state of affairs, then for every state of affairs B, either A includes B or A includes B¯, the complement of B.) And now we are able to say what a possible world is: a possible world is any possible state of affairs that is complete. If A is a possible world, then it says something about everything; every state of affairs S is either included in or precluded by it.

118  The Logical Problem

Corresponding to each possible world W, furthermore, there is a set of propositions that I’ll call the book on W. A proposition is in the book on W just in case the state of affairs to which it corresponds is included in W. Or we might express it like this. Suppose we say that a proposition P is true in a world W if and only if P would have been true if W had been actual—if and only if, that is, it is not possible that W be actual and P be false. Then the book on W is the set of propositions true in W. Like possible worlds, books are complete; if B is a book, then for any proposition P, either P or the denial of P will be a member of B. A book is a maximal consistent set of propositions; it is so large that the addition of another proposition to it always yields an explicitly inconsistent set. Of course, for each possible world there is exactly one book corresponding to it (that is, for a given world W there is just one book B such that each member of B is true in W ); and for each book there is just one world to which it corresponds. So every world has its book. It should be obvious that exactly one possible world is actual. At least one must be, since the set of true propositions is a maximal consistent set and hence a book. But then it corresponds to a possible world, and the possible world corresponding to this set of propositions (since it’s the set of true propositions) will be actual. On the other hand there is at most one actual world. For suppose there were two: W and W ′. These worlds cannot include all the very same states of affairs; if they did, they would be the very same world. So there must be at least one state of affairs S such that W includes S and W ′ does not. But a possible world is maximal; W ′, therefore, includes the complement S of S′. So if both W and W ′ were actual, as we have supposed, then both S and S′ would be actual—which is impossible. So there can’t be more than one possible world that is actual. Leibniz pointed out that a proposition p is necessary if it is true in every possible world. We may add that p is possible if it is true in one world and impossible if true in none. Furthermore, p entails q if there is no possible world in which p is true and q is false, and p is consistent with q if there is at least one world in which both p and q are true. A further feature of possible worlds is that people (and other things) exist in them. Each of us exists in the actual world, obviously; but a person also exists in many worlds distinct from the actual world. It would be a mistake, of course, to think of all these worlds as somehow “going on” at the

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same time, with the same person reduplicated through these worlds and actually existing in a lot of different ways. This is not what is meant by saying that the same person exists in different possible worlds. What is meant, instead, is this: a person Paul exists in each of those possible worlds W which is such that, if W had been actual, Paul would have existed—actually existed. Suppose Paul had been an inch taller than he is, or a better tennis player. Then the world that does in fact obtain would not have been actual; some other world—W ′, let’s say—would have obtained instead. If W ′ had been actual, Paul would have existed; so Paul exists in W ′. (Of course there are still other possible worlds in which Paul does not exist—worlds, for example, in which there are no people at all.) Accordingly, when we say that Paul exists in a world W, what we mean is that Paul would have existed had W been actual. Or we could put it like this: Paul exists in each world W that includes the state of affairs consisting in Paul’s existence. We can put this still more simply by saying that Paul exists in those worlds whose books contain the proposition Paul exists. But isn’t there a problem here? Many people are named “Paul”: Paul the apostle, Paul J. Zwier, John Paul Jones, and many other famous Pauls. So who goes with “Paul exists”? Which Paul? The answer has to do with the fact that books contain propositions—not sentences. They contain the sort of thing sentences are used to express and assert. And the same sentence— “Aristotle is wise,” for example—can be used to express many different propositions. When Plato used it, he asserted a proposition predicating wisdom of his famous pupil; when Jackie Onassis uses it, she asserts a proposition predicating wisdom of her wealthy husband. These are distinct propositions (we might even think they differ in truth value); but they are expressed by the same sentence. Normally (but not always) we don’t have much trouble determining which of the several propositions expressed by a given sentence is relevant in the context at hand. So in this case a given person, Paul, exists in a world W if and only if W’s book contains the proposition that says that he—that particular person—exists. The fact that the sentence we use to express this proposition can also be used to express other propositions is not relevant. After this excursion into the nature of books and worlds we can return to our question. Could God have created just any world He chose? Before addressing the question, however, we must note that God does not, strictly

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speaking, create any possible worlds or states of affairs at all. What He creates are the heavens and the earth and all that they contain. But He has not created states of affairs. There are, for example, the state of affairs consisting in God’s existence and the states of affairs consisting in His nonexistence. That is, there is such a thing as the state of affairs consisting in the existence of God, and there is also such a thing as the state of affairs consisting in the nonexistence of God, just as there are the two propositions God exists and God does not exist. The theist believes that the first state of affairs is actual and the first proposition true, the atheist believes that the second state of affairs is actual and the second proposition true. But, of course, both propositions exist, even though just one is true. Similarly, there are two states of affairs here, just one of which is actual. So both states of affairs exist, but only one obtains. And God has not created either one of them since there never was a time at which either did not exist. Nor has He created the state of affairs consisting in the earth’s existence; there was a time when the earth did not exist, but none when the state of affairs consisting in the earth’s existence didn’t exist. Indeed, God did not bring into existence any states of affairs at all. What He did was to perform actions of a certain sort—creating the heavens and the earth, for example—which resulted in the actuality of certain states of affairs. God actualizes states of affairs. He actualizes the possible world that does in fact obtain; He does not create it. And while He has created Socrates, He did not create the state of affairs consisting in Socrates’ existence.13 Bearing this in mind, let’s finally return to our question. Is the atheologian right in holding that if God is omnipotent, then he could have actualized or created any possible world He pleased? Not obviously. First, we must ask ourselves whether God is a necessary or a contingent being. A necessary being is one that exists in every possible world—one that would have existed no matter which possible world had been actual; a contingent being exists only in some possible worlds. Now if God is not a necessary being (and many, perhaps most, theists think that He is not), then clearly enough there will be many possible worlds He could not have actualized—all those, for example, in which He does not exist. Clearly, God could not have created a world in which He doesn’t even exist. So, if God is a contingent being then there are many possible worlds beyond His power to create. But this is really irrelevant to our present con-

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cerns. For perhaps the atheologian can maintain his case if he revises his claim to avoid this difficulty; perhaps he will say something like this: if God is omnipotent, then He could have actualized any of those possible worlds in which He exists. So if He exists and is omnipotent, He could have actualized (contrary to the Free Will Defense) any of those possible worlds in which He exists and in which there exist free creatures who do no wrong. He could have actualized worlds containing moral good but no moral evil. Is this correct? Let’s begin with a trivial example. You and Paul have just returned from an Australian hunting expedition: your quarry was the elusive doublewattled cassowary. Paul captured an aardvark, mistaking it for a cassowary. The creature’s disarming ways have won it a place in Paul’s heart; he is deeply attached to it. Upon your return to the States you offer Paul $500 for his aardvark, only to be rudely turned down. Later you ask yourself, “What would he have done if I’d offered him $700?” Now what is it, exactly, that you are asking? What you’re really asking in a way is whether, under a specific set of conditions, Paul would have sold it. These conditions include your having offered him $700 rather than $500 for the aardvark, everything else being as much as possible like the conditions that did in fact obtain. Let S′ be this set of conditions or state of affairs. S′ includes the state of affairs consisting in your offering Paul $700 (instead of the $500 you did offer him); of course it does not include his accepting your offer, and it does not include his rejecting it; for the rest, the conditions it includes are just like the ones that did obtain in the actual world. So, for example, S′ includes Paul’s being free to accept the offer and free to refrain; and if in fact the going rate for an aardvark was $650, then S′ includes the state of affairs consisting in the going rate’s being $650. So we might put your question by asking which of the following conditionals is true: (23) If the state of affairs S′ had obtained, Paul would have accepted the offer (24) If the State of affairs S′ had obtained, Paul would not have accepted the offer. It seems clear that at least one of these conditionals is true, but naturally they can’t both be; so exactly one is.

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Now since S′ includes neither Paul’s accepting the offer nor his rejecting it, the antecedent of (23) and (24) does not entail the consequent of either. That is, (25) S′ obtains does not entail either (26) Paul accepts the offer or (27) Paul does not accept the offer. So there are possible worlds in which both (25) and (26) are true, and other possible worlds in which both (25) and (27) are true. We are now in a position to grasp an important fact. Either (23) or (24) is in fact true; and either way there are possible worlds God could not have actualized. Suppose, first of all, that (23) is true. Then it was beyond the power of God to create a world in which (1) Paul is free to sell his aardvark and free to refrain, and in which the other states of affairs included in S′ obtain, and (2) Paul does not sell. That is, it was beyond His power to create a world in which (25) and (27) are both true. There is at least one possible world like this, but God, despite His omnipotence, could not have brought about its actuality. For let W be such a world. To actualize W, God must bring it about that Paul is free with respect to this action, and that the other states of affairs included in S′ obtain. But (23), as we are supposing, is true; so if God had actualized S′ and left Paul free with respect to this action, he would have sold: in which case W would not have been actual. If, on the other hand, God had brought it about that Paul didn’t sell or had caused him to refrain from selling, then Paul would not have been free with respect to this action; then S′ would not have been actual (since S′ includes Paul’s being free with respect to it), and W would not have been actual since W includes S′. Of course if it is (24) rather than (23) that is true, then another class of worlds was beyond God’s power to actualize—those, namely, in which S′

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obtains and Paul sells his aardvark. These are the worlds in which both (25) and (26) are true. But either (23) or (24) is true. Therefore, there are possible worlds God could not have actualized. If we consider whether or not God could have created a world in which, let’s say, both (25) and (26) are true, we see that the answer depends upon a peculiar kind of fact; it depends upon what Paul would have freely chosen to do in a certain situation. So there are any number of possible worlds such that it is partly up to Paul whether God can create them.14 That was a past tense example. Perhaps it would be useful to consider a future tense case, since this might seem to correspond more closely to God’s situation in choosing a possible world to actualize. At some time t in the near future Maurice will be free with respect to some insignificant action—having freeze-dried oatmeal for breakfast, let’s say. That is, at time t Maurice will be free to have oatmeal but also free to take something else—shredded wheat, perhaps. Next, suppose we consider S′, a state of affairs that is included in the actual world and includes Maurice’s being free with respect to taking oatmeal at time t. That is, S′ includes Maurice’s being free at time t to take oatmeal and free to reject it. S′ does not include Maurice’s taking oatmeal, however; nor does it include his rejecting it. For the rest S′ is as much as possible like the actual world. In particular there are many conditions that do in fact hold at time t and are relevant to his choice—such conditions, for example, as the fact that he hasn’t had oatmeal lately, that his wife will be annoyed if he rejects it, and the like; and S′ includes each of these conditions. Now God no doubt knows what Maurice will do at time t, if S obtains; He knows which action Maurice would freely perform if S were to be actual. That is, God knows that one of the following conditionals is true: (28) If S′ were to obtain, Maurice will freely take the oatmeal or (29) If S′ were to obtain, Maurice will freely reject it. We may not know which of these is true, and Maurice himself may not know; but presumably God does.

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So either God knows that (28) is true, or else He knows that (29) is. Let’s suppose it is (28). Then there is a possible world that God, though omnipotent, cannot create. For consider a possible world W ′ that shares S′ with the actual world (which for ease of reference I’ll name “Kronos”) and in which Maurice does not take oatmeal. (We know there is such a world, since S′ does not include Maurice’s taking the oatmeal.) S′ obtains in W ′ just as it does in Kronos. Indeed, everything in W ′ is just as it is in Kronos up to time t. But whereas in Kronos Maurice takes oatmeal at time t, in W ′ he does not. Now W ′ is a perfectly possible world; but it is not within God’s power to create it or bring about its actuality. For to do so He must actualize S′. But (28) is in fact true. So if God actualizes S′ (as He must to create W ′) and leaves Maurice free with respect to the action in question, then he will take the oatmeal; and then, of course, W ′ will not be actual. If, on the other hand, God causes Maurice to refrain from taking the oatmeal, then he is not free to take it. That means, once again, that W ′ is not actual; for in W ′ Maurice is free to take the oatmeal (even if he doesn’t do so). So if (28) is true, then this world W ′ is one that God can’t actualize, it is not within His power to actualize it even though He is omnipotent and it is a possible world. Of course, if it is (29) that is true, we get a similar result; then too there are possible worlds that God can’t actualize. These would be worlds which share S′ with Kronos and in which Maurice does take oatmeal. But either (28) or (29) is true; so either way there is a possible world that God can’t create. If we consider a world in which S′ obtains and in which Maurice freely chooses oatmeal at time t, we see that whether or not it is within God’s power to actualize it depends upon what Maurice would do if he were free in a certain situation. Accordingly, there are any number of possible worlds such that it is partly up to Maurice whether or not God can actualize them. It is, of course, up to God whether or not to create Maurice and also up to God whether or not to make him free with respect to the action of taking oatmeal at time t. (God could, if He chose, cause him to succumb to the dreaded equine obsession, a condition shared by some people and most horses, whose victims find it psychologically impossible to refuse oats or oat products.) But if He creates Maurice and creates him free with respect to this action, then whether or not he actually performs the action is up to Maurice—not God.15 Now we can return to the Free Will Defense and the problem of evil. The Free Will Defender, you recall, insists on the possibility that it is not

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within God’s power to create a world containing moral good without creating one containing moral evil. His atheological opponent—Mackie, for example—agrees with Leibniz in insisting that if (as the theist holds) God is omnipotent, then it follows that He could have created any possible world He pleased. We now see that this contention—call it “Leibniz’ Lapse”—is a mistake. The atheologian is right in holding that there are many possible worlds containing moral good but no moral evil; his mistake lies in endorsing Leibniz’ Lapse. So one of his premises—that God, if omnipotent, could have actualized just any world He pleased—is false.

COU LD GOD H AV E CR E ATED A WOR LD CONTA INING MOR A L GOOD BU T NO MOR A L EV IL?

Now suppose we recapitulate the logic of the situation. The Free Will Defender claims that the following is possible: (30) God is omnipotent, and it was not within His power to create a world containing moral good but no moral evil. By way of retort the atheologian insists that there are possible worlds containing moral good but no moral evil. He adds that an omnipotent being could have actualized any possible world he chose. So if God is omnipotent, it follows that He could have actualized a world containing moral good but no moral evil, hence (30), contrary to the Free Will Defender’s claim, is not possible. What we have seen so far is that his second premise—Leibniz’ Lapse—is false. Of course, this does not settle the issue in the Free Will Defender’s favor. Leibniz’ Lapse (appropriately enough for a lapse) is false; but this doesn’t show that (30) is possible. To show this latter we must demonstrate the possibility that among the worlds God could not have actualized are all the worlds containing moral good but no moral evil. How can we approach this question? Instead of choosing oatmeal for breakfast or selling an aardvark, suppose we think about a morally significant action such as taking a bribe. James Curley, the mayor of Boston, is opposed to the proposed freeway

126  The Logical Problem

route; it would require destruction of the Old North Church along with some other antiquated and structurally unsound buildings. L. B. Smedes, the director of highways, asks him whether he’d drop his opposition for $1 million. “Of course,” he replies. “Would you do it for $2?” asks Smedes. “What do you take me for?” comes the indignant reply. “That’s already established,” smirks Smedes; “all that remains is to nail down your price.” Smedes then offers him a bribe of $35,000; unwilling to break with the fine old traditions of Bay State politics, Curley accepts. Smedes then spends a sleepless night wondering whether he could have bought Curley for $20,000. Now suppose we assume that Curley was free with respect to the action of taking the bribe—free to take it and free to refuse. And suppose, furthermore, that he would have taken it. That is, let us suppose that (31) If Smedes had offered Curley a bribe of $20,000, he would have accepted it. If (31) is true, then there is a state of affairs S′ that (1) includes Curley’s being offered a bribe of $20,000; (2) does not include either his accepting the bribe or his rejecting it; and (3) is otherwise as much as possible like the actual world. Just to make sure S′ includes every relevant circumstance, let us suppose that it is a maximal world segment. That is, add to S′ any state of affairs compatible with but not included in it, and the result will be an entire possible world. We could think of it roughly like this: S′ is included in at least one world W in which Curley takes the bribe and in at least one world W ′ in which he rejects it. If S′ is a maximal world segment, then S′ is what remains of W when Curley’s taking the bribe is deleted; it is also what remains of W ′ when Curley’s rejecting the bribe is detected. More exactly, if S′ is a maximal world segment, then every possible state of affairs that includes S′, but isn’t included by S′, is a possible world. So if (31) is true, then there is a maximal world segment S′ that (1) includes Curley’s being offered a bribe of $20,000; (2) does not include either his accepting the bribe or his rejecting it; (3) is otherwise as much as possible like the actual world—in particular, it includes Curley’s being free with respect to the bribe; and (4) is such that if it were actual then Curley would have taken the bribe. That is,

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(32) if S′ were actual, Curley would have accepted the bribe is true. Now, of course, there is at least one possible world W ′ in which S′ is actual and Curley does not take the bribe. But God could not have created W ′; to do so, He would have been obliged to actualize S′, leaving Curley free with respect to the action of taking the bribe. But under these conditions Curley, as (32) assures us, would have accepted the bribe, so that the world thus created would not have been S′. Curley, as we see, is not above a bit of Watergating. But there may be worse to come. Of course, there are possible worlds in which he is significantly free (i.e., free with respect to a morally significant action) and never does what is wrong. But the sad truth about Curley may be this. Consider W ′, any of these worlds: in W ′ Curley is significantly free, so in W ′ there are some actions that are morally significant for him and with respect to which he is free. But at least one of these actions—call it A—has the following peculiar property. There is a maximal world segment S′ that obtains in W ′ and is such that (1) S′ includes Curley’s being free re A but neither his performing A nor his refraining from A; (2) S′ is otherwise as much as possible like W ′; and (3) if S′ had been actual, Curley would have gone wrong with respect to A.16 (Notice that this third condition holds in fact, in the actual world; it does not hold in that world W ′.) This means, of course, that God could not have actualized W ′. For to do so He’d have been obliged to bring it about that S′ is actual; but then Curley would go wrong with respect to A. Since in W ′ he always does what is right, the world thus actualized would not be W ′. On the other hand, if God causes Curley to go right with respect to A or brings it about that he does so, then Curley isn’t free with respect to A; and so once more it isn’t W ′ that is actual. Accordingly God cannot create W ′. But W ′ was just any of the worlds in which Curley is significantly free but always does only what is right. It therefore follows that it was not within God’s power to create a world in which Curley produces moral good but no moral evil. Every world God can actualize is such that if Curley is significantly free in it he takes at least one wrong action. Obviously Curley is in serious trouble. I shall call the malady from which he suffers transworld depravity. (I leave as homework the problem of comparing transworld depravity with what Calvinists call “total depravity.”) By way of explicit definition:

128  The Logical Problem

(33) A person P suffers from transworld depravity if and only if the following holds: for every world W such that P is significantly free in W and P does only what is right in W, there is an action A and a maximal world segment S′ such that (1) S′ includes A’s being morally significant for P (2) S′ includes P’s being free with respect to A (3) S′ is included in W and includes neither P’s performing A nor P’s refraining from performing A and (4) If S′ were actual, P would go wrong with respect to A. (In thinking about this definition, remember that (4) is to be true in fact, in the actual world—not in that world W.) What is important about the idea of transworld depravity is that if a person suffers from it, then it wasn’t within God’s power to actualize any world in which that person is significantly free but does no wrong—that is, a world in which he produces moral good but no moral evil. We have been here considering a crucial contention of the Free Will Defender: the contention, namely, that (30) God is omnipotent, and it was not within His power to create a world containing moral good but no moral evil. How is transworld depravity relevant to this? As follows. Obviously it is possible that there be persons who suffer from transworld depravity. More generally, it is possible that everybody suffers from it. And if this possibility were actual, then God, though omnipotent, could not have created any of the possible worlds containing just the persons who do in fact exist, and containing moral good but no moral evil. For to do so He’d have to create persons who were significantly free (otherwise there would be no moral good) but suffered from transworld depravity. Such persons go wrong with respect to at least one action in any world God could have actualized and in which they are free with respect to morally significant actions; so the price for creating a world in which they produce moral good is creating one in which they also produce moral evil.

The Free Will Defense 129 NOTES

1. John Mackie, “Evil and Omnipotence,” in The Philosophy of Religion, ed. Basil Mitchell (London: Oxford University Press, 1971), 92. 2. Ibid., 92–93. 3. Ibid., 93. 4. More simply the question is really just whether any good state of affairs includes an evil; a little reflection reveals that no good state of affairs can include an evil that it does not outweigh. 5. In Alvin Plantinga, God and Other Minds (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967), chap. 5, I explore further the project of finding such propositions. 6. St. Augustine, The Problem of Free Choice, vol. 22 of Ancient Christian Writers (Westminster, MD: Newman Press, 1955), bk. 2, pp. 14–15. 7. Ibid., bk. 3, p. 9. 8. I am indebted to Henry Schuurman (in conversation) for helpful discussion of the difference between this pastoral function and those served by a theodicy or a defense. 9. This distinction is not very precise (how, exactly, are we to construe “results from”?), but perhaps it will serve our present purposes. 10. See, for example, Antony Flew, “Divine Omnipotence and Human Freedom,” in New Essays in Philosophical Theology, ed. Antony Flew and Alasdair Mac­ Intyre (London: SCM, 1955), 150–53. 11. For further discussion of it see Plantinga, God and Other Minds, 132–35. 12. Mackie, “Evil and Omnipotence,” in The Philosophy of Religion, 100–101. 13. Strict accuracy demands, therefore, that we speak of God as actualizing rather than creating possible worlds. I shall continue to use both locutions, thus sacrificing accuracy to familiarity. For more about possible worlds see my book The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), chaps. 4–8. 14. For a fuller statement of this argument see ibid., chap. 9, secs. 4–6. 15. For a more complete and more exact statement of this argument see again ibid., c hap. 9, secs. 4–6. 16. A person goes wrong with respect to an action if he either wrongfully performs it or wrongfully fails to perform it.

C H A P T E R

9

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism— A Debate W I L L I A M L . ROW E , D A N I E L H OWA R D - S N Y D E R , A N D M I C H A E L B E RG M A N N

Evil Is Evidence against Theistic Belief W I L L I A M L . ROW E

1. THE ISSUE

The specific question assigned to us for discussion is this: Grounds for belief in God aside, do the evils in our world make atheistic belief more reasonable than theistic belief ? The initial clause in this question is important. For it is one thing to argue that the evils in our world provide such compelling reaFrom William L. Rowe, Daniel Howard-Snyder, and Michael Bergmann in Contemporary Debates in the Philosophy of Religion, ed. Michael L. Peterson and Raymond J. VanArragon (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 3–29. Used by permission of John Wiley & Sons.

130

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 131

sons for atheism that the reasons for the existence of God are insufficient to swing the pendulum back in favor of the existence of God, and another thing to argue that, putting aside whatever reasons there may be for believing that God exists, the evils that occur in our world make belief in atheism more reasonable than belief in theism. If we put aside grounds for belief in the existence of God, the likelihood that God exists cannot reasonably be assigned any probability beyond 0.5—where 1 represents God’s existence as certain, and 0 represents certainty that God does not exist. So, if we start from an initial point of God’s existence having a likelihood of 0.5 or less, and restrict ourselves to the evidence generated by the enormous amount of horrendous evil that occurs daily in our world, it should strike anyone that the likelihood of God’s existence can only go downward from 0.5.1 To reach such a judgment is perfectly consistent with holding that once the reasons supportive of the existence of God are brought into the equation, the likelihood of God’s existence is in fact positive, somewhere between 0.5 and 1. So, we should not confuse arguing that the negative evidence of evil shows God’s existence to be unlikely, even taking into account the positive reasons there are to think that God exists, with arguing that, putting aside the positive reasons for thinking that God exists, the evils that occur in our world make atheistic belief more reasonable than theistic belief. The issue in this discussion is only the latter: Apart from taking into account the positive reasons for thinking that God exists, do the evils that occur in our world make atheistic belief more reasonable than theistic belief ? I shall argue that they do. Before proceeding to argue this point, however, it is important to be clear on what theism is. Theism is the view that there exists an all-powerful, all-knowing, perfectly good being (God). We can call this view restricted theism. It is restricted in that it does not include any claim that is not entailed by it.2 So, theism itself does not include any of the following claims: God delivered the Ten Commandments to Moses, Jesus was the incarnation of God, Muhammad ascended into heaven. These are claims made in specific theistic religions; thus they are a part of an expanded form of theism: Judaic theism, Christian theism, and Islamic theism. The importance of not taking theism to include the claims held by only one particular religion among the three major theistic religions of the West is that the inclusion would make theism less likely; for if we identify theism with a particular one among the great theistic religions, then the truth of theism itself is made to depend

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on all the essential beliefs of that particular theistic religion. The other side of this coin is that philosophers who wish to defend theism ought not to suppose that the assumption of theism entitles them to assume any of the special claims associated with their own particular theistic religion. Since most of the philosophers in the Anglo-American tradition who defend theism are adherents of some version of Christian theism, they should beware of confusing the assumption that theism is true with the altogether different, and less likely, assumption that Christian theism is true.

2. THE A RGUMENT

Do the evils that occur in our world significantly lower the likelihood of God’s existence?3 Let’s begin thinking about this problem by considering a simple argument from the existence of some of the evils in our world to the nonexistence of God. 1. There exist horrendous evils that an all-powerful, all-knowing, perfectly good being would have no justifying reason to permit. 2. An all-powerful, all-knowing, perfectly good being would not permit an evil unless he had a justifying reason to permit it. Therefore, 3. God does not exist. If theists reject this argument for the nonexistence of God, they must reject either the first premise or the second premise. Most theists accept the second premise, as do nontheists. So, most theists must reject the first premise, holding instead that God has a justifying reason for permitting each and every horrendous evil that occurs. But what would be a justifying reason for God to permit some terrible evil he could prevent? Since an evil is something that by its very nature is bad, God’s justifying reason for permitting it would have to include something else—either some outweighing good that, all things considered, he wishes to realize and cannot realize without permitting that evil,4 or some equal or worse evil that, all things considered, he wishes to prevent and cannot prevent without permitting that evil. And the

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 133

question we must ask ourselves is whether it is rational for us to believe that all the terrible evils that occur daily in our world are like that? Is it rational to believe that each evil is such that were an all-powerful, all-knowing being to prevent it, he would have to forfeit some outweighing good?5 Perhaps it will make the issue before us a bit more concrete if we focus on some examples of terrible evils, rather than just terrible evils in the abstract. Here are two examples: A fawn is horribly burned in a forest fire caused by lightning. It lies on the forest floor suffering terribly for five days before death relieves it of its suffering. A five-year-old girl is brutally beaten, raped, and strangled in Flint, Michigan, on New Year’s Day in 1986. The theist must believe that for each of these evils there is some greater good to which it leads, a good that an all-powerful being simply could not realize without permitting that evil. But is what the theist believes about these two evils really so? Is there really some great good that an all-powerful being could bring about only by permitting that fawn to be badly burned and to suffer intensely for five long days before death relieves its torment? And is there really some great good that an all-powerful being could bring about only by permitting that little five-year-old girl in Flint, Michigan, to be savagely beaten, raped, and strangled? And even if it should somehow be so in these two cases, is it true that all the instances of intense human and animal suffering occurring daily in our world lead to greater goods in such a way that even an all-powerful, all-knowing being could not have achieved any of those goods without permitting the instances of suffering that supposedly lead to them? In light of our knowledge of the scale of human and animal suffering occurring daily in our world, the idea that none of those instances of suffering could have been prevented by an all-powerful being without the loss of a greater good must strike us as an extraordinary idea, quite beyond our belief. And if it does strike us in this way, the first premise of the argument we are considering—that there exist horrendous evils that an all-powerful, allknowing, perfectly good being would have no justifying reason to permit—is bound to strike us as plausible, as something quite likely to be true. But since the second premise is generally agreed to be true, we should then reason that it is likely that our conclusion is true, that God does not exist.

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It is important here to understand two points about the argument just presented. First, the argument is not, nor is it meant to be, a proof that God does not exist. To be a proof of its conclusion, an argument must be such that its conclusion logically follows from its premises and its premises are known with certainty to be true. The argument we are considering meets the first condition, but not the second. The conclusion follows deductively from the two premises, but its first premise is not known with certainty to be true. The claim is only that the first premise is one that we are rationally justified in believing to be true. And since our confidence in the truth of the conclusion should not exceed our confidence in the premises from which it follows, the claim is only that the premises provide sufficient rational support for that conclusion. Second, the truth of the first premise does not logi­ cally depend on any claim about the two examples of the fawn and the fiveyear-old girl. The examples are meant to illustrate the profound difficulty in really believing that an all-powerful, all-knowing being is incapable of achieving his noble ends without having to permit such horrendous, undeserved suffering. But if there were only a few such examples as these, perhaps it would not be unreasonable to believe that somehow even an infinitely intelligent, all-powerful being could not achieve his good ends without permitting them. But, of course, our world is not like that. It is the enormous amount of apparently pointless, horrendous suffering occurring daily in our world that grounds the claim in the first premise that there are pointless evils in our world, evils that an all-powerful being could have prevented without forfeiting some outweighing good. But, again, it is not being asserted that the existence of pointless evils is known with certainty, only that it is quite likely that pointless evils occur.

3.  EVA LUATING T WO R ESPONSES

3.1  First Response

Having looked at a particular argument from evil against theistic belief, we can now consider and critically evaluate two theistic responses to this argument. The first response that the theist may put forth goes something like this:

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 135 The first point I want to make is that thus far we have been given no reason at all to think that premise (1) is true. For all you have pointed out is that we don’t know what the good is that justifies God in permitting any of these horrendous evils, like the fawn’s suffering or the little girl’s suffering. But to argue from the fact that we don’t know what the good is that justifies God in permitting a certain evil to the conclusion that there is no such good is to engage in a fallacious argument from ignorance: we don’t know of any justifying good, therefore there isn’t any. So, you haven’t really given any good reason at all to think that there are terrible evils for which there are no God-justifying goods. All you have shown, if you have shown anything, is that if these evils do serve some God-justifying goods, we don’t know what they are. And the interesting question to ask about our ignorance of these justifying goods is this: Given that God’s mind infinitely transcends ours, is it really at all likely that the goods for the sake of which he permits much horrendous suffering will be goods we comprehend? After all, isn’t God in relation to us like good, loving parents in relation to their small child? Such parents may permit their very young child to suffer a painful surgical procedure for a good the child simply cannot comprehend. So, too, we should expect that if God exists, he may permit many instances of human or animal suffering so as to realize goods our minds simply cannot comprehend. And if that is so, the fact that we don’t know the goods that justify God in permitting much horrendous suffering cannot really be a reason for thinking he doesn’t exist. For it is just what we should expect to be true if he does exist.6

What are we to make of this response by the theist? Are we really just arguing from ignorance? Perhaps we can come to see that we are not by first distinguishing between goods we know about (goods within our ken) and goods beyond our ken. Consider the suffering of the five-year-old girl as she was brutally beaten, raped, and strangled on New Year’s Eve in 1986 in Flint, Michigan. I believe that no good we know about justifies God in permitting that suffering. By “goods we know about” I mean goods that we have some cognitive grasp of, even though we may have no knowledge at all that they have occurred or ever will occur. For example, consider the good of the little girl experiencing complete felicity in the everlasting presence of God. Theists consider this an enormous personal good, perhaps the greatest

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personal good possible for the little girl. So, even though we don’t have a very clear grasp of what this great good involves, and even though we don’t know that such a good will ever be actualized, I include the good of her experiencing complete felicity in the everlasting presence of God among the goods we know about. Of course, if some good we know about does justify God in permitting her suffering, that good must have already been actualized or be actualized at some point in the future. But the notion of a good we know about extends to many future goods and to goods that never have and never will occur. And what we have good reason to believe is that none of the goods we know about justifies God in permitting the horrendous suffering of that little girl. For with respect to each such good we consider, we have reason to believe either that it isn’t good enough to justify God in permitting that evil, or that it could likely be actualized by God without his having to permit the horrendous suffering of that little girl, or that some equal or better good could likely be actualized by God without his having to permit the horrendous suffering of that little girl. Of course, even granting that we know of many great goods and have reason to think that none of these goods justifies God in permitting the little girl’s suffering, there still remains the possibility that some good we cannot even conceive does so. And it is here that the theist may appeal to the analogy between the good parent and God. For we cannot deny that some good the child’s mind cannot even conceive may justify the parents in permitting the child to suffer. And, by analogy, won’t the same be true of God in relation to us as his children? Indeed, since the disparity between his mind and ours may greatly exceed that of the good parents’ minds and the mind of their child, isn’t it likely that the goods that justify him in permitting us to suffer will often be beyond our comprehension? But against this argument from analogy, two points need to be made. First, although arguments from analogy are rather weak, the analogy in question has some merit if drawn between a good parent and a good deity of considerable, but nevertheless finite, power and knowledge. For, like the good parent, a deity with great but finite powers may reasonably believe that he cannot realize some important future good for some of his creatures without permitting a present evil to befall them. And there may be occasions when, like the good parent, the finite deity is simply unable to prevent a dreadful evil befalling his creatures even though there is no good

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 137

at all served by it. But the theistic God has unlimited power and knowledge. A good parent may be unable to prevent some suffering her child undergoes, or even the child’s death from some painful disease. Can we seriously think that an infinitely powerful, all-knowing deity was powerless to prevent the horror of Auschwitz? A good parent may see that she cannot realize some important future good for her child without permitting some present evil to befall the child. Can we seriously think that there is some faroff future good for the victims of Auschwitz, a good that a deity of infinite power and knowledge judged to be worth the horror of Auschwitz and was powerless to achieve without permitting that horror? Perhaps we can if we turn from reason to faith. But the infinite distance between the God of traditional theism and the good mother with the sick child doesn’t, in my judgment, provide human reason with good grounds for thinking that such a being would be powerless to prevent many of the countless, seemingly pointless horrors in our world without losing some goods so distant from us that even the mere conception of them must elude our grasp. But suppose we do reason from the good-parent analogy to the behavior of an all-powerful, all-knowing, infinitely good deity. I think we shall see that the good-parent analogy leads in a different direction from what its proposers desire. We know that when a good, loving parent permits her child to suffer severely in the present for some outweighing good which the child cannot comprehend, the loving parent then makes every effort to be consciously present to the child during its period of suffering, giving special assurances of her love, concern, and care. For the child may believe that the parent could prevent its present suffering. So the parent will be particularly careful to give her child special assurances of her love and concern during this period of permitted suffering for a distant good the child does not understand. And indeed, what we know about good, loving parents, especially when they permit their children to suffer intensely for goods the children cannot comprehend, is that they are almost always consciously present to their children during the period of their suffering, giving special assurances of their love and care. So, on the basis of the good-parent analogy, we should infer that it is likely that God, too, will almost always be consciously present to humans, if not other animals, when he permits them to suffer for goods they cannot comprehend, giving special assurances of his love for them. But since countless numbers of human beings undergo prolonged,

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horrendous suffering without being consciously aware of God’s presence or any special assurances of his love and comfort, we can reasonably infer either that God does not exist or that the good-parent analogy is unable to help us understand why God permits all the horrendous suffering that occurs daily in our world. Our conclusion about the theist’s first response is this. The argument in support of premise (1) is not an argument from ignorance. It is an argument from our knowledge of many goods and our reasonable judgment that none of them justifies God in permitting instances of horrendous evil. It is also an argument from our knowledge of what a being of infinite power, intelligence, and goodness would be disposed to do and would be capable of doing. Of course, there remains the logical possibility both that some goods incomprehensible to us justify God in permitting all these horrendous evils that occur daily in our world and that some further goods incomprehensible to us justify God in not being consciously present to so many who endure these horrendous evils. So, we cannot prove that premise (1) is true. Nevertheless, the first response of the theist should, I believe, be judged insufficient to defeat our reasons for thinking that premise (1) is probably true. Before turning to the theist’s second response, we should note that some theists will protest the conclusion we’ve come to about the first response. Here is what such a theist may say: Your distinction between goods we know about and goods beyond our ken is well-taken. Moreover, you are right to insist that your argument is not a flagrant example of an argument from ignorance. But there is one quite important point you have failed to establish. It is crucial to your argument that we should expect to know the goods for the sake of which God permits much terrible suffering or, failing such knowledge, be particularly aware of God’s presence and his love for us during the period of intense suffering for goods we cannot comprehend. For if we have no good reason to expect to know these goods, or to experience God’s presence and love during our suffering, then the fact that we don’t know them and don’t experience God’s presence and love won’t really count against the existence of God. And my point is that God may have good reasons (unknown to us) for not revealing these goods to us. And he also may have good reasons (unknown to us) for not disclosing himself and his love during the period when many suffer ter-

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 139 ribly for goods they cannot comprehend. How are you able to show that this point of mine is just a mere logical possibility and not the way things really are? I think you need to treat more seriously than you do the distinct possibility that God’s reasons for permitting so much horrendous suffering, and his reasons for not being consciously present to us during our suffering, involve goods that are presently incomprehensible to us.

The theist here raises an important point. Using the theist’s own goodparent analogy, I argued that there is reason to think that when we don’t know the goods for the sake of which God permits some horrendous suffering, it is probable that, like the good parent, he would provide us, his children, with special assurances of his love and concern. Since many endure horrendous suffering without any such special assurances, I suggested that we have further reason to doubt God’s existence. And the theist’s only reply can be that there are still further unknown goods that justify God in not being consciously present to us when we endure terrible suffering for the sake of goods beyond our ken. And I’ve allowed that we cannot prove that this isn’t so. It clearly remains a logical possibility. I’ve said, however, that we can conclude that premise (1) is probably true. But the theist says that I’m not justified in concluding that premise (1) is probably true unless I give a reason for thinking it likely that there are no unknown goods that justify God in permitting much horrendous suffering or no unknown goods that justify God in not being present to us when we endure suffering for the sake of unknown goods. The theist may grant me that no goods we know of play this justifying role. But before allowing me to conclude that it is probable that premise (1) is true and, therefore, probable that God does not exist, the theist says I must also provide some grounds for thinking that no unknown goods play that justifying role. Suppose we are unsure whether Smith will be in town this evening. It is just as likely, say, that he will be out of town this evening as that he will be in town. Suppose, however, that we do know that if Smith is in town, it is just as likely that he will be at the concert this evening as that he won’t be. Later we discover that he is not at the concert. I conclude that, given this further information (that he is not at the concert), it is now less likely that he’s in town than that he’s out of town, that given our information that he is not at the concert, it is more likely that he is out of town than that he is in

140  The Evidential Problem

town. I do admit, however, that I haven’t done anything to show that he is not actually somewhere else in town. All I’ve established is that he is not at the concert. I acknowledge that it is logically possible that he’s somewhere else in town. Nor do I know for certain that he is not somewhere else in town. All I claim is that it is probable that he is not in town, that it is more likely that he is not in town than that he is in town. Those who want to believe that Smith is in town may say that I’m not justified in concluding that it is probable that he’s out of town unless I give some reason to think that he is not somewhere else in town. For, they may say, all I’ve done is exclude one of the places he will be if he is in town. Similarly, the theist says that if God exists, then either all the horrendous evils we consider serve unknown goods or some of them serve goods we know of. We might even agree that if God exists, it is equally likely that some of the justifying goods will be known to us as that all of the justifying goods will be beyond our ken. After all, when we understand why God may be permitting some terrible evils to occur, those evils will be easier to bear than if we haven’t a clue as to why God is permitting them to occur. Suppose we then consider the goods we know of and reasonably conclude that none of them justifies God in permitting any of these horrendous evils that abound in our world. The theist may even agree that this is true. I then say that it is probable that God does not exist. The theist says I’m not justified in drawing this conclusion unless I give some reason to think that no unknown goods justify God in permitting all these terrible evils. For, he says, all I’ve done is exclude one sort of good (goods known by us) as God’s justification for permitting any of these terrible evils. Who is right here? Let’s go back to the claim that it is probable that Smith is not in town this evening. How can we be justified in making that claim if we’ve learned only that he is not at the concert? The reason is this. We originally knew that it was equally likely that he would be out of town as in town. We also agreed that if he is in town, it is equally likely that he will be at the concert as that he won’t be. Once we learn he is not at the concert, the likelihood that he is out of town must increase, as does the likelihood that he is somewhere else in town. But since it was equally likely that he is out of town as in town, if the likelihood that he is out of town goes up, it then becomes greater than 0.5, with the result that it is probable that he is not in town.

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 141

Turn now to the existence of God and the occurrence of horrendous evils. Either God exists or he does not. Suppose for a moment that, like the case of Smith being or not being in town, each of these (God exists, God does not exist) is equally likely on the information we have prior to considering the problem of evil.7 Consider again the many horrendous evils that we know to occur in our world. Before we examine these evils and consider what sort of goods (known or unknown) might justify God (if he exists) in permitting them, let us suppose that it is as likely that the justifying goods for some of these evils are known to us as that the justifying goods for all of these evils are unknown to us. We then examine the known goods and those horrendous evils and come to the conclusion that no known good justifies God in permitting any of those horrendous evils. That discovery parallels our discovery that Smith is not at the concert. And the result is just the same: it is then more probable than not that God does not exist. 3.2  Second Response

The second response that the theist can give to the challenge of the problem of evil is the following: It is a mistake to think that the goods for which God permits these horrendous evils are totally beyond our ken. For religious thinkers have developed very plausible theodicies that suggest a variety of goods that may well constitute God’s reasons for permitting many of the horrendous evils that affect human and animal existence. When we seriously consider these theodicies, we can see that we have good reason to think that premise (1) is false. For these theodicies provide us with plausible accounts of what may be God’s justifying reasons for permitting the evils that occur in our world.

The theist’s first response was to argue both that we have given no reason at all for thinking that premise (1) is true and that our ignorance of many goods that God’s mind can comprehend prevents us from being able to establish that premise (1) is probably true. In the second response, the theist proposes to give a good reason for thinking that premise (1) is false. And, of course, to the extent that theodicies do provide a good reason for rejecting premise (1), to that extent the theist will have pointed the way to reconciling

142  The Evidential Problem

the existence of God with the fact that our world contains the horrendous evils that it does. But do these theodicies really succeed in providing a good reason for rejecting premise (1)? I believe they do not. But to demonstrate this, we would have to show that these theodicies, taken together, are really unsuccessful in providing what could be God’s reasons for permitting the horrendous evils in the world. Although I believe this can be done, I propose here to take just one of these theodicies, the one most commonly appealed to, and show how it fails to provide a good reason for rejecting premise (1). I refer to the free will theodicy, a theodicy that has played a central role in defense of theism in the theistic religions of the West. Developed extensively by St. Augustine (A.D. 354–430), the free will theodicy proposes to explain all the evils in the world as due either directly to evil acts of human free will or to divine punishment for evil acts of human free will. The basic idea is that rather than create humans so that they behave like automatons, acting rightly of necessity, God created beings who have the power to act well or ill, free either to pursue the good and thereby enjoy God’s eternal blessing or to pursue the bad and thereby experience God’s punishment. As things turned out, many humans used their free will to turn away from God, freely choosing to do ill rather than good, rejecting God’s purpose for their lives. Thus, the evils in the world that are not bad acts of human free will, or their causal effects, are due to God’s own acts of punishment for wrongful exercise of human free will. The cornerstone of this theodicy is that human free will is a good of such enormous value that God is justified in creating humans with free will even if, as Augustine held, God knew in advance of creating them that certain human beings would use their freedom to do ill rather than good, while knowing that others would use their freedom to do only (or mostly) what is good. So, all the horrendous evils occurring daily in our world are either evil acts of free human beings and their causal effects or divine punishments for those acts. And the implication of this theodicy is that the good of human free will justifies God in permitting all these horrendous acts of evil and their causal effects, as well as the other evils resulting from plagues, floods, hurricanes, etc., that are God’s ways of punishing us for our evil acts. While this theodicy may explain some of the evil in our world, it cannot account for the massive amount of human suffering that is not due to human acts of free will. Natural disasters (floods, earthquakes, hurricanes,

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 143

etc.) bring about enormous amounts of human and animal suffering. But it is obvious that such suffering is not proportionate to the abuses of free will by humans. So, we cannot reasonably think that such disasters are God’s way of punishing human free choices to do evil. Second, while being free to do evil may be essential to genuine freedom, no responsible person thinks that the good of human freedom is so great as to require that no steps be taken to prevent some of the more flagrant abuses of free choice that result in massive, undeserved suffering by human and animals. Any moral person who had power to do so would have intervened to prevent the evil free choices that resulted in the torture and death of six million Jews in the Holocaust. We commonly act to restrict egregious abuses of human freedom that result in massive, undeserved human and animal suffering. Any moral being, including God, if he exists, would likely do the same. And since the free will theodicy is representative of the other attempts to justify God’s permission of the horrendous evils in our world, it is reasonably clear that these evils cannot be explained away by appeal to theodicies. In this essay I have argued that, putting aside whatever reasons there may be to think that the theistic God exists, the facts about evil in our world provide good reason to think that God does not exist. While the argument is only one of probability, it provides a sound basis for an affirmative answer to the question that is the focus of this exchange.

Evil Does Not Make Atheism More Reasonable Than Theism D A N I E L H OWA R D - S N Y D E R A N D M I C H A E L B E RG M A N N

Many people deny that evil makes belief in atheism more reasonable for us than belief in theism. After all, they say, the grounds for belief in God are much better than the evidence for atheism, including the evidence provided by evil. We will not join their ranks on this occasion. Rather, we wish to consider the proposition that, setting aside grounds for belief in God and relying only on the background knowledge shared in common by nontheists and theists, evil makes belief in atheism more reasonable for us than belief in theism. Our aim is to argue against this proposition. We recognize that in doing so, we face a formidable challenge. It’s one thing to say that evil presents a

144  The Evidential Problem

reason for atheism that is, ultimately, overridden by arguments for theism. It’s another to say that it doesn’t so much as provide us with a reason for atheism in the first place. In order to make this latter claim seem initially more plausible, consider the apparent design of the mammalian eye or the apparent fine-tuning of the universe to support life. These are often proposed as reasons to believe in theism. Critics commonly argue not merely that these supposed reasons for theism are overridden by arguments for atheism but rather that they aren’t good reasons for theism in the first place. Our parallel proposal with respect to evil and atheism is, initially at least, no less plausible than this proposal with respect to apparent design and theism. We begin by laying out what we will refer to as “the basic argument” for the conclusion that grounds for belief in God aside, evil does not make belief in atheism more reasonable for us than belief in theism: 1. Grounds for belief in God aside, evil makes belief in atheism more reasonable for us than belief in theism only if somebody has a good argument that displays how evil makes atheism more likely than theism. 2. Nobody has a good argument that displays how evil makes atheism more likely than theism. 3. So, grounds for belief in God aside, evil does not make belief in atheism more reasonable for us than belief in theism. (from 1 & 2) Before we get down to work, we need to address several preliminary questions.

1.  PR ELIMINA RY QUESTIONS

What do we mean by “a good argument” here? We have nothing out of the ordinary in mind. A good argument conforms to the rules of logic, none of its premises is obviously false, and there are other standards as well. But for our purposes, it is important to single out one more minimal standard, namely: Every premise, inference, and assumption on which the argument depends must be more reasonable for us to affirm than to refrain from affirming.

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 145

The proponent of the basic argument says that nobody has a good argument that displays how evil makes atheism more likely than theism because this minimal standard has not been satisfied. Now, how can we tell that nobody has a good argument of the sort in question? While some have argued that there couldn’t be such an argument, we think that a more promising strategy is to consider one by one each argument from evil, laboriously checking whether every premise, assumption, and inference is more reasonable to affirm than to refrain from affirming. If every argument put forward by recognized authorities on the topic were to have a premise, inference, or assumption that failed to pass the test, then we’d have pretty good reason to think that nobody has an argument of the sort in question. Unfortunately, to complete the work that this strategy requires would take a book. So we must rest content in this chapter with only a start at undertaking it. But which arguments should we focus on here? It would be uncharitable to focus on lousy arguments. We will focus on two, both of which are recognizably identified with our friend and esteemed colleague—who also happens to be the most frequently anthologized proponent of an affirmative answer to our title question—William Rowe.

2.  NOSEEUM A RGUMENTS

We begin with an analogy introduced to show how our minimal standard for a good argument works and to develop an important principle for assessing a certain popular kind of argument from evil. Suppose we asked a friend who claimed that there is no extraterrestial life why he thought that, and he responded like this: “I don’t have any way to prove that there is none. I am in no position to do that. But it is reasonable to think there is none. After all, so far as we can tell, there isn’t any. We’ve never detected any other life forms, nor have we received any signals or codes from distant galaxies—and we’ve been searching pretty hard. While this doesn’t add up to proof, surely it makes it more likely that there is no extraterrestrial life than that there is, even significantly more likely.” What should we make of our friend’s reasoning?

146  The Evidential Problem 2.1  Noseeum Arguments in General

Well, notice first of all that he argued for his claim like this: A: So far as we can tell (detect), there is no extraterrestrial life. So, it is more likely than not (perhaps significantly so) that B: There is no extraterrestrial life. This argument follows a general pattern: So far as we can tell (detect), there is no x. So, it is more likely than not (perhaps significantly so) that There is no x. Let’s call this general pattern a no-see-um argument: we don’t see ‘um, so they ain’t there!8 Notice that our friend did not claim that (a) guarantees the truth of (b). He merely claimed that it makes it more likely than its denial, perhaps quite a bit more. So we can’t just retort that there could be extraterrestrial life even if we don’t detect any. That’s true, but it’s irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is that his noseeum argument relies on a certain assumption. To see it, consider some other noseeum arguments. Suppose that, after rummaging around carefully in your refrigerator, you can’t find a carton of milk. Naturally enough, you infer that there isn’t one there. Or suppose that, on viewing a chess match between two novices, Kasparov says to himself, “So far as I can tell, there is no way for John to get out of check,” and then infers that there is no way. These are clear cases in which the noseeum premise makes the conclusion more likely than its denial—significantly more likely.9 On the other hand, suppose that, looking at a distant garden, so far as we can see, there are no slugs there. Should we infer that it is more likely that there are no slugs in the garden than that there are? Or imagine listening to the best physicists in the world discussing the mathematics used to describe quantum phenomena; so far as we can tell, they don’t make any sense at all. Should we infer from this that it is

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more likely that they don’t make any sense than that they do? Clearly not. So what accounts for the difference between these two pairs of cases? Notice that it is more likely than not that you would see a milk carton in the refrigerator if one were there, and it is more likely than not that Kasparov would see a way out of check if there were one. That’s because you and Kasparov have what it takes to discern the sorts of things in question. On the other hand, it is not more likely than not that we would see a slug in a distant garden if there were one there; and it is not more likely than not that we’d be able to understand quantum mathematics if it were understandable. That’s because we don’t have what it takes to discern the sorts of things in question in those circumstances with the cognitive equipment we possess. A general principle about noseeum arguments is lurking here, namely: A noseeum premise makes its conclusion more likely than not only if more likely than not we’ d detect (see, discern) the item in question if it existed. Call the italicized portion the Noseeum Assumption. Anybody who uses a noseeum argument makes a noseeum assumption of this form. Let’s return to our friend, the anti-extraterrestrialist. 2.2  The Anti-extraterrestrialist’s Noseeum Assumption

He gave a noseeum argument and thereby made a noseeum assumption, namely this one: More likely than not we’d detect extraterrestrial life forms if there were any. Our minimal standard for a good argument implies that his noseeum argument is a good argument only if it is more reasonable to affirm his noseeum assumption than to refrain from affirming it. Is it more reasonable to do that? Clearly not. After all, if there were extraterrestrial life forms, how likely is it that some of them would be intelligent enough to attempt contact? And of those who are intelligent enough, how likely is it that any would care about it? And of those who are intelligent enough and care about it, how

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likely is it that they would have the means at their disposal to try? And of those with the intelligence, the desire, and the means, how likely is it that they would succeed? Nobody has a very good idea how to answer these questions. We can’t begin to say with even the most minimal degree of confidence that the probabilities are low, or that they are middling, or that they are high. We just don’t have enough to go on. For this reason we should be in doubt as to whether it is more likely than not that we’ d detect extraterrestrial life forms if there were any. So it is not more reasonable to affirm our friend’s noseeum assumption than to refrain from affirming it. It is important to see that we are not saying that it is highly likely that we would not discern any extraterrestrial life forms; nor are we saying that it is more likely that we would not detect extraterrestrial life forms than that we would. Rather, our point is that it is not reasonable for us to make any judgment about the probability of our detecting extraterrestrial life forms if there were any. That’s all it takes for it not to be more reasonable for us to affirm than to refrain from affirming this noseeum assumption.

3.  NOSEEUM A RGUMENTS FROM EV IL

In this section, we will apply the main points of section 2 to some popular noseeum arguments from evil. 3.1  Standard Noseeum Arguments from Evil

Here’s a standard argument from evil: 1. There is no reason that would justify God in permitting certain instances of intense suffering. 2. If God exists, then there is a reason that would justify God in permitting every instance of intense suffering. 3. So, God does not exist. From the vantage of the title question, our main concern is whether noseeum arguments in defense of premise 1 make it more reasonable for us to believe it than to refrain from believing it. Let’s look into the matter closely.10

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Consider the case of a fawn, trapped in a forest fire occasioned by lightning, who suffers for several days before dying (call this case E1). Or consider the case of the five-year-old girl from Flint, Michigan, who, on January 1, 1986, was raped, severely beaten, and strangled to death by her mother’s boyfriend (call this case E2). How could a God who loved this fawn and this child and who had the power to prevent their suffering permit them to suffer so horribly? Of course, God might permit E1 and E2 if doing so is necessary to achieve for the fawn and the child (or, perhaps, someone else) some benefit whose goodness outweighs the badness of their suffering. But what could the benefit be? When we try to answer that question, we draw a blank. We just can’t think of a benefit that is both sufficiently great to outweigh the badness of their suffering and such that God can’t obtain it without permitting E1 and E2. So far as we can tell, there isn’t one. While this doesn’t prove that there is no reason, surely, says the atheistic objector, it makes it more likely than not that there is none, perhaps even a good deal more likely. In short, the noseeum argument here goes like this: 1a. So far as we can tell, there is no reason that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2. So it is more likely than not that 1b. There is no reason that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2. So it is more likely than not that 1. There is no reason that would justify God in permitting certain instances of intense suffering. Other noseeum arguments from evil are just like this except that they focus on the amount of suffering rather than on particular instances of intense suffering or horrific evil. What should we make of these noseeum arguments? Many people think that we do see how God would be justified in permitting E1 and E2, that we do see how he would be justified in permitting so much rather than a lot less intense suffering. While this strategy is

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not wholly without merit, we will not pursue it here.11 Rather, we begin by noting that each of these noseeum arguments from evil makes a noseeum assumption, specifically: More likely than not we’d detect a reason that would justify God in permitting . . . if there were one, where the ellipsis is filled in with either “E1 and E2” or “so much intense suffering rather than a lot less” or “so much intense suffering rather than just a little less.” Nothing we have to say hangs on the difference, so we’ll focus on the first. Call it the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption. Is it more reasonable to affirm it than to refrain from affirming it? 3.2  Considerations against the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption

Several considerations suggest that it is not more reasonable to affirm than to refrain from affirming the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption.12 1. Two aspects of the atheist’s noseeum inference should make us wary. First, it takes “the insights attainable by finite, fallible human beings as an adequate indication of what is available in the way of reasons to an omniscient, omnipotent being.” But this is like supposing that when you are confronted with the activity or productions of a master in a field in which you have little expertise, it is reasonable for you to draw inferences about the quality of her work just because you “don’t get it.” You’ve taken a year of high school physics. You’re faced with some theory about quantum phenomena, and you can’t make heads or tails of it. Certainly it is unreasonable for you to assume that more likely than not you’d be able to make sense of it. Similarly for other areas of expertise: painting, architectural design, chess, music, and so on. Second, the atheist’s noseeum inference “involves trying to determine whether there is a so-and-so in a territory the extent and composition of which is largely unknown to us.” It is like someone who is culturally and geographically isolated supposing that if there were something on earth beyond her forest, more likely than not she’d discern it. It is like a physicist supposing that if there were something beyond the temporal bounds of the universe, more likely than not she’d know about it (where those bounds are the big bang and the final crunch).

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All these analogies and others like them point in the same direction: we should be of two minds about affirming the claim that more likely than not we’d be aware of some reason that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2, if there were one. 2. Knowledge has progressed in a variety of fields of inquiry, especially the physical sciences. The periodic discovery of previously unknown aspects of reality strongly suggests that there will be further progress of a similar sort. Since future progress implies present ignorance, it wouldn’t be surprising if there is much we are currently ignorant of. Now, what we have to go on in charting the progress of the discovery of fundamental goods (like freedom, love, and justice) by our ancestors is meager, to say the least. Indeed, given the scant archeological evidence we have, and given paleontological evidence regarding the evolutionary development of the human brain, it would not be surprising at all that humans discovered various fundamental goods over tens of thousands of years separated by several millenia-long gaps in which nothing was discovered. Hence, given what we have to go on, it would not be surprising if there has been the sort of periodic progress that strongly suggests that there remain goods to be discovered. Thus it would not be surprising if there are goods of which we are ignorant, goods of which God—in His omniscience—would not be ignorant. 3.3  Considerations in Favor of the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption

So there is good reason to be in doubt about the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption. In addition, there are good reasons to reject the considerations that have been offered in its favor. Consider, for example, the supposed fact that for thousands of years we have not discovered any new fundamental goods in addition to the old standbys—friendship, pleasure, freedom, knowledge, etc. One might think that the best explanation of this fact is that there are no new fundamental goods to be discovered. Hence, the argument goes, our inability to think of a reason that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2 makes it likely that there is no such reason.13 But this ignores the live possibility that, due to our cognitive limitations, we are (permanently or at least currently) unable to discover certain of the fundamental goods there are. And we have no reason to think that this “cognitive limitation” hypothesis is a worse explanation of

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our lack of discovery than the hypothesis that there are no new goods to be discovered. Others claim that if we confess skepticism about the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption, then we’ll have to do the same thing in other areas as well, resulting in excessive and unpalatable skepticism in those other areas. They ask us to consider claims like these: 1. The earth is more than 100 years old. 2. You are not constantly dreaming. 3. There is no reason that justified Hitler in conducting the Holocaust. They say that since doubts about (1)–(3) are unreasonable, excessive, and unpalatable, so is doubt about the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption.14 What should we make of this argument? It seems eminently sensible insofar as it recommends that we be consistent in our skepticism rather than apply it only when doing so serves our agenda. And we agree that doubts about (1)–(3) are unreasonable. But our main concern is whether the comparison is apt. Most of us think that doubts about (1)–(3) are unreasonable because we’re pretty sure that we have what it takes to believe these things reasonably, even if we can’t say exactly how, and even though we don’t have a knockdown argument for them. Do any of us, however, have even a modicum of assurance that we’ve got what it takes to believe reasonably that there is no reason outside our ken that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2? Think of it like this: To be in doubt about the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption involves being in doubt about whether there is a reason outside our ken that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2. Is being in doubt about whether there is such a reason like being in doubt about (1)–(3)—unreasonable, excessive, unpalatable, a bit wacky, over the top? Or is it more like being in doubt about these three claims, claims that none of us is in a position to make reasonably? 4. There is no extraterrestrial life. 5. There will be no further developments in science as radical as quantum mechanics. 6. There is no atheistic explanation outside our ken for the apparent fine-tuning of the universe to support life.

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In light of the considerations mentioned in section 3.2 (and others like them), we submit that doubts about whether there is a God-justifying reason outside our ken are more like doubts about (4)–(6) than like doubts about (1)–(3). We suggest, therefore, that since doubts about (4)–(6) are sensible, sane, fitting, reasonable, and otherwise in accordance with good mental hygiene, so are doubts about the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption. It might seem that if we’re going to be skeptical about the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption, then we’re going to have to be skeptical about reasoning about God altogether. By our lights, that would be an unhappy consequence of our argument. Fortunately, however, we don’t need to go that far. Our arguments support agnosticism only about what reasons there are that would justify God in permitting E1 and E2, or, more generally, the horrific, undeserved suffering in our world. Such limited skepticism need not extend to every argument for theism or to all reflection on the nature of God. 3.4  Summing Up

The Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption says that, more likely than not, we’d see a God-justifying reason if there were one. We have argued that it is not reasonable to accept it. We aren’t saying that it is highly likely that we would not see a reason; nor are we saying that our not seeing a reason is more likely than our seeing a reason. Rather, given the considerations mentioned in sections 3.2 and 3.3, we’re saying that it is not more reasonable to affirm than to refrain from affirming the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption. In light of the minimal standard for a good argument mentioned in section 1, this is enough to show that arguments from evil depending on the Atheist’s Noseeum Assumption are not good arguments.

4.  ROW E’S NEW BAY ESI A N A RGUMENT

Rowe has come to recognize that noseeum arguments have some of the weaknesses discussed above. And, presumably because of this recognition, he has recently abandoned them in favor of another argument, relying on Bayes’ Theorem, a fundamental principle used in probabilistic reasoning.15 In this new Bayesian argument, he aims to show that

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P. No good we know of justifies God in permitting E1 and E2 provides us with a good reason for atheism—i.e., for not-G (where G is theism). We will note some flaws in this argument which, despite Rowe’s efforts, include its dependence on noseeum assumptions. The argument goes like this. Let k be the background knowledge shared in common by nontheists and theists alike, and let Pr (x/y) refer to the probability of x given the assumption that y is true (this probability will be a number greater than or equal to 0 and less than or equal to 1). According to Bayes’ Theorem: Pr (G/P & k) Pr (P/G & k)

————— = ­ —————.

Pr (G/k)

Pr (P/k)

(The rough idea is that P makes G less likely than it would otherwise be—i.e., Pr (G/P & k) < Pr (G/k)—only if G makes P less likely than it would otherwise be.) A quick perusal of this equation shows us that if Pr (P/G & k) < Pr (P/k), then Pr (G/P & k) < Pr (G/k). And if Pr (G/P & k) < Pr (G/k), then, as I said, P makes G less likely than it would otherwise be; i.e., P gives us a reason for atheism. Thus, if Rowe can show that Pr (P/G & k) < Pr (P/k), it looks like he will have established his conclusion. Rowe thinks he can show that Pr (P/G & k) < Pr (P/k). We don’t have the space to lay out his argument in any detail. But, as he acknowledges, his argument assumes that Pr (P/G & k) is less than 1. For if Pr (P/G & k) were equal to 1, it would be impossible for Pr (P/G & k) to be less than Pr (P/k) (since 1 is as high as probabilities go). Furthermore, if Pr (P/G & k) were only very slightly less than 1, then the right-hand side of the above equation would be equal to some number very slightly less than 1, such as 0.95. And of course the left-hand side will be equal to exactly the same number, which means that Pr (G/P & k) could be only slightly less than Pr (G/k). But that would mean that P provides us with only a very negligible reason for atheism instead of a moderate or good reason for atheism. So an important question arises: Why should we suppose that Pr (P/G & k) is not extremely high, perhaps even as high as 1? As it turns out, Rowe doesn’t answer this question. Instead, he argues that we have no good reason for thinking that Pr (P/G & k) is high.16 But this isn’t enough. Even if we have no good reason for thinking that it is

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high, this doesn’t mean we have good reason for thinking that it is not extremely high. So our question remains. The truth is that our question is enormously difficult to answer. In fact, by our lights, we presently have no good reason to think that Pr (P/G & k) is not extremely high, perhaps even as high as 1. We just aren’t in a good position to judge that Pr (P/G & k) is low, or that it is middling, or that it is high. We should shrug our shoulders and admit that we don’t have enough to go on here. So Rowe’s new Bayesian argument is (at best) incomplete because he hasn’t given us a reason for thinking that Pr (P/G & k) isn’t high. There are two further troubles with his argument. The first additional trouble is that in order to give us a reason for thinking that Pr (P/G & k) isn’t high, Rowe must explain why it isn’t highly unlikely, given G and k, that we would be aware of the goods that justify the permission of E1 and E2. Unfortunately, many of the candidate reasons that come to mind here depend on illegitimate noseeum assumptions. For example, Rowe argues that if we were not aware of the goods that justify the permission of E1 and E2, it is likely that we would be given comforting words from God telling us that he has reasons for such permission—reasons that are beyond our ken. But k includes the knowledge that very often we lack such comforting communication—that we experience divine silence instead. Thus, given G and k, Rowe thinks it is likely that we would know of the goods justifying permission of E1 and E2.17 But notice that this argument depends on the assumption that: If God exists and the goods that justify permission of E1 and E2 are beyond our ken, then it is unlikely that we would experience divine silence. The problem with this assumption is that it takes for granted that it is unlikely that there is a good that justifies divine silence in the face of evils like E1 and E2. But what reason do we have for thinking that unlikely? We can’t rely on our inability to discern such a good. To do so would be to depend on a noseeum assumption—one that is illegitimate in ways analogous to those described in sections 3.2 and 3.3. The second additional problem with Rowe’s new Bayesian argument is that he presumes (as he does in his noseeum argument) that we reasonably believe that

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P. No good we know of justifies God in permitting E1 and E2. But is that right? Let’s focus on E2. Consider the good of both the little girl and her murderer living together completely reconciled (which involves genuine and deep repentance on the part of the murderer and genuine and deep forgiveness on the part of the little girl) and enjoying eternal felicity in the presence of God. That is a possible good we know of (which isn’t to say that we know it will obtain). Is it reasonable for us to affirm that that good doesn’t justify God in permitting E2? No. We aren’t in a position to judge that its goodness doesn’t outweigh the evil of E2. Nor are we in a position to determine that it (or something like it) doesn’t require the permission of E2 (or something as bad or worse). For it is not only our knowledge of what possible goods there are that may be limited. Our knowledge of the logical (i.e., omnipotence-constraining) connections between the obtaining of certain goods and the permission of evils like E2 might also be limited (it wouldn’t be the least bit surprising if it were). Just as we are in the dark about whether known goods are representative of the goods there are, so also we are in the dark about whether the omnipotence-constraining connections we know of are representative of the omnipotence-constraining connections there are. Consequently, our inability to discern such a connection doesn’t give us a good reason to think there is none. Likewise, the fact that we can’t intelligently compare the magnitude of the good mentioned above with the magnitude of E2 doesn’t give us a good reason for thinking the former does not outweigh the latter. Thus, even the acceptance of P seems to depend on our making certain questionable noseeum assumptions.18

5. CONCLUSION

We’ve raised some serious questions about explicit noseeum arguments from evil. And we’ve pointed out that Rowe’s new Bayesian argument is incomplete, and that certain obvious attempts to complete it (as well as the acceptance of P itself ) seem to depend, implicitly, on questionable noseeum assumptions. But we haven’t shown that nobody has a good argument from evil. To show that, we would have to consider other arguments in the lit-

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erature and other ways to complete Rowe’s Bayesian argument or to support P. In closing, we’ll mention briefly two arguments that seem to refrain from depending on noseeum assumptions and which deserve serious reflection. First, Paul Draper argues that atheism explains the actual pattern of pain and pleasure in the world better than theism does. The focus here is not on our inability to see a justifying reason but on our supposed ability to see that an atheistic explanation is superior to a theistic one.19 Second, Michael Tooley argues that since 1. Permission of suffering is justified only if it is, in some way, for the sake of the sufferer, and 2. Animal suffering in cases like E1 cannot benefit the sufferer, there is suffering whose permission is unjustified and, hence, there is no God.20 Notice that this argument does not depend on an inference from known goods to unknown goods. Instead, it takes for granted that we know a general moral principle (i.e., premise 1) which, together with certain information we supposedly have about animal capacities, enables us to make a generalization about all the goods there are (i.e., that none of them—even the ones we don’t know of—could justify the permission of E1). Draper’s argument has received considerable discussion in the literature (much of which suggests that it doesn’t satisfy the minimal standard for a good argument identified in section 1).21 Tooley’s has received virtually none. So let’s ask ourselves, briefly: Are there any considerations that would lead us to think that Tooley’s argument fails to satisfy our minimal standard? That’s hard to say. But here are some pertinent questions. First, regarding premise 1: Is this a true general moral principle?22 Can the state be justified in confiscating the land and home of one its citizens against her will in order to construct an irrigation canal required for the survival of many of its other citizens provided it supplies compensation? For that matter, is compensation even necessary? What if the state lacks the resources to supply compensation? Are these considerations about a state and its citizens relevant to our

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present worries about God and his suffering creatures? That is, could God be constrained (by the limits of logical possibility) in achieving his purposes in ways analogous to those in which the state is constrained? Regarding premise 2 (according to which dying fawns can’t benefit from their final moments of suffering): Must the sufferer be able to appreciate fully (or even partially) the sense in which he or she benefits from the suffering?23 People take seriously the idea that humans (even the severely mentally handicapped) can experience post-mortem goods—are we right not to take this possibility seriously with respect to animals? Other arguments from evil deserve serious consideration before anyone can claim that the strategy recommended at the outset of this chapter is successful. We have only pointed the way toward a more extensive defense of it.24

Reply to Howard-Snyder and Bergmann W I L L I A M L . ROW E

My friends Dan Howard-Snyder and Mike Bergmann think that the enormous amount of seemingly pointless, horrendous evil occurring daily in our world gives us no good reason at all to think it unlikely that God exists. For, on the assumption that God exists, they believe we have no good reason to think it probable either that there would be any less horrendous evil or that God would help us understand what some of the justifying goods are that he is powerless to bring about without permitting all this horrendous evil. In support of their view, they liken my argument for the probable nonexistence of God to the reasoning of someone who concludes that there is probably no extraterrestrial life because we don’t detect any communications from extraterrestrials. I believe they are right to reject the inference to the likely nonexistence of extraterrestrials from our failure to detect communications from them. For, as they point out, we have no good reason to think that extraterrestrials would know that we exist, or would care about us enough to want to communicate with us, or would have anything like sufficient power and knowledge to devise a way to do so. Thus, given these considerations, we cannot reasonably infer the nonexistence of extraterrestials from our not

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having detected any communications from them. As opposed to what we don’t know about extraterrestrials, however, we do know that God, if he exists, most certainly knows that we exist, most certainly loves us and cares for us, and, being infinitely powerful, is able to prevent any of the horrendous evils that befall us. Furthermore, given his infinite knowledge, God would know how to achieve the very best lives possible for us with the minimum of horrible suffering. But my friends believe that we have no sufficient reason at all to think it even likely that God could achieve the very best for us (humans and animals) were he to have prevented the Holocaust, the terrible suffering of the fawn, the horrible suffering of the little girl, or any of the other countless evils that abound in this world. Why on earth do they believe this? The basic reason is this: God’s knowledge of goods and the conditions of their realization extends far beyond our own. Because God’s knowledge extends far beyond our own, they think it just may be that God would know that even he, with his infinite power, cannot achieve the best for us without permitting all the horrendous evils that occur daily in our world. And they also think it just may be that God can achieve the best for us only if he keeps us in the dark as to what the good is that justifies him in permitting any of these horrendous evils. But what their view comes to is this. Because we cannot rule out God’s knowing goods we do not know, we cannot rule out there being goods that justify God in permitting any amount of evil whatever that might occur in our world. If human and animal life on earth were nothing more than a series of agonizing moments from birth to death, my friends’ position would still require them to say that we cannot reasonably infer that it is even likely that God does not exist. For, since we don’t know that the goods we know of are representative of the goods there are, we can’t know that it is likely that there are no goods that justify God in permitting human and animal life on earth to be nothing more than a series of agonizing moments from birth to death. But surely such a view is unreasonable, if not absurd. Surely there must be some point at which the appalling agony of human and animal existence on earth would render it unlikely that God exists. And this must be so even though we all agree that God’s knowledge would far exceed our own. I believe my theistic friends have gone considerably beyond that point when, in light of the enormous proliferation of horrendous evil in this world, they continue to insist that we are unjustified in concluding that it is unlikely that God exists.

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They characterize my argument as a “noseeum” argument. But this is not quite correct. There are lots of things we can conceive of occurring in our world which we don’t see occurring. My argument is basically a “noconceiveum” argument, not a “noseeum” argument. We cannot even conceive of goods that may occur and would justify God in permitting the terrible evils that afflict our world. Of course, being finite beings, we can’t expect to know all the goods that God would know, any more than an amateur at chess should expect to know all the reasons for a particular move that Kasparov makes in a game. But, unlike Kasparov, who in a chess match has good reason not to tell us how a particular move fits into his plan to win the game, God, if he exists, isn’t playing chess with our lives. In fact, since understanding the goods for the sake of which he permits terrible evils to befall us would itself enable us to better bear our suffering, God has a strong reason to help us understand those goods and how they require his permission of the terrible evils that befall us. My friends, however, do seem to think that we can conceive of goods that may require God to permit at least some of these awful evils. They suggest that for all we know the following complex good may occur: the little five-year-old girl meets up with her rapist-killer somewhere in the next life, and he then repents and begs her forgiveness for savagely beating, raping, and strangling her, and she then forgives him, with the result that both of them live happily ever after in the presence of God. What are we to make of this suggestion as to why God permitted the little girl to be brutally beaten, raped, and strangled? Well, they are right in holding that even God cannot bring about this complex good without permitting that individual to brutally beat, rape, and strangle the little girl. But that alone won’t justify God in permitting that to happen to her. For it is eminently reasonable to believe that God could win the soul of the little girl’s rapist-killer without having to permit him to do what he did to her. And even if he can’t, is it right for any being to permit the little girl to be robbed of her life in that way just so that her killer could have something bad enough on his conscience to ultimately seek forgiveness? It is one thing to knowingly and freely give up one’s life for the sake of another and quite another thing to have it ripped away, against one’s will, just so someone else can later be led to repentance. If this is the best that can be done to find a good we know of that may justify God in permitting the little girl to be brutally beaten, raped, and strangled, the evidential argu-

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ment from evil will surely remain a thorn in the side of theism for some time to come.

Reply to Rowe M I C H A E L B E RG M A N N A N D D A N I E L H OWA R D - S N Y D E R

We will limit our replies to Rowe to the following three points.25 1. Throughout Rowe’s essay, one finds “the theist” rejecting his argument, and nobody else. No atheist objects; no agnostic. Just “the theist.” This gives the misleading impression that you have to be a theist to reject it, or that only theists reject it, or that nontheists can’t reject it, or mustn’t, or in fact don’t. None of this is true, however. Many intelligent nontheists do not find Rowe’s argument persuasive. For example, many agnostics—those who neither believe there is a God nor believe there isn’t—reject it for the kinds of reasons we laid out in our essay. In fact, everything we said there could be said by an agnostic or an atheist. 2. Rowe insists that his atheistic arguments from evil are not arguments from ignorance. Thus, he denies that his arguments depend on noseeum assumptions. We beg to differ. Here are two examples of his depending on a noseeum assumption. First, at one point he says, “the idea that none of those instances of suffering could have been prevented by an all-powerful being without loss of a greater good must strike us as an extraordinary idea, quite beyond belief.” But if we are in the dark about what goods there are and what omnipotenceconstraining connections there are between such goods and the permission of such evils, how could that idea seem “extraordinary . . . quite beyond belief ”? Only if we assume that there probably aren’t any such goods or omnipotence-constraining connections if we don’t detect any. Second, Rowe says that each good we know of is such that “we have reason to believe either that it isn’t good enough to justify God in permitting that evil, or that it could likely be actualized by God without his having to permit the horrendous suffering [in question].” But how could we have a

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reason to believe that “God could obtain the goods we know of without permitting the evils we see” if we are in the dark about what omnipotenceconstraining connections there are between such goods and the permission of such evils? Here too Rowe seems to be assuming that there probably are no such connections if we don’t detect any. 3. Rowe also considers one last attempt to defend what he calls the first response to his argument from evil. In his reply to this last attempt, he uses the example of Smith and the concert. Let T signify “Smith is in town this evening,” and let C signify “Smith is at the concert this evening.” We can then state Rowe’s example as follows: Pr (T/k) = 0.5 Pr (not-T/k) = 0.5 Pr (C/T & k) = 0.5 Pr (not-C/T & k) = 0.5.26 He sensibly concludes that if we know these things and then learn that notC, we may conclude that T is less likely than not-T. So far, so good.27 Next, Rowe tries to draw a parallel with the case of theism and evil. Let G signify “God exists,” and let A signify “Some good we know of justifies God in permitting all the horrendous evils we see.” We can, says Rowe, state the parallel case like this: Pr (G/k) = 0.5 Pr (not-G/k) = 0.5 Pr (A/G & k) = 0.5 Pr (not-A/G & k) = 0.5 Again, he sensibly concludes that if we know these things and then learn that not-A, we may conclude that G is less likely than not-G.28 What we’ve been given here is an easily digestible version of Rowe’s new Bayesian argument from evil, the one we discussed in section 4 of our essay. Our response is essentially the same as the response we gave there. The first thing to notice is that Rowe’s argument about Smith’s whereabouts could not get off the ground unless Pr (not-C/T & k) is not high.

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For if it is extremely high, then not-C will not significantly lower the likelihood of T. (If Pr (not-C/T & k) is as high as 1, not-C won’t lower the likelihood of T at all!) In other words, if not-C is just what you would expect if T were true, then learning not-C won’t make T less likely than it would otherwise be. For similar reasons, Rowe’s parallel argument about God and evil doesn’t have a chance unless Pr (not-A/G & k) is not high. Rowe tries to avoid this problem by simply asserting that this latter probability is equal to 0.5. But why think that? In fact, why think Pr (not-A/G & k) isn’t extremely high, perhaps as high as 1? These questions will be familiar to those who have read our essay. For not-A (i.e., no good we know of justifies God in permitting all the horrendous evils we see) is a lot like P in our essay (i.e., no good we know of justifies God in permitting E1 and E2). And just as we are in no position to tell that Pr (P/G & k) is high or that it is low or that it is middling, so also we are in no position to tell that Pr (not-A/G & k) is high or that it is low or that it is middling. Rowe’s argument simply takes for granted that we are in a position to assign a value of 0.5 here, when in fact we are in the dark about what probability to assign.

NOTES

Notes 1–7, 8–24, and 25–28 belong, respectively, to the first essay by Rowe, the second essay by Howard-Snyder and Bergmann, and the final “Reply to Rowe” by Howard-Snyder and Bergmann. 1. At best it can but remain the same. For no reasonable person would argue that all the horrendous evils that occur daily in our world are to be counted as evidence for the existence of God. 2. Theism itself does not include the claim that God created a world. For theists hold that God was free not to create a world. They hold that there is a possible world in which God exists but creates nothing at all. What theism may be taken to include is the claim that any contingent things that exist depend for their existence on God’s creative act. 3. Portions of the following are drawn from William L. Rowe, “God and Evil,” Annual Proceedings of the Center for Philosophic Exchange 28 (1997–98): 4–15. 4. It could be that the outweighing good cannot be realized by God without his permitting that evil or some other evil just as bad. But for ease of understanding the fundamental issue, I will ignore this complication.

164  The Evidential Problem 5. To avoid needless complexity, I will not mention the other possibility: that God permits the evil in question so as to prevent some equal or greater evil. 6. This response has been elegantly developed by Stephen Wykstra in “The Humean Obstacle to Evidential Arguments from Suffering: On Avoiding the ‘Evils of Appearance,’” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 73–93. See also William L. Rowe, “Evil and the Theistic Hypothesis: A Response to Wykstra,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 95–100. 7. As we noted earlier, given that we are putting aside reasons for the existence of God, the existence of God is, at best, no more likely than is the nonexistence of God. 8. The “noseeum” lingo is Stephen Wykstra’s. See his “Rowe’s Noseeum Arguments from Evil,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996). 9. Another case of legitimate reliance on a noseeum premise is in the strategy recommended in the second to last paragraph of section 1. 10. The noseeum arguments we mention in this section are simplified versions of arguments in Rowe’s work, especially his classic essay, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” collected in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 1–11. 11. This strategy, often called “giving a theodicy,” has a venerable history. For literature on the topic, as well as other relevant issues, see Barry Whitney, Theodicy: An Annotated Bibliography, 1960–1991, 2nd ed. (Bowling Green, OH: Philosophy Documentation Center, 1998), as well as the bibliographies in Michael Peterson, ed., The Problem of Evil (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992) and Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil. 12. The considerations we mention here are developed by William Alston. The first is in his “Some (Temporarily) Final Thoughts on Evidential Arguments from Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 316–19. The second is in his “The Inductive Argument from Evil and the Human Cognitive Condition,” in ibid., 109. 13. See Michael Tooley, “The Argument from Evil,” Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 89–134. 14. Richard Gale, “Some Difficulties in Theistic Treatments of Evil,” in HowardSnyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 208–9; Bruce Russell, “Defenseless,” in ibid., 196–98; Theodore Drange, Nonbelief and Evil (Amherst, NY: Prometheus, 1998), 207. 15. William L. Rowe, “The Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil. 16. Ibid., 274–76. 17. See ibid., 276. Rowe himself does not try to use this argument to show that Pr (P/G & k) is not high.

Evil, Evidence, and Skeptical Theism—A Debate 165 18. For more on the points in this section, see Michael Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil,” included in this volume as chapter 29. 19. See Paul Draper, “Pain and Pleasure: An Evidential Problem for Theists,” included in this volume as chapter 31. 20. See Tooley, “The Argument from Evil,” 110–11. 21. See both essays by Peter van Inwagen, both essays by Draper, the second contribution by Alvin Plantinga, and Alston’s concluding paper in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil. See also Daniel Howard-Snyder, “Theism, the Hypothesis of Indifference, and the Biological Role of Pain and Pleasure,” Faith and Philosophy 3 (1994): 452–66. 22. For more on this question, see Peter van Inwagen, “The Magnitude, Duration, and Distribution of Evil: A Theodicy,” in God, Knowledge, and Mystery (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 121–22, and Alston, “The Inductive Argument from Evil,” 111–12. 23. See Alston, “The Inductive Argument from Evil,” 108. 24. Thanks to William Alston, Andrew Cortens, Del Kiernan-Lewis, Michael Murray, and Timothy O’Connor for comments on an earlier draft of this paper. 25. An additional point that we haven’t the space to develop is this. Rowe makes it clear, in the paragraph following his introduction of premise 2, that that premise should be understood as follows: An all-powerful, all-knowing, perfectly good being would prevent the occurrence of any terrible evil he could, unless he could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse.

But this implies that there is a minimum amount of terrible evil that God must permit in order for the greater goods involved in his purposes to be secured. For a persuasive objection to this implication, see Peter van Inwagen, “The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence,” included as chapter 32 in this volume. 26. In section 4 of our essay we explain our use of the symbol k and the notation Pr (x/y). 26. In section 4 of our essay we explain our use of the symbol k and the notation Pr (x/y). 27. The idea here seems to be that since not-T entails not-C, we know that Pr (not-C/not-T & k) = 1 and that Pr (C/not-T & k) = 0. So we know that Pr (not-C/ not-T & k) > Pr (not-C/T & k). This, we take it, is why Rowe concludes that learning not-C makes T less likely than not-T. 28. Rowe is assuming that just as not-T entails not-C, so also not-G entails not-A.

C H A P T E R

1 0

Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil MICHAEL L. PETERSON

For several decades, discussions of the “inductive” or “probabilistic” or “evidential” argument from evil have been major fare in philosophy of religion. The target of this type of argument is standard theism—the view that there exists an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good being who created the world. Of course, theistic religions call this being “God.” The argument purports to show that the facts of evil, though logically consistent with the existence of God, count against the truth of theism. The core argument goes as follows: (1) There are gratuitous evils. (2) If God exists, then no gratuitous evils exist. Therefore, From “Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil,” in Philosophy and the Christian Worldview: Analysis, Assessment and Development, ed. David Werther and Mark D. Linville (New York: Continuum, 2012), 175–95.

166

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(3) God does not exist. Since the argument is clearly valid, if there are rational grounds to believe (1) and (2), then there are rational grounds for believing (3). (1) is grounded inductively; (2) is assumed as a necessary truth. Variations on the core argument as well as attempts at rebutting it occupy most of the literature on evil in the analytic philosophy of religion today, creating a complex discussion of the premises, their embedded assumptions, and their epistemic status. My aim here is to assess William Rowe’s different formulations of the evidential argument from evil in connection with some important theistic responses. I find that both the Skeptical Theist Defense and Alvin Plantinga’s felix culpa theodicy (a new version of Greater Good Theodicy) make the common mistake of attacking the claim that there is gratuitous evil. Skeptical theism (appropriately for a defense) argues that there is no reason to think the claim is true; felix culpa theodicy (appropriately for a theodicy) argues that there is a reason to think it is false. I argue that both approaches are inadequate to show that Rowe is mistaken in claiming that it is more rational than not to believe that there is gratuitous evil. I further point out that both responses fail to question the other premise in Rowe’s argument: the claim that God must prevent gratuitous evil. I ground the case for rejecting this premise—and therefore improving prospects for effective response—in a certain understanding of God’s providence in light of distinctively Christian doctrines and themes. I contend that, in order to clear the path for developing this understanding, we must not accept various restrictions that Rowe wants to place on the debate. THE EVOLU TION OF THE A RGUMENT

William Rowe has long been articulating, modifying, and defending the evidential argument from evil. His classic 1979 formulation became the progenitor of decades of debate: 1. There exist instances of intense suffering which an omnipotent, omniscient being could have prevented without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. [Factual Premise]

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2. An omniscient, wholly good being would prevent the occurrence of any intense suffering it could, unless it could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. [Theological Premise] Therefore, 3. There does not exist an omnipotent, omniscient, wholly good being.1 [Atheistic Conclusion] Discussion naturally turns to the premises, which are labeled above to denote their functions in the argument. The Theological Premise contains a necessary, but not a sufficient, condition for an omnipotent, omniscient, wholly good being to permit suffering that he could have prevented: (i) there is some greater good that God can obtain only if he permits the intense evil in question, or (ii) there is some greater good that God can obtain only if he permits the evil or some other equally bad or worse evil, or (iii) God can prevent the evil only if he permits some other evil equally bad or worse. The occurrence of an evil is gratuitous if it does not meet this condition, which Rowe believes accords with our basic moral principles. Since most theists and nontheists agree that the Theological Premise is true, virtually all early discussions of the argument focused on the Factual Premise. Rowe explains that (1) is rooted in the intense suffering, both animal and human, which occurs daily in our world. He originally advanced a now famous hypothetical case of gratuitous evil: that of a fawn dying horribly in a forest fire. This example is entirely credible because we are familiar with myriad such cases; so, Rowe argues that it is more reasonable than not to believe that this evil is gratuitous. Although his 1979 argument turns on the reasonableness of affirming the Factual Premise in light of this specific case, Rowe admits that we could be mistaken about the gratuity of any particular case of such suffering. In some subsequent formula-

Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil 169

tions of the argument, he maintains that it is not reasonable to believe that all instances of seemingly pointless animal and human suffering could not have been prevented by an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being without thereby losing some greater good or allowing some equally bad or worse evil. So, it is highly likely that some, probably many, of the horrible evils in our world which appear to be gratuitous are genuinely gratuitous.2 Rowe has simply been a bit fluid in how he makes the point that (1) is a rational belief, more rational to believe than its denial. As Rowe refined his thinking in response to criticisms of the grounds for (1), his argument evolved through 1988 and 1996 formulations. These formulations more precisely articulate the inductive logic involved and its bearing on the rationality of theistic belief. The 1988 version adds an instance of evil described by Bruce Russell: the case of a little girl beaten, raped, and murdered in Detroit.3 The dying fawn (E1) is evidence of natural evil and the victimized girl (E2) is evidence of moral evil. Rowe offers this statement of the argument: P: No good state of affairs we know of is such that an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being’s obtaining it would morally justify that being’s permitting E1 or E2. P makes it likely that: Q: No good is such that an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being’s obtaining it would morally justify that being in permitting E1 or E2. Rowe states, “Since Q, slightly qualified, is tantamount to (1) in the earlier argument for atheism, if we are justified in accepting P and justified in inferring Q from P, we are justified in accepting premise (1).”4 Then, from Q, the atheistic conclusion follows: Not-G: There is no omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being. Since the inference from P to Q recasts the case for (1), it became the topic of vigorous debate. Rowe writes, “If my project is to succeed, then the former fact must be a good reason for the latter assertion. And if the former

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fact is a good reason for the latter assertion, then my project succeeds.”5 As more theists began to accept P, the debate shifted to the inference from Q to not-G. The inference from Q to not-G is not straightforward and requires an unstated premise very much like the original (2), but since Rowe believes that (2) is a “conceptual truth,” he tacitly employs it without extensive defense.6 But then this formulation of the argument still has both a factual and a theological premise, as all versions really must have. Rowe’s 1996 formulation is an even simpler argument: it avoids the inference from P to Q and reasons directly from P to not-G, assuming relevant background information. This argument is distinctive in its use of Bayesian probability theory, which means that “background information” will factor prominently into the debate. Commentators accent the discontinuities between the 1979, 1988, and 1996 formulations, but Rowe’s more recent writings clearly frame the discussion around formulations of the argument that many thought he had abandoned. His 2001 exchange with Michael Bergmann and Dan HowardSnyder revisits his 1979 formulation, with only slight verbal changes.7 In 2006, Rowe offered a statement of the argument that is virtually identical with the core argument at the beginning of this paper.8 Rowe just keeps working at the project of strengthening the argument—improving the inductive strategy for the Factual Premise, clarifying the assumptions it makes, and defending it against criticisms. But his central, driving insight remains the same: “[W]hen we consider horrendous evils or the sheer magnitude of human and animal suffering, the idea that an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being is in control of the world may strike us as absolutely astonishing, something almost beyond belief.”9

THE SK EPTIC A L THEIST DEFENSE

The Skeptical Theist Defense has emerged in mutual interaction with Rowe’s evidential argument. Skeptical theists Stephen Wykstra, William Alston, Michael Bergmann, Dan Howard-Snyder, and others argue that Rowe has not provided a good reason to think that premise (1) is true or probably true because no human being is in an epistemic position to make

Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil 171

such a judgment.10 Early on, Wykstra articulated a principle of rational belief—the Condition Of Reasonable Epistemic Access (CORNEA)—to show why it is not rational to believe the Factual Premise: On the basis of cognized situation s, human H is entitled to claim “It appears that p” only if it is reasonable for H to believe that, given her cognitive faculties and the use she has made of them, if p were not the case, s would likely be different than it is in some way discernible by her.11

Essentially, if God exists, it is not rational to expect that we should be able to discern the goods for the sake of which he allows evils. Support for this point has ranged from emphasizing the limitations of human cognitive capacities in discerning complex relations between goods and evils to arguing that if God exists it is likely that there are goods “beyond our ken” which justify the evils in question.12 So, if we are not in an epistemic position to make the claim that there appears to be no greater good secured by God’s permission of some case of intense suffering, then (1) is not reasonable to believe. Although Rowe offered credible support for his appearance-claim, his 1988 attempt clarifies the kind of appearance-claim being advanced: it is P, that we simply don’t know of any good that justifies God’s permission of certain evils. Although P here is meant to have prima facie evidential plausibility, leaving it open to discussion and even defeat, it gained acceptance from skeptical theists. So, Rowe’s support for (1) is the inference from P to Q, which has the form: So far as I can tell, there is no x; therefore, probably, there is no x. CORNEA and similar principles were modified to apply to this inference, dubbed a “noseeum” inference because it relies on a “noseeum assumption”: that if there were an x, it is likely that the person seeking it would discern it. Skeptical theism seeks to block this inference by denying that any human being has what it takes to discern God-justifying goods, while Rowe maintains that his claim that anchors the inference is based on careful contemplation. Interestingly, Rowe maintains that his 1996 version, which argues directly from P to not-G in order to bypass Q altogether, does not require a noseeum assumption. In a 2001 piece, Bergmann disputes this and seeks to show that Rowe’s 1996 formulation of the evidential argument still depends

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on the denial of the skeptical thesis that we have no good reason for thinking that the possible goods we know of are representative of the goods there are.13 After all, as Bergmann explains, it is quite likely that reality far outstrips our comprehension of it. In his 2001 reply, Rowe argues that to suppose in regard to instances of terrible suffering that God exists and yet that the sufferers have no consciousness of his love or of the fact that there is some good which justifies their suffering is to assume unbelievable things about a perfectly good being of infinite wisdom and power. For Rowe, the supposition is inherently implausible, and its implausibility need not rest on an assumption about whether the goods we know are representative of the goods there are.14 We cannot pursue here the details of this Bergmann-Rowe exchange. My take is that, in the final analysis, the Skeptical Theist Defense fails to undercut Rowe’s claim that the Factual Premise is more rational to believe than its denial. Rowe refers in various writings to some of the grounds that make it rational to believe the Factual Premise, including the fact that we have an admittedly modest grasp of some very great goods (such as beatitude in the presence of God) but that they are still goods we know and the fact that many theistic believers as well as unbelievers have the persistent intuition that in some sense inscrutable evil disconfirms theism.15 Skeptical theists have to maintain that people generally are simply mistaken about such things. An even more straightforward argument available to Rowe against this skeptical indictment is that the goods that most clearly matter in the dispute are those goods pertinent to our common human nature, which is reflected even in our dimly imagining fulfillment in God’s presence or in our widely shared sense that inexplicable suffering puts pressure on religious belief. Our common humanity, accessed by careful introspection and by acceptance of the wisdom of the race, grounds a generally reliable and widely agreed upon understanding of the types of goods and evils and their possible interrelations that are relevant to the kind of flourishing which is appropriate to our nature. We are not hopelessly in the dark about such matters.16 While it is logically possible that there are goods relevant to human nature that are beyond comprehension, and while it is surely highly probable that reality is far larger than our grasp of it, such considerations do not show that it is not reasonable to accept the Factual Premise. So, if we grant Rowe’s common sense support of the Factual Premise together with

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his use of a Theological Premise (explicitly or implicitly) in all versions of his argument, it would seem that the evidential argument from gratuitous evil provides a reason for atheism. At least it would seem so—as long as we do not question the various restrictions on the debate proposed by Rowe over time and accepted by many respondents. One important restriction proposed by Rowe is based on the distinction between Restricted Standard Theism (RST: standard theism unaccompanied by other, independent religious claims) and Expanded Standard Theism (EST: standard theism conjoined with certain other religious claims). In an early reply to Wykstra, Rowe clarifies the structure of his approach: he is strictly evaluating RST solely on the evidence of evil. He correctly argues that Wykstra’s skeptical mode of defense unwittingly assumes a version of EST, one that adopts a certain construal of the wide gap between finite human knowledge and infinite divine knowledge. Of course, one irony here is that Rowe himself unwittingly imports into his understanding of RST assumptions from his own implicit version of EST. “[B]oth evidential arguer and skeptical defender,” William Hasker observes, “already claim to know quite a lot about God’s reason for permitting specific evils.” Both Rowe and skeptical critics claim to know, for example, “that God’s reasons must involve a specific good state of affairs that outweighs the evil, and moreover one that is related to the evil in question in a particularly intimate way: the good must be such that even God could not obtain it without permitting the evil in question.”17 After many years of debate, we should learn the lesson that it is extremely difficult, and perhaps not all that enlightening, to conduct the debate within the confines of RST. However, Rowe cautions that invoking some version of EST, say, drawn from Christian theology is actually counterproductive as a response to his argument. He admits that some particular version of EST (which entails RST) may not be rendered unlikely by the facts of suffering,18 but he maintains that it must nevertheless have a prior probability lower than that of RST: The reason this can be so, even though EST’s probability is not lowered by E, is that the probability of EST, given E, is a function not only of any tendency of E to disconfirm it, but also of the prior probability of EST, the probability of EST alone. Thus, even though E does not disconfirm EST,

174  The Evidential Problem since EST commits us to much more than does RST, the probability of EST alone may be much lower than the probability of RST alone. In fact, given that EST accounts for E and entails RST, its prior probability must be much lower than RST’s, if the probability of RST on E is a good deal lower than the probability of RST alone.19

So, Rowe believes that appeal to any form of EST is problematic in terms of how he has structured the discussion. Skeptical theists accept restriction to RST but argue that Rowe fails to understand that RST still generates implications that block his noseeum inference. However, conducting debate in terms of RST virtually guarantees both that Skeptical Theist Defense will seem to many to be an attractive strategy and that the evidential argument, addressed on its own terms, will be virtually impregnable. In his 1996 Bayesian argument (from P to not-G), Rowe employs another restriction, one related to the idea of “background information”: limitation of the background information (k) on which we rely in forming judgments about the probability of P and G (God exists) to the intersection of what the theist and nontheist know. This would include knowledge of evils, of various goods, and of how the world works. In this sort of Rawlsian “initial position,” no information that entails either theism or atheism is allowed. Rowe’s “level playing field assumption” governs the probability assignments to various pieces of information (with some assignments reflecting positive evidential impact on G and some of it negative) such that the totality of k leaves the probability value of G at 0.5 and of not-G at 0.5. Given this framework, Rowe’s claim is that, if we then acquire P as our sole new evidence, then, given the information and its values found in k, the probability of G is significantly lowered, making belief in atheism more reasonable than belief in theism. Now, if k is all we have to go on and the introduction of P makes atheism much more likely than not, then atheism is epistemically preferable to theism. Rowe admits that other evidence may make it reasonable to believe in theism but thinks that, in the absence of other theistic evidence, belief in theism is irrational. Skeptical theists, of course, accept confinement to the “initial position” because they think that the atheist is in no position to conclude that the unavailability of God-justifying goods for the evils in question significantly lowers the probability of G, no matter how horrendous those evils are. But

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the ability of the skeptical move to block this inference must also be viewed as a function of the probability of skeptical theism itself, which is in dispute, partly because it may really be a version of EST with very definite views of God, his attributes, the finite-infinite knowledge gap, and so forth. Additionally, if the recognition of human cognitive limitations is leverage for skepticism regarding our ability to inquire successfully into God-justifying goods for the evils of the world, then the recognition of cognitive limitations would leverage skepticism in other areas of human inquiry as well. Yet various examples readily come to mind in which we do not allow the legitimate recognition of cognitive limitations to undercut the rationality of our judgments: regarding theories in quantum physics that have substantial evi­ dential support but clearly do not capture the entirety of quantum reality, or historical claims based on reliable sources that are impossible to check directly, or even moral evaluations of persons and situations about which we cannot know all details or outcomes. Such examples accent the difficulty of understanding how recognition of our cognitive limitations successfully undermines the rationality of believing that not-G is more likely than G on P. Efforts by skeptical theists to confine their skepticism to the realm of God-justifying reasons do not seem effective; but I develop this point more fully in the next section where I consider some overlooked supports for the Factual Premise.20 So, it is looking as if confinement to the “initial position” all but guarantees that the theist will have irrational beliefs. Why on earth would a Christian theist who does not inhabit the initial position agree to be limited by it and the probability values it assigns, particularly if doing so makes theistic belief unnecessarily problematic? In reality, the Christian theist and nontheist simply believe and know quite different propositions—related to the deeper analysis of divine attributes, the significance of the human moral venture, goods and valuables, and other relevant elements of the Christian theist’s total version of EST. Rowe’s artificial epistemic restraints set the stage for an invigorating academic exercise for both the theists and nontheists who accept them.21 However, the really important question is not whether the evidence of intense suffering counts against a limited form of theism considered against a highly controlled information set but how this evidence affects the evaluation of full-orbed versions of religion that involve theism. In contemporary analytic philosophy of religion, of course, it is typically the position of distinctively

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Christian theism that is at stake. Generally, the critic’s strategy is to argue against theism as a way of arguing against Christian theism; likewise Christian theists defend theism as an important way of rationally supporting Christian theism.22 However, unless we are dealing with an alleged contradiction in theism, we can no longer keep approaching matters this way. To make the complete position of Christian theism vulnerable to criticism of a subset of the position when that criticism is based on a piece of evidence, no matter how impressive, does not tell us nearly as much as critics claim. We should not avoid appeal to any form of EST because its prior probability is lower than that of RST.23 After all, many complex claims (some form of EST, Einstein’s theory of general relativity, etc.) about some complex reality (divine purposes in regard to evil, gravity as a geometrical property of spacetime, etc.) commit one to a lot more than do some simpler claims and therefore have low prior probability relative to simpler claims about the same reality. But we regularly find some complex claim—as opposed to other competing complex claims and even as opposed to competing simple claims—to be the best explanation given the total evidence.

PL A NTINGA’S FELIX CULPA THEODICY

Theodicies within the Greater Good Tradition propose reasons to think that the Factual Premise is false. Rowe has critiqued many of these theodicies— notably, Augustinian free will theodicy, Leibnizian best of all possible worlds theodicy, and Hickian soul-making theodicy.24 Departing from his usual defensive approach, Alvin Plantinga has articulated a new greater good theodicy which identifies some good that God could not have achieved in the created world without permitting the evils it actually contains. Articulating what he calls felix culpa theodicy, he rightly refuses to be limited to RST and instead explicitly draws upon certain Christian doctrines.25 Plantinga begins with the assertion that what God intended in creation was to weakly actualize a really good possible world.26 In considering the value or goodness of possible worlds, states of affairs such as John’s being in pain is bad while John’s suffering magnificently is good; there being many people acting in love toward each other is good while there being people who hate God and each other is bad; and so on. So, possible worlds can be

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evaluated in terms of the balance of good-making qualities—such as happiness, beauty, justice, and love of God, on the one hand—and bad-making characteristics—such as suffering, pain, sin, and rejection of God, on the other. But reflection on theistic belief extends our thinking about the value of possible worlds. If God’s existence is necessary, then he exists in all possible worlds; and theism entails that God himself is infinitely valuable. So, there are no possible worlds in which God does not exist; and any world God chooses for weak actualization will necessarily contain the greatmaking characteristic of God’s own infinite value. Given the truth of Christian belief, however, we can extend our thinking about the comparative value of worlds even further. In developing his theodicy, Plantinga observes that, given the traditional concept of God as essentially unlimited in goodness, knowledge, and power, it follows that the world God has created is very good and that there are no worlds he would have created that are less than very good. Of course, we can in some sense imagine worlds in which all persons are always in excruciating pain; but no such worlds are in fact possible if God is a necessary being who essentially is perfect in goodness, knowledge, and power. So, all possible worlds are very good, including a possible world in which God alone exists. But this does not mean that even a world W in which God alone exists is of maximal value such that no possible worlds are better than W. A world that also contains free creatures who always do what is right would perhaps be a better world than W. This is true even if we grant that the good of God’s existence is incommensurable with both creaturely goods and evils. So, it still follows that every possible world is a very good world. However, some possible worlds are much more valuable than others. Our world and some other possible worlds contain a contingent goodmaking feature: the towering good of divine Incarnation and Atonement. God, in the Second Person of the Trinity, became incarnate in Jesus of Nazareth, lived a holy and sinless life, and suffered and died for sinful human beings, providing reconciliation to the Father. Plantinga asks rhetorically, “Could there be a display of love to rival this?” Then he adds, “More to the present purpose, could there be a good-making feature of a world to rival this?”27 Plantinga maintains that this good is so clearly incomparably great, displaying the matchless beauty of self-sacrificing love, that any world with it is better than any without it (or at least without some similar divine initiative).

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So, any world with Incarnation and Atonement contains two infinite goods: the existence of God as well as Incarnation and Atonement. At this point, Plantinga articulates what he calls “the strong value assumption”: A: There is a level L of excellence among possible worlds such that all the worlds at that level or above contain Incarnation and Atonement.28 Now, if God intends to actualize a really good possible world, one whose value exceeds L, he will create a world containing Incarnation and Atonement. But all worlds containing Incarnation and Atonement also contain evil, since the presence of sin and evil is a necessary condition of Atonement. Hence, all of the really good worlds contain Incarnation, Atonement, sin, suffering, and evil. We now have an explanation for why there is all the suffering and evil in the actual world. It is because God wanted to create a highly valuable world, one that contained Incarnation and Atonement; but all highly valuable worlds contain evil. O Felix Culpa! (O Fortunate Flaw!) Taken from the Exultet, the sentiment here is that Adam’s sin was fortunate because it necessitated Christ’s redeeming work.29 So, sin and evil occasion the highest possible good. This theodicy, then, like all greater good theodicies, purports to show why all evils are necessary to a greater good that God aims to achieve. What we have here is simply Plantinga’s particular construal of the relation of evils to the great good of Incarnation and Atonement which is drawn from the wider context of Christian beliefs.30 But is the paradoxical lesson of felix culpa theodicy that the value of salvific relationship with God is so great that it is worth breaking so that God can restore it? Initially, we should be charitable in allowing the Easter Proclamation some poetic license to express profound gratitude and praise for what Christ has done. We cannot deny the beauty and love of God manifest in the whole Christ-event. Under scrutiny, however, there is something mistaken in this claim: If humanity had not fallen, then this world would not be a really good world with a level of excellence of L or above. To see why this is a mistake, we can consult the classical Christian doctrine of creation, which teaches that God’s original purpose is to invite finite per-

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sonal creatures into intimate relationship with himself. Indeed, the historic Christian vision of the human telos is that we are meant for participation in the divine Trinitarian life.31 This entails that God works faithfully to bring our telos to fulfilment, such that the highest good for creation is available without creation’s descent into sin and evil. Thus, Incarnation and Atonement are logically independent; their conjunction is contingent, not necessary. Even granting that the actual world and all other fallen possible worlds contain both Incarnation and Atonement, Incarnation is still possible in unfallen worlds without Atonement. Indeed, Incarnation is likely in unfallen worlds as God reveals himself and invites humanity into the divine life. Incarnation reveals God’s enduring nature to seek and draw created personal beings to himself, and it symbolizes that divine nature is forever bonded with human nature. Moreover, when God’s nature is revealed in unfallen worlds—through Incarnation or other means—it will be characterized by the same unrelenting, self-giving, self-sacrificing love demonstrated in Incarnation and Atonement in the actual world. Clearly, God could have carried out his original wonderful plan for humanity in worlds that do not contain sin and Atonement. So, it was always possible, and always more desirable, not to sin. Plantinga anticipates the criticism that felix culpa theodicy portrays God as using created persons as means either to the divine end of a high degree of cosmic excellence or to his own glorification. This criticism gains traction in light of the widespread and intense suffering found in the actual world. Plantinga comments that his theodicy explains why there is evil, but he also recognizes that sin and evil cause much suffering. So, suffering is thought to be part of an excellent world. But a response at the world level does not address the point made by Marilyn Adams, Eleonore Stump, and William Rowe that God’s goodness must include goodness to individual persons such that their suffering must somehow benefit them and that this benefit must be included in their conscious experience in a positive, constructive way.32 God’s perfect love may mandate that he actualize a world in which those who suffer are benefited in such a way that their condition is better than it is in those worlds in which they do not suffer. Addressing this Person Centered Requirement, as Rowe calls it, Plantinga explores the theme that persons who are redeemed from sin and persons who suffer can have greater intimacy with God than would otherwise be available in unfallen worlds.33 But should not strong caution be taken in

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presuming that the experience of God possessed by redeemed sinners and/or faithful sufferers is somehow of greater value than the experience of those who never sinned or perhaps never suffered? On the one hand, there may be a contingent truth in our world and in at least some other fallen possible worlds that experiencing redemption or suffering allows a particularly poignant sense of God’s presence and inner life. On the other hand, the previous points—about the capacity of Incarnation to reveal God’s nature without the necessity of sin and Atonement, and about God’s unchanging plan to bring humans into intimacy with himself—entail that there are no forms of intimacy with God that are fundamental to our humanity and yet attainable only by experiencing redemption from sin or experiencing suffering.

A NEW DIR ECTION FOR THEODICY

The evidential argument from evil has proved remarkably difficult to dispose of—either by trying to undermine confidence in the evidence for its Factual Premise or by proposing reasons to think the premise is false. After sustaining these kinds of theistic assaults, the Factual Premise still seems more rational to believe than its denial. In reflecting on the severity and magnitude of evils in the world, it is entirely reasonable to think that there are evils such that the world would be better, or at least no worse, if God had prevented them. Even if we might be mistaken about whether a given instance of evil is genuinely gratuitous, it is still rational to conclude that many, if not most, apparently gratuitous evils are genuinely gratuitous. There is weighty philosophical and theological support for the judgment that there are gratuitous evils. On philosophical grounds, there is strong presumption in favor of the general reliability of our rational and moral faculties. As I indicated earlier, excessively strong claims about our faculties being incomplete or incompetent or systematically mistaken in evalu­ ating whether it is likely that horrendous evils have some God-justifying point portends an unacceptable epistemic and moral skepticism.34 Besides, if we are not entitled to make considered judgments about some of the most fundamental aspects of human life—such as the pointlessness of evil—the fact that we are creatures who naturally and quite regularly make epistemically illegitimate judgments about such matters would itself be a candidate

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for a completely pointless evil. For reasons given by skeptical theists, we literally have no idea whatsoever whether the life of Mother Teresa was better or worse on the whole, and made a better or worse contribution to the goodness of the world overall, than the life of Saddam Hussein.35 On theological grounds, it is not clear that Christian theists who embrace classical orthodoxy should endorse any version of skepticism in order to find relief from the problem of evil. Christianity is an inherently revelatory tradition which affirms that it is God’s plan and good pleasure to reveal something of himself and his ways to us. This confidence is implicit in the Church’s historic formulation of key doctrines which assume that certain theological realities exist and that we do indeed know something about them: Trinity and Incarnation merely begin the list. Furthermore, the doctrine of humanity teaches that human persons are created “in God’s image” (in imago Dei)—and that God bestows upon human persons finite powers (such as reason and moral evaluation) which reflect powers he possesses in infinite measure. A balanced view of pertinent Christian doctrines, then, suggests that skeptical interpretations of the finite-infinite gap or of God’s intentional hiddenness and mystery are extreme. Whatever legitimate insights these interpretations contain, they need to be tempered by more positive themes drawn from the whole body of Christian doctrine—for example, related to the general reliability of the noetic powers and capabilities of finite created persons. So, something in the neighborhood of ontological, epistemological, and moral realism is implicit in classical theological orthodoxy. But this means that theology provides indirect support for the Factual Premise and the kinds of reasons Rowe gives for rationally believing it. The continuing strength of the Factual Premise should motivate Christian theists to revisit the Theological Premise. The premise assumes the definition of a “gratuitous evil” as an instance of intense suffering that God could have prevented without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. The focus on suffering, of course, could be expanded to include what Marilyn Adams calls “all of the minuses of life.” But the core idea is that an evil is gratuitous if the world on balance would have been better had it never occurred. The Factual Premise also involves the assumption that God is required to prevent gratuitous evil so defined. The picture of God here embodies what I have called the Principle of Meticulous Providence: the requirement that God

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permits an evil only if it is necessary to achieving a greater good or avoiding an evil equally bad or worse. Contemplation of such a requirement on God ushers us into the controversial territory of conceptions of divine providence, that is, of the nature of God’s purposes for and interaction with the world. Theists who accept theological determinism or Molinism typically embrace Meticulous Providence, but theists who reject these models are often drawn to views that envision some degree of openness in God and the world, and thus endorse general providence. Without rehearsing here the details of this complex debate, I believe that prospects for answering the evidential argument from gratuitous evil are much better for views that envision God, his ways, creation, and the human venture as “open” in significant respects, not “closed.” The fact that RST can be interpreted to support various views of providence further accents the need to resist its artificial limitations and develop distinctively Christian intellectual resources to address the problem of evil. Plantinga’s felix culpa theodicy displays his willingness to start thinking along these lines; Marilyn Adams has been working in this vein for a long time. We should not, however, envision including claims drawn from Christian doctrinal understanding as simply conjoining them with RST, since the body of Christian theistic belief forms an organic whole in which a more nuanced and profound interpretation of the concept of God is provided, including interpretations of the theistic attributes. This clearly affects the implications we can draw from theism considered as a component of Christian belief. Appeal to the rich version of EST I have in mind will not settle all disputes over models of providence, but it will provide important insights for rebutting the evidential argument. As long as the Principle of Meticulous Providence is accepted, responses to the evidential argument will be driven in the predictable directions of either Skeptical Theist Defense or Greater Good Theodicy, neither of which are prepared to admit that the world would have been better without the evil in question. Since I have always thought that such responses are doomed to failure, I have long recommended rejecting the Principle of Meticulous Providence in order to reject the Theological Premise which assumes it. The principle is neither necessary nor essential to theism, and is certainly not essential to classical Christian orthodoxy. So, the Theological Premise cannot be assumed as a necessary truth or as essential to the the-

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istic conception of God, and certainly not as essential to classical Christian orthodoxy. Showing that this is so involves drawing important implications about God and his purposes from certain major Christian doctrines and themes because bare theism simply does not contain enough information about God to do this.36 We can sketch here only the outlines of the relevant richer information from the Christian theological perspective: The doctrine of the Trinity implies that God is an inherently personal, inter-personal, relational, self-living Life whose nature is mutual self-giving, self-sacrificing love. This ThreePersonal Life graciously created a finite reality with an evolutionary trajectory that would eventually bring forth personal-rational-moral beings that are intimately related to the physical realm and can relate to God. These finite personal beings are invited to find their proper flourishing by participation in the divine Trinitarian Life. This mainstream construal of the doctrines of Trinity, Creation, and Humanity entails that this is a deeply relational universe. Only in a truly relational reality can certain great goods— such as love, self-giving, free choice of the good, interpersonal communion, and voluntary connection with God—be realized by finite rational-moral creatures. For the world to be genuinely relational, it cannot be ready-made— or “closed”—but must contain real contingency. This contingency, whether in the natural or personal realms, occurs within lawful structure. Contingency is required as a source of novelty so that there can be an actual history—of both nature and human affairs—and a meaningful future. Lawful structure provides stability so that both natural events and human choices can have meaningful consequences over time. This general description resonates with everything we know from both the physical sciences and the human experience of moral and personal life. Of course, God does not actualize any possible world but rather creates an initial world state, with inherent propensities (deterministic and nondeterministic) which set the stage for the development of successive world states. In so doing, God sovereignly limits himself and leaves some of the details of the future unspecified. We might say that God actualizes a world type, a certain kind of world, with certain beings and certain structural features forming the fabric of their existence, and then allows the world—in its physical and personal dimensions—to develop without his ensuring that only those evils occur which are necessary to some greater good. In

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Christian theology, kenosis (Greek; Phil. 2:7) refers to the divine act of “selfemptying” which is involved in the Christ event. But a common application of this concept pertains to God’s refraining from overwhelming creation with his power by allowing an “open space,” so to speak, in which genuine relationship between God and finite persons can occur. A world structured with a significant range of openness makes possible the great goods that can come only through proper relationship with God and others. This kind of world is indeed a very great good. But the opportunity for such great goods is commensurate with the possibility of great evils: the high degree of freedom in creation makes for real risk. Clearly, Christian theological teachings about sin and the fall are woven into the Christian story to account for the fact that all of creation, with its obvious and abundant fundamental and residual goods, is now damaged, wounded, and warped. Things are not as they should be: the world could certainly be better if events had not unfolded as they did. The Christian theist who holds this perspective can agree with the atheistic critic that not every bad thing that happens is connected to a greater good. There is indeed a strangeness to the conditions of our existence: opportunity and risk linked as part of the divine plan for governing the world. God’s providence, at one level, then, amounts to following certain intrinsically valuable policies regarding how human beings (rational-soulish animals) may attain the highest types of goods and what scope must be given to freely willed actions that are successfully executed. Created reality involves a physical environment that must run by natural laws that form a relatively stable framework in which personal decision and action can take place. But this means that there will be occasions in which the regular operations of nature interfere with human interests and aims—giving rise to what we often call chance or contingency. God cannot frequently contravene the operation of natural laws without creating, as Peter van Inwagen terms it, “massive irregularity,” which is a defect in a world, indeed, a great evil.37 In the personal realm, in which the power of libertarian freedom is exercised, there is likewise the contingency of choice and its consequences. God cannot generally be interfering in this sphere and still maintain meaningful freedom. All of this entails that God’s providence is general rather than meticulous; it does not entail that God is aloof or unavailable for intimate relationship, or that nature and humanity are entirely on their own.

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Thus, the possibility of both natural and moral evils is inherent in the structure of creation, including those evils that the world would be better off without. So, the possibility of gratuitous evil is necessary in a good type of world. Christian theists should not attempt any answer to the problem of evil that entails that every particular evil is necessary to a greater good or that God has specifically allowed every case of suffering. Instead they should focus on articulating what sorts of reasons the God of the historic Christian faith might have for allowing His creatures to live in a world with the structural features outlined here. Articulation of God’s general policies for the governance of the universe should not minimize the suffering of individual persons as a result of how contingencies play out. This accents what is right in the intuition underlying the Person Centered Requirement: that a good God would allow an individual to undergo serious suffering only if it is necessary to achieve some benefit for the individual that will be included in his or her conscious experience. Such a requirement on God is perhaps still too much under the spell of Meticulous Providence. It is better to admit that, in a contingent and chancy world, benefits and burdens, pains and pleasures, will be distributed in ways that defy detailed explanation from an ultimate point of view. This lays the groundwork for developing the intuition in a more helpful direction: that the Triune God’s infinite goodness, mercy, love, and justice—as revealed in the sweep of biblical revelation and most particularly in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus— entail that, given the contingencies of evil, God works redemptively with what happens to us, that no ultimate harm comes to any individual for reasons that are outside of his or her control, and that God’s plan of seeking all who will participate in the Divine Life will not be thwarted. We don’t have a formula for how all of this will go; but we have a confidence rooted in Christian knowledge and experience which gives rise to hope.

R E-EVA LUATING ROW E’S A RGUMENT

As more Christian philosophers reject Rowe’s restrictions and systematically mine the intellectual resources of the classical Christian theological vision, it will become increasingly obvious that the effectiveness of the evidential argument from evil has been overestimated. In “Friendly Atheism,

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Skeptical Theism, and the Problem of Evil,” Rowe continues this overestimation. “In an age of faith,” he observes, “before the growth of the scientific knowledge that produced alternative, credible explanations of the emergence of human life,” traditional theism struggled with the problems of evil and divine hiddenness but persisted. The idea of God continued to play an essential explanatory role because it was met by no credible alternative. However, “in this age of reason and science,” Rowe continues, “the idea of God no longer plays an essential, rational role in explaining the world and human existence.”38 With these comments about reason and science as prelude, he then summarizes his own reasoning: given horrendous evils, divine absence is evidence that there is no God. For him, the best explanation of reality, all things considered, is atheism. Or, since atheism is not much of an explanation of anything, Rowe presumably means atheism’s default worldview in secular Western culture: philosophical naturalism. Indeed, Rowe simplistically characterizes the “age of faith” as premodern and dominated by theistic thinking while describing the modern alternative as an intellectually sophisticated combination of atheism, science, and naturalism. It would be fairer to pit Restricted Standard Theism (RST) against something like Restricted Standard Atheism (RSA) as opposed to the “expanded” version of atheism smuggled into this passage. But this game of restrictions just repeats old mistakes. It would be more enlightening to allow Christian understanding to interpret and contextualize theism as well as to allow atheism to invoke the fuller intellectual resources it needs to construct a competitive comprehensive naturalistic worldview alternative. This larger debate transcends the academic exercise of arguing that evil lowers the probability of minimal theism and revolves around the more serious questions of confirmation and disconfirmation of worldviews. An intellectually robust Christian theism will display the explanatory power of the Trinitarian Godhead as ultimate reality and of all that Christian doctrine tells us about his ways and his world. Atheistic naturalism can likewise explain the way things are based on positing brute nature, material stuff, as ultimate reality and deploying other intellectual resources in its orbit. In this larger debate, one wonders how Rowe can support quite a number of important realities to which he is committed—free will, agent causation, and objective moral values—within a purely naturalistic framework. Such realities are, of course, very much at home in a universe de-

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scribed by Christian theism. And then there are the ultimate questions which must be answered: Why is there anything at all? Is rational thought appropriately reducible to material processes? Why is nature accessible to rational thought? Is the existence of finite personal-moral beings fully explicable by reference to impersonal matter? Christian theism certainly does not take a back seat to naturalism in credibly addressing such questions. In short, it is not difficult to see that Christian theism could be argued to have a high degree of confirmation relative to naturalism.39 Along these very lines, Rowe’s statement that science helps tip the rational scales toward atheism is curious in light of his Bayesian restriction on k to knowledge that, on balance, leaves the probability of God’s existence at 0.5. Among the things k includes, Rowe explains, is our “common knowledge of how the world works,” which would presumably include our knowledge of science. And he does say that k may include some items that raise the probability of theism and some that lower it. Apparently, Rowe thinks that science in k favors atheism. It is hard to understand why he believes this. It could be for the Ockhamistic reason that science explains things with fewer kinds of entities. But this commits the category mistake of thinking that Christian theism and science explain the same kinds of things when in fact they provide very different kinds of explanations of very different kinds of things. Indeed, in worldview comparisons, science itself and all of the conditions that make it possible—from the existence and lawful order of nature to the reliability of human reason which investigates it—become data for metaphysical explanation. One relevant consideration would be the respective likelihoods, the probabilities of science as we know it coming to be by way of these two rival metaphysical hypotheses. Let S be science, CT be Christian theism, and N be naturalism. The question is, then, which is greater: P(S/CT) or P(S/N)? Although it is difficult to make precise judgments about such matters, Trinitarian Christian theism, once again, does not obviously have low probability and can be easily be argued to have higher probability than naturalism here. Without minimizing the problem that evil presents for religious belief at many levels or discounting Rowe’s careful work articulating the problem as he sees it, the debate must now be put on different footing. Christian theism explains much about evil and much about other key realities. Whether or not some pieces of evidence taken in isolation lower the probability of

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theism is irrelevant to whether Christian theism is confirmed by the total evidence. Given that Christian theism has a respectable degree of confirmation on the total evidence, its explanation of evil in the world must be taken more seriously. And our estimation of the strength of the evidential argument from evil must be significantly moderated.

NOTES

I want to express my gratitude to Trent Dougherty and William Hasker for helpful comments on an earlier version of this chapter. 1. William L. Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” American Philosophical Quarterly 16 (1979): 336. The conditions elaborated immediately below are also on page 336. 2. Rowe includes this kind of support for (1) in “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 338n5. He also utilizes it in “Evil and the Theistic Hypothesis: A Response to Wykstra,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 96, and in “The Empirical Argument from Evil,” in Rationality, Religious Belief, and Moral Commitment: New Essays in the Philosophy of Religion, ed. Robert Audi and William J. Wainwright (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 235. 3. William L. Rowe, “Evil and Theodicy,” Philosophical Topics 16 (1988): 120. Bruce Russell employed the case of the little girl’s victimization in “The Persistent Problem of Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 6, no. 2 (1989): 121–39. William Alston began the practice of calling the little girl “Sue” and the fawn “Bambi” in “The Inductive Argument from Evil and the Human Cognitive Condition,” in Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 29–67. 4. William L. Rowe, “Ruminations about Evil,” in Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 72–73. Also see Rowe, “Evil and Theodicy,” 120–21. 5. Rowe, “The Empirical Argument,” 242. 6. Ibid., 228. 7. William L. Rowe, “Grounds for Belief in God Aside, Does Evil Make Atheism More Reasonable then Theism?” in chap. 7, “An Exchange on the Problem of Evil,” by Daniel Howard-Snyder, Michael Bergmann, and William L. Rowe, in God and the Problem of Evil, ed. William L. Rowe (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2001), 124–37. 8. William L. Rowe, “Friendly Atheism, Skeptical Theism, and the Problem of Evil,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 59 (2006): 80. 9. William L. Rowe, “Atheism,” in Routledge Encyclopedia of Philosophy, ed. Edward Craig (London: Routledge, 1998), 1:533–34. 10. See the following: Stephen Wykstra, “The Humean Obstacle to Evidential Arguments from Suffering: On Avoiding the Evils of ‘Appearance,’” International

Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil 189 Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 73–93, and “Rowe’s Noseeum Arguments from Evil,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 126–50; Alston, “The Inductive Argument”; Michael Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil,” Nous 35, no. 2 (2001): 278–96; and Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and the Problem of Evil,” in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology, ed. Thomas Flint and Michael Rea (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), 374–99; Daniel HowardSnyder and Michael Bergmann, “Evil Does Not Make Atheism More Reasonable than Theism,” in Contemporary Debates in Philosophy of Religion, ed. Michael Peterson and Raymond VanArragon (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003), 13–25; Daniel HowardSnyder, “The Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 286–310, and “Epistemic Humility, Arguments from Evil, and Moral Skepticism,” in Oxford Studies in Philosophy of Religion 2, ed. Jonathan Kvanvig (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 17–57. 11. Wykstra, “The Humean Obstacle,” 85. 12. One gets a sense of this range of considerations in Michael Bergmann and Daniel Howard-Snyder, “Notes to Reply to Rowe,” in Rowe, God and the Problem of Evil, 146–47. 13. Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil.” 14. William Rowe, “Skeptical Theism: A Response to Bergmann,” Nous 35, no. 2 (2001): 297–303. 15. Some of the passages in which Rowe anchors the Factual Premise in our reasonable judgment, and implicitly in our common humanity, include “The Empirical Argument,” 227–47, especially 232, 239, and 244; “The Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 264; and “Friendly Atheism,” 79–92. 16. Even in cases of animal suffering, it is not as though we are completely at a loss to imagine what sorts of goods might justify the sufferings of these nonhuman sentient creatures. 17. William Hasker, Providence, Evil, and the Openness of God (New York: Routledge, 2004), 51. (Emphasis his.) 18. Rowe admits that the theodicies offered by Richard Swinburne and John Hick seem to reduce the negative evidential impact of evil on theism. “Friendly Atheism,” 88. 19. Rowe, “The Empirical Argument,” 240n16. (Emphasis his.) 20. Bergmann argues that the skeptical theist is committed only to a “modest form of skepticism” that is confined to our ability to discern God-justifying goods for evils. See his “Skeptical Theism and the Problem of Evil.” 21. Peter van Inwagen suggests a forensic model of the debate that places epistemic restraints not on the debaters (and the propositions they can use) but on the

190  The Evidential Problem idealized audience they are addressing and trying to convince. See “Lecture 3: Philosophical Failure” in his The Problem of Evil: The Gifford Lectures Delivered in the University of St. Andrews in 2003 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2006), 37–55. 22. Alvin Plantinga states that the typical approach has been to think that, if evil provides a defeater theism, then it also provides a defeater for Christian theism. See his “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa,’” in Christian Faith and the Problem of Evil, ed. Peter van Inwagen (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 3. Rowe has stated, on the other hand, that, if evil provides a reason to think that restricted theism is false, it may or may not provide a reason to think a given form of expanded (Christian) theism is false. See Rowe, “The Empirical Argument,” 247, and “Friendly Atheism,” 88. 23. Richard Otte argues for evaluating the fuller set of Christian beliefs in relation to evil and identifies the mistake of ruling out those beliefs because of lower prior probability in “Probability and Draper’s Evidential Argument from Evil,” in van Inwagen, Christian Faith and the Problem of Evil, 26–40. 24. William L. Rowe, “Evil Is Evidence against Theistic Belief,” in Peterson and VanArragon, Contemporary Debates in Philosophy of Religion, 12–13; “Evil and God’s Freedom in Creation,” American Philosophical Quarterly 36 (1999): 101–13; “Paradox and Promise: Hick’s Solution to the Problem of Evil” in Problems in the Philosophy of Religion: Critical Studies of the Work of John Hick, ed. Harold Hewitt (London: Macmillan, 1991), 111–24; “Evil and Theodicy,” 126–31. 25. Plantinga, “Felix Culpa,” 1–25. 26. Plantinga’s notions of strong and weak actualization are found in his “SelfProfile,” in Profiles volume Alvin Plantinga, ed. James Tomberlin and Peter van Inwagen (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1985), see especially page 49. For present purposes, it was not within God’s power to strongly actualize many of the really good possible worlds— that is, those that contain personal creatures with libertarian free will who always do what is right. So, God strongly actualizes the state of affairs consisting in there being personal beings who are free in the libertarian sense. What those free beings do in that world is up to them, not God. 27. “Felix Culpa,” 7. Interestingly, Plantinga admits that there could be very good worlds without Incarnation and Atonement. But since we are unable to imagine them, he proposes that we just ignore them!? See page 10. 28. “Felix Culpa,” 10. Although Plantinga conducts the rest of his argument under the strong value assumption, he points out that there are weaker assumptions that would suffice. See pages 10–12. (I have capitalized “Atonement” throughout for consistency.) 29. The Exultet (known as the Easter Proclamation) is usually intonated by the priest during the celebration of Easter. Plantinga is drawing from these lines: O felix culpa quae talem et tantum meruit habere redemptorem (O happy fault that merited such and so great a Redeemer).

Christian Theism and the Evidential Argument from Evil 191 30. For Plantinga, this theodicy has the additional benefit of settling the historic Calvinist dispute over Supralapsarianism and Infralapsarianism, but we cannot pursue that point here. 31. “God, infinitely perfect and blessed in himself, in a plan of sheer goodness freely created man to make him share in his own blessed life.” From the Prologue of the Catechism of the Catholic Church (Liguori, MO: Liguori Publications, 1994), 7. C. S. Lewis devotes much space to making this point; for example, see his Mere Christianity (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001), Book IV. 32. Marilyn Adams, Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God (Ithaca, NY, and London: Cornell University Press, 1999), 31, and “Plantinga on ‘Felix Culpa’: Analysis and Critique,” Faith and Philosophy 25, no. 2 (April 2008): 123–40; Eleonore Stump, Wandering in Darkness: Narrative and the Problem of Suffering (New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 219, where she treats Job as the beneficiary of his suffering; Rowe, “The Empirical Argument,” 244. 33. Plantinga also mentions the Apostolic Letter Salvifici Doloris from John Paul II, which speaks of the Christian meaning of suffering as sharing in Christ’s redemptive suffering. See http://w2.vatican.va/content/john-paul-ii/en/apost_letters/1984/documents/hf_jp-ii_apl_11021984_salvifici-doloris.html. 34. The debate is ongoing, of course, over whether skepticism can be limited to discussion of the problem of evil or whether it leads to broader forms of epistemic and moral skepticism. See the following: Derk Pereboom, “The Problem of Evil,” in The Blackwell Guide to the Philosophy of Religion, ed. William Mann (Oxford: Blackwell, 2005), 160–61; Michael Almeida and Graham Oppy, “Skeptical Theism and Evidential Arguments from Evil,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 81, no. 4 (December 2003): 496–516; Michael Bergmann and Michael Rea, “In Defense of Skeptical Theism: A Reply to Almeida and Oppy,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 83, no. 2 (June 2005): 241–51; Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and the Problem of Evil”; William Hasker, “All Too Skeptical Theism,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 68 (2010): 15–29. 35. In correspondence with me (October 26, 2010), William Hasker reported his conversation in May 2010 with a well-known skeptical theist who readily agreed with this exact point. 36. Alternatively, Peter van Inwagen rejects the Principle and therefore the Theological Premise but bases his rejection on his “no minimum” argument, which shows that the existence of gratuitous evil is compatible with the existence of God. See “Lecture 6: The Local Argument from Evil” in his The Problem of Evil, 95–112. 37. Peter van Inwagen, “The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence,” in God, Knowledge, and Mystery, ed. Peter van Inwagen (Ithaca, NY, and London: Cornell University Press, 1995), 78; reprinted from Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991).

192  The Evidential Problem 38. Rowe, “Friendly Atheism,” 87. 39. Paul Draper has argued that the evidence of pain and pleasure poses a prima facie epistemic problem for theists. He contends that what we know of pain and pleasure in the world is antecedently much more probable on the Hypothesis of Indifference than on theism. He has also argued that evolution is much more antecedently probable on naturalism than on theism—and even that the systematic connection between pain, pleasure, and reproductive success is much more antecedently probable on evolutionary naturalism than on evolutionary theism. But these lines of argument display many of the weaknesses already identified in Rowe’s work, including the fallacy of thinking that forms of expanded theism and expanded naturalism are created by simple conjunction with other claims without the conceptual content of either conjunct qualifying and interpreting the content of the other, and the quite irrelevant and arguably mistaken point that forms of EST—which Draper has called “sectarian theisms”—have a lower intrinsic probability than RST. Yet Draper’s own combination of naturalism and Darwinian evolution is an indicator that any worldview has to be conceptually enriched enough—that is, involve enough systematically related claims—to be able to generate a sufficient number of implications about key realities to be explained. I do not believe that any of Draper’s arguments work. And once we move beyond the discussion of pain, pleasure, and evolutionary process to the many other fundamental features of the world that require explanation (rationality, personhood, morality, etc.) as well as to the ultimate questions that any worldview must address, his sectarian naturalism will have to be significantly enriched to have a decent shot at competing well with the version of Christian theism sketched in this paper. See Draper “Pain and Pleasure: An Evidential Problem for Theists,” Nous 23 (June 1989): 331–50; “Evolution and the Problem of Evil,” in Philosophy of Religion: An Anthology, ed. Louis P. Pojman, 3rd ed. (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 1998), 219–30; “The Problem of Evil,” in The Oxford Handbook of Philosophical Theology, 332–51; and his contributions to “God or Blind Nature? Philosophers Debate the Evidence” at http://www.infidels.org/library/modern/debates/great-debate.html, 2007–2008.

C H A P T E R

1 1

On Regretting the Evils of This World WILLIAM HASKER

The secret of happiness is to face the fact that the world is horrible. —Bertrand Russell Tell them I’ve had a wonderful life. —Ludwig Wittgenstein After everything was said about how unhappy her childhood had been— her father’s casual death, her mother’s craziness, her sullen older brother, the succession of boarding schools—there remained her sense that she would, now, be less of a person if it had happened any other way. She would be somebody else, somebody she had no desire to be. —John Updike, Marry Me

I wish to address what is sometimes termed the “existential” form of the Problem of Evil—the form in which theism is questioned and/or rejected William Hasker, “On Regretting the Evils of This World,” Southern Journal of Philosophy 19 (1981): 425–37. Copyright © 1981. Used by permission of John Wiley & Sons.

193

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on the basis of moral protest, indignation, and outrage at the evils of this world. In the first section of the paper I shall ask the reader to participate in a meditative, highly personal sort of reflection, in the hope of eliciting therefrom a certain existential premise which is crucial to the argument. In the second section I present and discuss a thesis concerning personal identity, with the aim of establishing a connection between one’s own existence and the world’s past history. In the third section I introduce certain principles of what might be termed the “logic of regret”—or, more generally, the logic of preference—and connect these with the results of the second section. The final section draws all of these threads together and shows their significance for the Problem of Evil.

I

The questions we shall be asking in this section are questions each person can only answer for himself. It is necessary, then, for you to meditate on your own life, and the meaning that it has for you; my own reflections will be set down here mainly as an aid to this. I ask myself, then, the following question: Am I glad that I exist? The question is not whether my life is all that it ought to be or all that it conceivably could be. It is not whether the pleasure-pain balance in my life to date has been, on the whole, favorable or unfavorable. It is not whether my life is, in general, a benefit to those who are affected by it. It is not even the question whether my life, all things considered, contains more good than evil. All of these questions are deeply interesting, and the answers to them, if known, might affect my answer to the question which I am asking. But the question is simply, am I glad that I am alive? Or is my existence, on the whole, something which I regret? Is my life something which I affirm, or do I wish, like Job, that I had never been? And what, I go on to ask, of my loved ones, of my wife and sons, and of others whom I know well enough that the question makes sense: Am I glad of their existence? If I could rewrite the script for the tale that we are living, would I leave their parts out? It is my hope that as you reflect on these matters you will be able to say, as I must say, that I am glad for my existence. It is not that my life has been good without qualification and in every respect. It has had its share of

On Regretting the Evils of This World 195

pain—whether more or less than other lives, I cannot say. It has had times of deep anxiety, when the worth of living at all has come into question. Yet I can say, I must say, that it is good to live, that I am glad for my existence and would not wish to replace it with non-existence, either retrospectively or for the future. And when I think of certain “significant others,” then I must emphatically say that I am glad that they exist, that I would not choose to rewrite the script without their parts, that their existence is something which I can and must affirm even as I affirm my own. It is my hope that you are able to follow me in this, that you are able to be glad for your own existence, and the existence of those whom you love, even as I am glad for my existence and for the lives of those whom I love. If this is so, then you have available to you a premise which you can use in the ensuing argument. For the argument to be developed is “person-relative,” in the sense that each person who uses it to enlighten himself must make use of a different premise, one which applies only to himself and which can be affirmed only by himself. Assuming that you are able to affirm such a premise, let us see what can be derived from it.

II

In this section I shall suggest a partial answer to the question: What is necessary in order that you and I should exist as the individual human beings which we are? I shall not be concerned with those things, such as food, air, and water, which are necessary for the existence of any human being whatsoever, but only with what is necessary for one’s own existence as distinct from the existence of some other person who might live in the same house, do the same job, and so on. In other words, I shall be proposing a thesis concerning personal identity. The thesis is not uncontroversial or universally acceptable, but I think its appeal is wide enough to make it worth pursuing. The thesis is that a human being is initially individuated by his body, so that, had that body not been conceived and born, that particular human being would never have existed. Or in other words: (A) A necessary condition of my coming-into-existence is the cominginto-existence of my body.

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This isn’t acceptable to everyone, or course, but it is entailed by the most widely held views on the mind-body problem. It evidently must be accepted by materialists, identity theorists, etc., for whom the person is his body, as well as by epiphenomenalists and behaviorists for whom the mind results (in different ways, of course) from certain aspects of the functioning of the biological organism. More interestingly, however, the thesis must be accepted by some philosophers who hold more or less dualistic views. Thomists, for instance, hold that the soul, as a form, is individuated by the matter which it informs; the soul is created as the soul of this particular body. In order to dissent from the thesis, one must hold that the soul has an identity of its own which is at least logically prior, if not also temporally prior, to its embodiment.1 To Cartesian dualists and others (if any) who hold such views, we now bid farewell, in order to explore the implications of the thesis we have proposed. The chief advantage of this thesis is that it entitles us to include among the necessary conditions of my existence whatever is necessary for my body’s existence. But what is necessary for this? To begin with, it is necessary that the individuals who are, in fact, my parents should have had a child. Had my mother married someone else, none of their children could have been me; none of their bodies could have been this body. But clearly, not just any child of my parents would have been me. I believe it would be widely accepted that personal identity requires an identical genetic heritage—that a child born to my parents at the same time that I was, in fact, born but with a significantly different genetic endowment would have been a different individual. But even genetic identity is not sufficient: identical twins are not identical persons, nor is either identical with the individual who would have existed had twinning not occurred. Thinking along these lines, it seems clear that for my existence it is at least necessary that a particular pair of male and female reproductive cells should have been joined to form a viable individual.2 It should already be clear that the coming into existence of any particular human individual is, antecedently, an extremely improbable event, one which is contingent upon a multitude of other highly improbable events.3 Not to put too fine a point on it, let us consider some of the contingencies involved, in some cases at least, in the fact that one’s parents happened to meet one another. My own father and mother came from widely separated parts of the country and met as a result of a complex series of

On Regretting the Evils of This World 197

events, some of which affected many other individuals as well. Not least among these was the First World War, which sent my father to France and brought my mother to Washington to work in the expanded Federal government, leading in each case to life-changing experiences. Quite simply: had there been no war, I should not be here. But this is not all, for behind my parents there stands the whole series of their progenitors, persons whose own coming-into-being must have been influenced in similar or even more striking ways by major and minor events of their own times. The conclusion to which we are led, and which is not at all too strong for the argument on which it rests, may be formulated thus: (B) Had major or significant events in the world’s past history been different than they were, then in all probability neither I nor the persons whom I love would ever have existed.

III

By this time you may foresee the direction of my argument and the use that I intend to make of the points established in the first two sections. But in order to link those points together we need to establish some principles governing the logical relationships between certain attitudes—attitudes which are expressed by the phrases “being glad that . . .” and “being sorry that. . . .” Attitudes such as these cannot be true or false, as beliefs are, yet it is my contention that they share with beliefs, moral judgments, and imperatives the property of being rationally consistent or inconsistent.4 In order to see this, it is important to notice that “being glad that . . .” is not just a matter of having certain feelings of joy or gladness. Normally, indeed, being glad does involve feelings, but this is not true without exception. I am glad that the rate of unemployment declined by one tenth of a percent last month. But it would take a much bigger shift—or one sustained over several months’ time—to trigger any noticeable feeling of gladness. What is the case, however, is that I prefer the rate’s having declined to its having remained constant or climbed even higher. And this, I suggest, is true in general: my being glad that P entails my preferring that P be the case rather than not-P.5 Conversely, if I am sorry, or regret that P, this means that I

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would prefer that not-P be the case rather than P.6 And it is in virtue of these preferences that the attitudes in question are, as I claimed above, rationally consistent or inconsistent. But this is not sufficiently explicit. Suppose I am glad that Indiana won the NCAA basketball championship, defeating North Carolina in the final game. What is preferred to what? It is not that I would prefer Indiana’s having won under all conceivable circumstances—for instance, if I had placed a large bet on North Carolina. What is the case is that I prefer the actual situation, in which Indiana won, to the state of affairs which would have obtained had Indiana failed to win7—presumably, a state of affairs in which Indiana is defeated by North Carolina in a final round. And on the other hand, my regretting Indiana’s victory would entail my preferring that other state of affairs, in which North Carolina wins, to the one which actually obtains. What logical principles apply to these attitudes? To begin with, we surely can say that: (C) If I am glad that P, I rationally cannot be sorry that P. One may, indeed, feel both gladness and sorrow about something; many events in life have such a “bitter-sweet” quality about them. But “being glad” in the sense which is of interest here involves preference, and clearly it cannot be true both that one prefers that P be the case and that one would prefer that it not be the case. Another principle which may suggest itself is: (D) If I am glad that P, and P entails Q, than I rationally must be glad that Q. But there are objections to this. For one thing, I may be quite unaware that P entails Q, and if so I can hardly be expected to extend my gladness that P to include Q. This is easily remedied by adding to the antecedent of (D) a clause specifying that I am aware of the entailment. But even with this addition, (D) would still be false. The reason for this may be elicited by a further consideration of the basketball example. Clearly, Indiana’s winning the NCAA basketball championship entails the existence of the National Colle-

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giate Athletic Association and its national championship. But one might take the view that the NCAA’s existence is on the whole a bad thing—that the very existence of such an organization with its national championships, television contracts, etc., inevitably fosters over­emphasis on athletics, commercialism, and the corruption of which we have recently been hearing so much. An Indiana fan who took this view might very well regret the NCAA’s existence, even though Indiana’s victory could not have occurred if there were no association. Yet it is still true that he is glad that Indiana won. For the alternative to Indiana’s winning (the state of affairs which would have obtained had Indiana not won) would not include the (supposedly beneficent) disappearance of the NCAA; it would, no doubt, be simply a state of affairs in which Indiana was defeated in the final round of the tournament. The fan we have just described is in no way irrational or inconsistent, and he does constitute a counter-example to (D). But his gladness about Indiana’s victory is qualitatively different from that of the typical fan, who is less concerned about the undesirable aspects of national associations and their tournaments. The first fan is glad about Indiana’s victory under the circumstances—circumstances which include the undesirable but inevitable fact that there is a tournament and it will be won by some other team if not by Indiana. We may also say, in the interests of brevity, that he is circumstantially glad that Indiana won, where A is circumstantially glad that P = df A is glad that P, and there is some state-of-affairs Q such that A knows that if Q did not obtain neither would P, and A regrets that Q. The other fan, we may suppose, is glad on the whole that Indiana won. He may indeed, recognize that the national association and its championship tournament involve some undesirable consequences, but he definitely prefers Indiana’s victory under these less-than-ideal circumstances to the alternative of no association, no tournament, and no championship for Indiana. More formally: A is glad on the whole that P = df A is glad that P, and for any state-ofaffairs Q such that A knows that if Q did not obtain neither would P, A is glad that Q.

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Being glad on the whole is a rather strong attitude of preference, but it is not an unfamiliar one: it is commonly expressed in the locution, “I wouldn’t trade this for anything!” This may of course be said when it is not strictly true, but there is no reason to doubt that it is sometimes a true expression of one’s attitude.8 Finally, we may say that a person regrets on the whole that P whenever he is clearly not glad on the whole that P—whenever, that is, he regrets that P or is only circumstantially glad that P.9 Given these definitions, we are able to proceed with some further principles. For instance, we can replace the objectionable (D) with: (E) If I am glad on the whole that P, and I know that P entails Q, then I rationally must be glad on the whole that Q. This is easily proved, given the definitions above. For suppose I am glad on the whole that P, but I am not glad on the whole that Q, where Q is a state of affairs which I know to be entailed by P. If I regret that Q, this is definitionally inconsistent with my being glad on the whole that P. (I may of course “regret” that Q, but this is consistent with my being glad on the whole that Q.) Suppose, however, that I am circumstantially glad that Q. Then there is some state-of-affairs R such that I know that if R did not obtain neither would Q, and I regret that R. But since P entails Q, it follows that if R did not obtain neither would P. And this, once again, is inconsistent with the assumption that I am glad on the whole that P. Clearly, our definitions entail not only (E) but also: (F) If I am glad on the whole that P, and I know that if Q did not obtain neither would P, then I rationally must be glad that Q.10 These principles seem clearly correct. But when (F) is combined with the results from Section Two, a rather striking conclusion results. The reasoning is straightforward: My existence depends on the existence of my body, and that body would never have existed had major events in the world’s past history been different. Therefore, (G) If I am glad on the whole about my own existence and that of those whom I love, then I must be glad that the history of the world, in its major aspects, has been as it has.

On Regretting the Evils of This World 201

This conclusion, to be sure, does not follow deductively from (F) and (B) as they have been stated. For (F) speaks of my knowing that if Q did not obtain neither would P, whereas (B) says only that in all probability there is such a connection. What difference, if any, should this make in our attitude towards (G)? Very little, I believe. Note first of all that, given the truth of (A), it is certain, and not just probable, that subsequent to any major calamity, such as a war, many of the persons who come into existence are different individuals from those who would have existed had the calamity not occurred. Many persons who would otherwise have become parents die without having children. Those who would have been their mates have children with other partners, and so on. Within a few generations, it is likely that hardly anyone living in the affected area is identical with any individual who would have existed, had the calamity not occurred. What is more difficult is to show that this is true in the case of a given individual. But even in the individual case, the probabilities mount up very rapidly. Suppose, for example, that had the First World War not occurred there is one chance in ten that my parents would have met each other. (I am sure that this is too high. But at this point I can afford to be conservative.) Suppose, furthermore, that on just two previous occasions the meeting and mating of some of my earlier ancestors has been influenced in similar ways by calamitous events of their own times. Then neglecting all other factors (all of which, if considered, would further strengthen my argument), the likelihood of my existing, if just these three major calamities had not occurred, is no better than one in a thousand! The truth is, I have no reason whatever to suppose that I would have existed, had the course of the world’s history been substantially different. But what I have no reason to suppose true must for practical purposes be disregarded. So (G) must be accepted. If the argument leading to (G) is as sound as it now seems to be, how are we to explain the fact that it has largely been ignored? Perhaps one reason is the non-obviousness of (A) and (B), for without these principles the connection between past historical events and my own existence would not obtain.11 As a matter of fact the ideas expressed in (F) and (G) have received some attention, most frequently in connection with determinism. In a strict deterministic system, every event in a causal network is causally interlocked with every other event, so that one can’t be glad or sorry on the whole about anything without being glad or sorry about everything. This is the source of the complaint urged by William James in “The Dilemma of Determinism”—that if determinism is

202  The Existential Problem

true, one can’t rationally regret any single event (a brutal murder, for instance) without implicating the entire universe in one’s regret. Some determinists have seen this and have found it acceptable. Spinoza considers our ordinary judgments of good and bad to be irrational precisely because in making them we overlook the necessary connections between events; the only rational happiness is the joy with which we contemplate deus sive natura as one single, immutable fact. And Nietzsche, in “The Drunken Song” (Zarathustra, BK IV), enjoins us to love all of life and to will all of it back in “eternal return”: All things are entangled ensnared, enamored; if ever you wanted one thing twice, if ever you said, “You please me, happiness!” “Abide, moment!” then you wanted all back.

A final (to my mind wonderful) example, which is neither deterministic nor philosophical, comes from the Roman liturgy of the Easter vigil: O truly necessary sin of Adam, that is wiped out by death of Christ!

O happy fault, that was worthy to have such and so great a redeemer.12

IV

Supposing the argument so far to be sound, and that the truth of (G) has been established, what follows for the Problem of Evil? Or better, who can be helped by our argument, and how can it help him? To begin with, our argument can be of no help to the atheologian13 who finds himself sincerely unable to affirm that he is glad for his own existence and for the existence of persons whom he loves. If one on the whole regrets the sheer fact that he has lived at all—as opposed to regretting some, or many things that one has done, or that have happened to one—then his own life gives him no reason to be glad for the world’s existence. If on the other hand you are glad on the whole that you exist, then it follows (in the light of (G) above) that you must be glad also about the world’s existence and about the general course its history has taken. It may occur to you, however, that I am trying to extract too much from your admission that you are glad that you exist. Probably when you considered this question you weren’t thinking at all about those tragic events which

On Regretting the Evils of This World 203

(as it turns out) are required for your existence. You were probably thinking just about your own life and its immediate surroundings, rather than about its connection with other lives and other events—and this is what you said you were glad about. If we agree to call this “gladness simpliciter” you may want to say that you are indeed glad simpliciter that you exist but that you are not necessarily glad on the whole that you exist. Quite so. There is a difference between being glad simpliciter and being glad on the whole, and it’s not at all impossible for a person to have one of these attitudes without having the other. But, now that we have clarified this distinction, I would like you to ask yourself, “Am I on the whole glad, or sorry, that I exist?” There are just three possible answers. If your answer, now that the issues have been clarified, is still “Yes,” then the argument proceeds just as before. But perhaps you find that you can’t easily give this answer, in the light of all those tragic events of the past. Perhaps, indeed, your reaction is one of bewilderment—you may feel, as a colleague suggested, that when you lump your life together with the whole past history of the world, you don’t know what to say about it. Thus you may fail to have any “on the whole” attitude towards your own existence; you are neither glad on the whole nor sorry on the whole about it. I can understand your feeling this way about the matter. The interesting point (which will emerge below) is that this failure to have an “on the whole” attitude towards your own existence leaves you just as unable to formulate a Problem of Evil as if you were definitely glad about it. In order to state a Problem of Evil (of the sort we are discussing) you must positively regret on the whole that you, your family, your friends, and all the rest of us, have lived. You must be able to say “Although my life has brought me some pleasures, I truly wish and would prefer that some other world, in which no one now living has a share, or perhaps no world at all, should exist in place of this present evil world of which I am (unhappily) a part.” If this is your sincere attitude, then the argument I am presenting will necessarily fail to engage you. In this case the fact that I am glad of my existence is of no help to you. But this point cuts both ways. If you are glad on the whole that you, and persons close to you, have lived, then it makes no difference that others might, or actually do, feel differently about their lives. In such matters as these, each of us is bound to the consequences of his own convictions and attitudes, regardless of whether they are shared by others or not.

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It may be, however, that even an atheologian who is glad on the whole for his own existence will be unaffected by my argument. This will be the case, for instance, if he conceives and presents the Problem of Evil merely as an internal inconsistency in theistic belief. He may, for instance, allege that the famous triad “God is all-powerful, God is good, and the world contains evil” is either logically or probabilistically inconsistent, and that this shows the theist’s position to be untenable. Such an atheologian does not need to commit himself to any substantive premises whatever; in particular, he need not commit himself to any moral principles, nor need he make any moral judgments of his own, or express any kind of dissatisfaction with the actual state of the world. His atheological argument does not depend in any way on his personal convictions, attitudes, and commitments, so we can’t expect the argument to be affected by our reminding him of these things.14 Typically, however, the Problem of Evil is not presented in this noncommittal kind of way. Not only is such a presentation generally lacking in the rhetorical force desired by atheologians, but it seems not to express the convictions which they wish to convey. Far more commonly, presentations of the Problem convey a strong sense that there is indeed something drastically wrong with the world from a moral point of view; that a supremely wise and powerful being such as God is alleged to be would, if he existed, be morally at fault for causing or permitting the world to be as it is; and sometimes that believers in God are not only logically obtuse but morally insensitive15 for failing to recognize that the deplorable moral state of the world is a decisive objection to what they believe. To this kind of presentation of the Problem of Evil, our present argument provides an effective answer. To see this, we have only to conjoin the “moral protest” involved in the presentation of the Problem with the results derived in the first three sentences of this paper. We then have, for instance, the following: (H) The world as we know it is morally so objectionable that a God who tolerated it could in no meaningful sense be called good— nevertheless, I am glad for my own existence and therefore I am also glad that the world exists and that the main events and features of its history have been as they have.

On Regretting the Evils of This World 205

Or, in relation to the alleged moral insensitivity of theists, we have: (I) Those who would maintain that the world as we know it could be created and governed by a just and loving God “must have led sheltered lives and closed their heart to the voice of their brothers’ blood,” nevertheless I am glad on the whole that I have been able to live in this world, and glad also that its history has been such as to give me that opportunity. Isn’t it clear on the face of it that the admission in the latter parts of these two statements effectively cancels out the moral protest involved in the first part of each statement? That one simply can’t, rationally and consistently, press home the complaint of the first part if one has the attitude expressed in the second part? The principle involved might be formulated something like this: ( J) I cannot reasonably complain to someone that P, or blame or reproach someone for its being the case that P, unless I myself sincerely regret, or am sorry, that P.16 This, I think, is intuitively evident, and applying it to the problem at hand, we have the following: (K) If I am glad on the whole about my own existence and that of persons close to me, then I cannot reproach God for the general character or the major events of the world’s past history. But this is just what the atheologian wants to do: it is just the “general character and major events,” many of them tragic for the persons involved, which in his view render the world morally unsatisfactory and which, should God exist, would constitute a decisive objection against His goodness. Nor will it be feasible for the atheologian to develop a Problem of Evil based solely on events within his own lifetime, events therefore on which his own existence does not depend in the way in which it depends on those tragic events of the past. For the atrocities and tragedies of our lifetime are all of them the same kinds of events that have occurred countless times in

206  The Existential Problem

the past; to protest loudly and indignantly against just these few calamities, while accepting with equanimity all the similar evils in the past which happen to have contributed to our own existence, is to adopt a moral stance which is too egocentric to deserve serious notice. So much for the atheologian, at least for now. But what of the perplexed theist, who is troubled by the problem of reconciling the world’s evil with the goodness of the God in whom he believes? Does our argument offer him any help? To begin with, the argument cannot bear the weight of “positive theodicy”—that is, of the task of explaining why evil exists or why it is appropriate that God should allow it to exist. In order to do this along the lines of the present argument, we should have to assume that we, the persons actually existing, are uniquely valuable in comparison with any other persons whom God could have created—but I take it no one would want to assert this. These questions about the justification of evils must be answered, insofar as answers are possible at all, along other lines. I think, however, that the argument is able to offer some help in another way—namely, by effecting a certain change of perspective. To be sure, the point of view presented here does not represent what philosophers would ordinarily be prone to describe as “viewing things in proper perspective.” Ever since Plato, we have wanted to view such matters sub specie aeternitatis, taking our places as “spectators of all time and all existence.” But are we really able to take this place? Can we actually make the innumerable judgments, both factual and evaluative, which are required if we are to sum things up from this point of view? Our argument suggests, on the contrary, that my judgments about the goodness or badness of existence as a whole are best made, not from the standpoint of “a cosmic ideal observer,” but from my own standpoint as an individual existing human being—one who loves and struggles, who sorrows and rejoices, and who is glad for the opportunity to live out his life upon the earth. To sum it up in a word—the argument shows something about what it means to be a creature.

NOTES

I am indebted to Robert Merrihew Adams for the seed-thought of this essay; his own (rather different) development of the idea is given in his “Existence, Self-Interest, and

On Regretting the Evils of This World 207 the Problem of Evil,” Nous 13, no. 1 (1979): 53–65. For comments on earlier drafts of this paper I wish to thank Arthur Falk, Henry Norton, Len Pleck, William Hawk, Michael Peterson, and Robert Rosenthal. 1. Presumably Alvin Plantinga has some view in mind, when he contemplates the question, whether or not it would have been possible for Socrates to be an alligator! See Alvin Plantinga, The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974), 65–69. For the author’s own preferred view of the mind-body problem, see my “The Souls of Beasts and Men,” Religious Studies 10, no. 3 (1974): 265–77. 2. See Saul Kripke, “Naming and Necessity,” in Semantics of Natural Language, ed. Donald Davidson and Gilbert Harman (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1974), 312–14. Even this may not be sufficient—for instance, do the time and circumstances of my conception matter? If the same pair of cells had joined several days or weeks earlier would this make a difference to my identity? Or suppose my parents had had other children before me, and other circumstances of our life were different? On questions such as these, my own intuitions are far from clear—fortunately, for our present purpose there is no need to resolve them. 3. For instance: on any given occasion of conception, literally millions of viable sperm cells are available. It may well be that part of the historical attraction of doctrines of the pre-existence of the soul (and of Cartesian dualism?) has been the desire to escape from this sense of the radical contingency, the fantastic improbability, of one’s own existence. Whether this is something one ought to escape from, is another matter. 4. When I say that one “rationally must” (or “cannot”) have a certain attitude, I mean that one must have it (or refrain from having it) on pain of inconsistency. 5. In order to avoid use-mention confusions I will use “P” to stand for the sentence which expresses the proposition that P, and “P ” as the name of the state of affairs such that P. 6. In certain contexts we may say that we “regret” that P when we do not, in fact, prefer that not-P be the case rather than P. This “polite” or “conventional” sense of “regret” entails nothing concerning one’s actual preferences; thus it is too weak to be of interest for the purposes of this essay. I shall refer to it only within quotation marks, and then only when it seems advisable to distinguish it from genuine regret. 7. This state of affairs may be identified, following the Lewis semantics for counterfactuals, as that possible world most similar to the actual world in which Indiana does not win. 8. Whether one is glad on the whole about something or only circumstantially glad about it depends in part on what, in a given context, are taken to be reasonable topics for regret. In most everyday contexts, for example, the laws of nature are seen simply as given facts that cannot reasonably be regretted. (When I burn my finger it does not occur to me to regret that fire is hot.) And this is probably true also of most events of the remote past. In the context of discussions of the Problem of Evil, on the other hand, the scope of reasonable regret is often held to be very wide indeed.

208  The Existential Problem 9. The various attitudes of preference then lend themselves to arrangement in the following schema: (1) is glad on the whole (3) is circumstantially glad (5) regrets

(2) is glad (simpliciter) (4) regrets on the whole

The ranking is of course from the greatest to the least degree of preference of the state of affairs in question. The arrows represent entailment. (1) is incompatible with (4), and so also with (3) and (5); (5) is incompatible with (2), and so also with (1) and (3). There can be borderline or indeterminate cases between any of the incompatible pairs. If we exclude these, and also the cases in which one has no attitude of preference at all, we might say that (1) and (4) are contradictory attitudes, as are (2) and (5); (1) and (3) are contrary attitudes, as are (1) and (5) and (3) and (5); while (2) and (4) are subcontrary attitudes. 10. Why not “. . . must be glad on the whole that Q”? The proof of this, parallel to the proof given for (E), would require the inference-rule: From (if Q did not obtain neither would P) and (if R did not obtain neither would Q), infer (if R did not obtain neither would P). But this is not a valid rule of counter­factual logic. Some of the consequences of (E) and (F) may at first glance appear counter­ intuitive. If I am glad on the whole that Indiana won the championship, does it follow that I am glad that: either Indiana won, or nuclear war is about to break out in the Middle East? The answer is yes—and there is no problem here. Of course (E) should not be understood to imply that I must actually consider the entailed state of affairs, but only that if I were to consider it I must be glad about it. And I am glad about this: I prefer the actual state of affairs, in which Indiana won and war is (presumably) not imminent, to the state of affairs which would have obtained had Indiana not won. But it does not follow from this that if Indiana had lost and nuclear war were imminent, I would then be glad that: either Indiana won, or nuclear war is about to break out. A similar treatment handles cases involving conjunction. If I am glad on the whole that P and Q, then I rationally must be glad on the whole that P, and also glad on the whole that Q. But it does not follow that if it were true that P and false that Q, I would then be glad that P. 11. But the argument does not lose all of its force even if (A) and (B) are denied. For those of us who are glad that we exist are in most cases glad not so much about the bare fact of having lived at all, as about specific things we have done, experiences we have had, persons we have known and loved. But a hypothetical life that “I” might have had, if my ego had been lodged in some other body, would in all likelihood be

On Regretting the Evils of This World 209 vastly different from my actual life in all of these respects. For many of us, preferring such a life to one’s actual life might be nearly as difficult as preferring not to have lived at all. (I owe this point to Robert Rosenthal.) 12. I am indebted to Arthur Falk for these last two examples. 13. I use this word for convenience, while recognizing that one who propounds the Problem of Evil need not be attempting to demonstrate the non­existence of God. He may be a theist, or a concerned agnostic, whose own faith is troubled by the massiveness of the world’s evil. 14. As Alvin Plantinga has shown (God and Other Minds [Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967]), it is extremely difficult to show that there is an inconsistency here. In order to do this, one would need to supply another proposition which is itself necessary, or at least obviously true, and which when conjoined with the “triad” yields a contradiction—but no such proposition is forthcoming. On the other hand, I am unconvinced by Plantinga’s attempt to demonstrate positively that there is no inconsistency. 15. See Walter Kaufmann, The Faith of a Heretic (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1963), 167: “Those who believe in God because their experience of life and the facts of nature prove his existence must have led sheltered lives and closed their hearts to the voice of their brothers’ blood.” 16. It is not enough that I “regret” that P! This principle shows that in order to formulate an existential Problem of Evil I must on the whole positively regret my own existence; the mere failure to be glad on the whole about it is insufficient.

C H A P T E R

1 2

Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil M A R I LY N M . A D A M S

For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. —1 Cor. 1:18

Christians believe that God is effectively dealing with the problem of evil through the cross—primarily the cross of Christ and secondarily their own. In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus follows the prediction of his own martyrdom (Luke 9:22) with a charge to his disciples: “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it; and whoever loses his life for my sake, he will save it. For what does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses or forfeits himself ?” (Luke 9:23–25). Yet these points are Marilyn McCord Adams, “Redemptive Suffering: A Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil,” in Rationality, Religious Belief, and Moral Commitment, ed. Robert Audi and William J. Wainwright (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986. Used by permission of the editors.

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rarely mentioned in discussions of the problem of evil among analytic philosophers, no doubt because of their paradoxical nature, noted by St. Paul himself. How can the suffering of the innocent and loyal at the hands of the guilty and hard-hearted solve the problem of evil? Why is it not simply another witness against the goodness of God who commends it? My purpose in this paper is to reintroduce reflection on the meaning of the cross into discussion (at least among Christian philosophers) of the problem of evil, in the hope that, as faith seeks understanding, our deepest contribution will become more articulate for us and less scandalous to others. My bold contention will be that the Christian approach to evil through redemptive suffering affords a distinctive solution to the problem of evil, for believers and unbelievers as well.

SOME METHODOLOGIC A L R EFLECTIONS

Discussions of the problem of evil among analytic philosophers of religion focused on God’s responsibility for evils and have concentrated on the theoretical, or so-called logical, problem of evil. It is asked how the propositions (T1) There is an omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good God and (T2) There is evil in the world can be logically consistent in view of the assumption that (T3) A perfectly good being would want to eliminate all of the evil that he could. Proposed solutions involve arguing that even secular ethics admits exceptions to (T3), where the evils in question are prerequisite to or necessary consequences of greater goods. Nevertheless, it is conceded that (T4) The fact that an evil was necessary for a greater good would provide an omniscient and omnipotent being with an excuse, only if

212  The Existential Problem

the evil were a logically necessary prerequisite to or consequence of the good. Defenses are then fleshed out by citing purported logically possible, morally legitimate excuses—either that the evils are logically necessary to the best of all possible worlds, or that each evil is logically connected with some great enough good, or that the risk of evil is logically implied by the good of free creatures. Philosophers usually dismiss the “factual” problem—that of whether (T1) and (T2) are both true—as philosophically intractable. After all, how could one establish that this is the best of all possible worlds or prove that each piece of evil was logically connected with some great enough good? Again, is it not overwhelmingly plausible—pace Plantinga1—that (T5) God could do more than he does to prevent or eliminate evils, even on the assumption that rational creatures have free will? When all is said and done, most Christians settle for “incomplete” as the most benign possible verdict on any attempted philosophical solution, and the rest is left to “pastoral care.”2 I believe that Christianity does provide a distinctive resolution of the “logical” problem of evil and for believers an answer to the “factual” problem as well. To extract these results, however, it is necessary to approach the matter indirectly and to keep the following observations in mind. First, it is necessary to remember that Christianity is primarily a religion, concerned to teach people how to live and serve God in the here and now. The problem of evil for Christians is posed by the question (Q1) How can I trust (or continue to trust) God in a world like this (in distressing circumstances such as these)? A Christian is committed to obey Christ in everything and to count on him to see to his good and preserve his life in any and every circumstance. Sometimes things happen in his life or in those of others close to him or in the world at large that radically shake his convictions. The Christian believer will not be reassured by the observation that it is logically possible for an omnipotent and omniscient being to prove trustworthy in and through

Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil 213

these circumstances. For it is his actual commitments that are at issue; he needs to restore his confidence that God is actually trustworthy in the present situation. This problem is indeed a pastoral one, but it has a philosophical dimension in that it might be partially alleviated by some sort of explanations of how God is being good to created persons, even when he permits and/or causes evils such as these. Second, evil is a problem for the Christian only insofar as it challenges his faith in God’s goodness; yet, for the Christian, God’s goodness remains at bottom a mystery. (a) For one thing, the typical Christian does not arrive at the conclusion that God is good by taking a Cliffordian survey of all the available data, tallying the evidence on both sides, and finding that the “scientific” case for God’s goodness is stronger. Usually he is moved by personal and/or corporate experiences of deliverance from some concrete difficulty—“They cried to the Lord in their trouble; and He delivered them from their distress” (Ps. 107:6, 13, 19, 28)—or big or little theophanies in which the believer is permitted to “taste and see that the Lord is good” (Ps. 34:8). The Christian may come away deeply convinced of God’s goodness and saving power without being able to articulate any clear recipe for predicting his behavior in future situations. (b) Further, it is fundamental to biblical religion that God’s goodness cannot be comprehended by us in terms of a simple formula in this life. This is in part because the divine nature is eternally beyond the creature’s conceptual grasp. But it is also part of God’s deliberate design, since it is necessary to make possible the relationships He wants with us and for which we were created. For what God wants most from us is wholehearted trust and obedience. Yet it is conceptually impossible to trust someone if you know in advance every move that he will make. Again, even if such knowledge were possible, it would be a source of great temptation. For example, if God were known to have a fixed policy of rendering temporal goods for well-doing and temporal evils for wickedness, then the observant might even try to manipulate the equation to use God as a means to their ends. These latter points are well illustrated by the story of Job, who apparently thought that divine goodness could be captured in the simple actconsequence principle. Job paid his social and religious dues, and God blessed him. When Satan was allowed to take away the temporal benefits and to afflict Job with a loss of material goods, family, health, and moral approval,

214  The Existential Problem

however, Job was pressed to his limits and eventually demanded a hearing. Job had kept his side of the contract, but God was reneging on his; Job wanted a day in court. God answers Job with a theophany: Job is reprimanded for his insolence in presuming to grasp divine goodness in such a simplistic way; he is allowed to see and experience God’s goodness but told he will have to trust God to save him in his own way, without advance billing of his plans. Job had loved God too much for his effects and benefits; now he has seen God and must love him for himself. Third, while we cannot get a simple, clear analysis of divine goodness that will enable us to trace the hand of God in every situation the way the simple act-consequence principle promised to do, we can get a general idea of God’s character, purposes, and policies from the collective experience of God’s people over the centuries. The principal sourcebook for this general description is the Bible; a secondary source is the history of the Church. Nevertheless, the Christian story does not bridge the above-mentioned “incompleteness” gap by providing answers to such questions as (Q 2) Why does God not do more than he does to prevent or eliminate evils? (Q 3) Why did God make a world in which there are evils of the amounts and kinds found in this world, instead of one with fewer or less severe kinds? (Q 4) Why did God make a world such as this instead of one entirely free from evils? To the extent that Christians do not know the answers to these questions, evil must remain a mystery from the Christian point of view. The Bible and church history do shed light on this question. (Q 5) How does God fit evils, of the amounts and kinds we find in this world, into his redemptive purposes? and thereby suggest an answer to (Q1) How can I trust (or continue to trust) God in a world like this (in distressing circumstances such as these)?

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as well as a resolution of the philosopher’s (logical and factual) problem of evil. Finally, although the Christian religion does not hold that evil is an illusion or deny the grim fact that many have to struggle for survival and meaning in a world plagued by pain, disease, death, and wickedness, it teaches that the place to begin in grappling with the problem of evil is not the evils without but the evils within, not the evils that just happen or that are charged to others but one’s own contributions to the problem. Christians believe that unless a person is willing to confront God’s way of dealing with his own sin, he may not be able to appreciate God’s approach to other evils or to discover the most fruitful way of living with them. To see how this works and how from this starting point it is possible to arrive at a Christian approach to the problem of evil through redemptive suffering, it is necessary to review briefly the doctrinal presuppositions of such a conclusion.

SIN AS THE PR IM A RY EV IL FOR CHR ISTI A NS

Freedom and the actuality of sin. According to biblical religion, (T6) God’s primary interest in creation is the rational creatures, particularly the human beings, whom he has made. Further, as Psalm 8 eloquently reflects, God did not make us because human beings were just the touch he needed to make this the best of all possible worlds; rather (T7) God made human beings to enter into nonmanipulative relationships of self-surrendering love with himself and relationships of self-giving love with others. So far from altering the characters to improve the plot, God is represented in the Old Testament as directing the course of history with the end of bringing his people into the relationship with himself that he desires. Nevertheless, (T8) God cannot get the relationships he wants with human beings unless he makes them with incompatibilist free wills.

216  The Existential Problem

For if human beings are free in the compatibilist sense only, then their free and voluntary actions are the sorts of things that either have causes outside the agent himself or occur in part by chance. Surely, if God’s primary purpose in creation is to enter into such loving relationships with human beings, he would not leave it simply to chance whether they cooperate with or reject him. On the other hand, if each free human choice or action is completely determined by a causal chain or chains whose first member is God, then God’s relationships with human beings will be manipulative in the highest degree, like those of a computer expert with the robot he designs, builds, and completely programs. Again, how could God hold human beings accountable for their responses to his offers of friendship, if it were at his discretion whether they occurred by chance or were completely determined by him? Yet, these relationships are bought with a price, for (T9) Not even an omnipotent God can introduce incompatibilist free creatures into the world without accepting the possibility, which he is powerless to exclude, that they will sin. Although human beings are thus free to cooperate with God or not, it was his purpose in creation that we should, and (T10) As creator, God has the right that we should submit to him in complete and voluntary obedience and offer ourselves in service to others. We sin when we show contempt for God by willfully refusing to render what we owe. And as Christ taught in the Sermon on the Mount, sin is not only, or even primarily, a matter of misdeeds but of inner attitudes and emotions. Second, God’s response to the problem of human sin begins with divine judgment. Biblical religion conceives of divine goodness as righteous love. God’s righteousness expresses itself in the desire for honest and open relationships with created persons, ones in which role expectations are clear and conflicts explicit and dealt with rather than glossed over or suppressed. Thus, God’s judgment of sin is an expression of his righteousness, because

Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil 217

(T11) As righteous, God has a right to make us face the truth about who we are, who he is, who Christ is, and his rightful claims over us, and (T12) God will not forgo this right of judgment. He would not be wrong to judge us, even if no benefit accrued to us therefrom. Nevertheless, divine judgment is also an expression of his love, because (T13) God’s interest in judgment is not condemnation and punishment but forgiveness and reconciliation. As our creator, he knows that (T14) A human being’s deepest longing is to be known and loved just as he is; and he also realizes that (T15) Human beings, whether by nature or as a consequence of the fall, cannot really forget sin, whether their own or someone else’s. God therefore shows his love when in judgment he brings everything out on the table between him and the sinner, so that everyone knows that the love that follows is not based on false pretenses. We see this clearly in Jesus’ encounter with the woman at the well: he tells her everything that she ever did, not to join the citizenry in condemning her scandal but to show that his offer to exchange drinks of water with her was made with full knowledge of what sort of sinner she was (John 4:7–30, 39–42). The Christian’s experience of divine judgment and the forgiveness of sins, his continued experience of the restored and ever-deepening relationship, convinces him of God’s love at such a level that he is able to affirm in times of trial that (T16) God would not allow us to suffer evils that could not have, with our cooperation, a redemptive aspect, and to keep trusting, his lack of answers for (Q2)–(Q4) notwithstanding.

218  The Existential Problem GOD’S STR ATEGY IN JUDGMENT

The direct approach. From a biblical point of view, God’s right of judgment is in no way conditioned on any therapeutic effects it may have for us. And the book of Revelation implies that he has the means and will eventually force the unwilling to face the facts: “Behold, he is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see him, every one who pierced him; and all the tribes of the earth will wail on account of him” (Rev. 1:7). There is the picture of Judgment Day on which all the secrets of our hearts will be made known, not only to us but in front of everyone else. Yet God knows that this sort of judgment would not usually be redemptive for fallen human beings. And the author of Revelation represents it as a method of last resort, to be used by God when time has run out on his offer of salvation. When someone judges us, looking down from a position of superior power or righteousness (the way the Pharisee regarded the tax collector in the temple, Luke 18:11–12), our reaction is apt to be hostile. We search wildly for countercharges and slander our accuser; we blame someone else and/or rationalize our behavior as no worse than others in our inferior position. No matter how much our judge insists that he is telling us for our own good, we are apt not to believe him but to hate him for adding guilt and shame to the burden of our implicitly recognized sin. Indirect pedagogy. Since—by (T13)—God is interested in judgment as an occasion for repentance and reconciliation, he confronts a pedagogical problem; how to face us with our sin in such a way that we will accept the verdict and repent. The best way is an indirect approach that does not ram the truth down our throats but entices us to participate in arriving at the verdict. In the Old Testament, the prophets sometimes resort to stories or speak in figures. Consider God’s judgment of David for his affair with Bathsheba and contrivance of Uriah’s death. Nathan tells David the story of a rich man who eats a poor man’s pet lamb instead of taking an animal from his own large flocks, and he elicits from David a verdict of guilty and a sentence of death. Then Nathan proclaims, “You are the man,” and because David really loves God, he repents and God forgives him. The first child dies, but another son, Solomon, becomes a great king and builds the temple of the Lord (2 Sam. 11–12).

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Jesus tells parables for a similar reason. For example, the Good Samari­ tan story is told to a self-righteous man who wants a definition of “neighbor” so that he will not have to waste his efforts at being good on people who do not fall into that category. Jesus does not use the confrontational approach: “You do not really love God or care about other people, or else you would not be asking that question” or “You think you have your ‘religious act’ together, but in God’s eyes you are further from the kingdom than the people you despise and exclude.” Rather than provoke hostility in his questioner, Jesus tells him a story about how to be neighborly and commends the Good Samaritan’s help of the needy man. The young man can go away and ponder Jesus’ answer and reflect on the difference between Jesus’ starting point and his own. Dealt with in this gentler way, he may perhaps have a change of heart. Sometimes such indirect approaches do not work, however. If the person is especially reluctant to see and if the sins in question are inner attitudes that are apparently easier to hide, he may successfully resist the conclusion that Jesus wants him to draw. The Pharisees and Sadducees were like this. Their outward acts were correct and legal, so that it was easy for them to defend themselves and to argue that they were better than most people. They repeatedly refused the insight that they were self-righteous and contemptuous of others and that they had lost faith in the redemptive power of God. In cases of this sort, God is left with a more expensive, noncoercive strategy: redemptive suffering as epitomized in martyrdom and the cross.

GOD’S COSTLY A PPROACH TO THE PROBLEM OF EV IL: M A RT Y R DOM A ND THE CROSS

What is a martyr? A martyr is simply a witness, in the sense relevant here, someone who gives testimony about a person, some events, or an ideal and who is made to pay a price for doing it. Usually the cost involves the loss of some temporal goods, for example, the experience of social disapproval or exclusion, the deprivation of educational and professional opportunities, economic losses, moral disapproval, imprisonment, exile, and death. The price a martyr is willing to pay is a measure of his love for and loyalty to what

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he believes to be the truth and/or that to which he bears witness. Martyrdom in the good sense is not a subtle manipulative maneuver to get one’s way in the long run by making people feel guilty about one’s short-term sufferings. On the contrary, the martyr usually does not actively seek martyrdom, both because he is diffident about his being able to pay the price and because he does not wish to provoke others to evil. Given this characterization, I want to suggest that martyrdom is an expression of God’s righteous love toward the onlooker, the persecutor, and even the martyr himself. Martyrdom as a vehicle of God’s goodness to the onlooker. For onlookers, the event of martyrdom may function as a prophetic story, the more powerful for being brought to life. The martyr who perseveres to the end presents an inspiring example. Onlookers are invited to see in the martyr the person they ought to be and to be brought to a deeper level of commitment. Alternately, onlookers may see themselves in the persecutor and be moved to repentance. If the onlooker has ears to hear the martyr’s testimony, he may receive God’s redemption through it. Martyrdom as potentially redemptive for the persecutor. In martyrdom, God shows his goodness—both his righteous judgment and his redemptive mercy—not only in relation to the onlooker but also in relation to the persecutors. First of all, the martyr’s sacrifice can be used as an instrument of divine judgment, because it draws the persecutor an external picture of what he is really like—the more innocent the victim, the clearer the focus. Consider the case of a businessman who commutes to New York City from the suburbs every day; he loves his family and works hard to provide them with a nice home, his children with an Ivy League education, his wife with an attractive social circle, and so on. As the pressures of his business increase, he falls increasingly silent and follows his 8:30 p.m. dinner with more and more drinks. His patient and loving wife tries to get him to talk, but he insists that nothing is wrong. One night after he has drunk even more than usual, his wife says quietly but firmly, “I think you’ve had enough.” He protests that everything is fine, but she repeats, “I think you’ve had enough,” whereupon he hits her and knocks her out. At first he thinks he has killed her, but she recovers and no charges are pressed. In this incident, the man’s anger and hostility, which he had been so carefully hiding (more from himself than from everyone else) by drowning in drink, is externalized on a comparatively in-

Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil 221

nocent victim. He cannot rationalize away his behavior in terms of any commensurate attack from her. It is an occasion of judgment, in which the man is brought face to face with who he really is and with the choice of seeking help or pursuing ruin.3 In attempting to bring reconciliation out of judgment (T13), God may find no more promising vehicle than martyrdom for dealing with the hard-hearted. What Pharisee would give the “holier than thou” posture a hearing? When indirect approaches fail, Jesus repeatedly confronts the Pharisees in the Gospels, but they will not listen. Finally, he bears the cost of divine judgment upon them by accepting martyrdom at their hands. In allowing himself to be crucified, he permits their sinful attitudes to be carried into action and externalized in his own flesh. Because he is a truly innocent victim, his body is the canvas on which the portrait of their sins can be most clearly drawn. In their great jealousy and mistrustfulness toward God, they had subjected his Messiah to a ritually accursed death. Unable to hear divine judgment through other media, there was at least a chance that they would be moved by the love of such a martyr and accept the painful revelation. Nevertheless, the strategy is noncoercive, as it must be to accord with divine purposes (T7 and T8), and it does not always work. Our commuter chose to admit his need, seek help, and change his lifestyle; by contrast, the Pharisees and Sadducees who handed Jesus over to be crucified used their superior knowledge of the law and the prophets to assure themselves against the ambiguous evidence that Jesus could not be the Messiah: he was born at the wrong address and was following the wrong script, associating himself too closely with God on the one hand and with sinners on the other. They rationalized their action—“it was expedient that one man should die for the people” (John 18:14)—and then took his death by crucifixion as clinching evidence that Jesus was not the one. Surely it would be some kind of pragmatic contradiction for God’s Messiah to be ritually unclean and hence unfit to enter God’s presence! The cross of Christ is the primary expression of God’s goodness in a fallen world. First, it is the principal means of divine judgment, because Christ is the only truly innocent victim, the clearest picture of who his persecutors are. The Christian disciple is called to share his Master’s redemptive work by taking up his cross daily (Luke 9:23–25). But the disciple’s sins give

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his persecutors many handles for explaining away their behavior. Christians can be martyrs and fill up the sufferings of Christ (Col. 1:24) only to the extent that he cleanses them first. That is why continual repentance is not only necessary for the Christian’s own reconciliation with Christ but also the best contribution he can make toward solving the problem of evil. Second, the cross of Christ is the chief expression of God’s love for the persecutor. If the persecutor is moved to repentance by the love of the martyr, it is the martyr whom he will thank and love. According to Christian belief, God was so eager to win our love that he became incarnate and volunteered for martyrdom himself (John 3:16–18). Martyrdom as a vehicle of God’s goodness to the martyr. For the potential religious martyr, the threat of martyrdom is a time of testing and judgment. It makes urgent the previously abstract dilemma of whether he loves God more than the temporal goods that are being extracted as a price. Especially if the price is high (but surprisingly even when the price is low), he will have to struggle with his own divided loyalties. Whatever the outcome, the martyr will have had to face a deeper truth about himself and his relations to God and temporal goods than ever he could in fair weather. Nevertheless, the time of trial is also an opportunity for building a relationship of trust between the martyr and that to which he testifies. Whether because we are fallen or by the nature of the case, trusting relationships have to be built up by a history of interactions. If the martyr’s loyalty to God is tested, but after a struggle he holds onto his allegiance to God and God delivers him (in his own time and way), the relationship is strengthened and deepened. The Bible is full of such stories. God calls Abraham and makes him a promise to multiply his descendants. But accepting the promise involves trials: “Do you trust me enough to leave your homeland?” (Gen. 12). Abraham grows old: “Do you trust me enough to do this in your old age?” (Gen. 15, 18). When God provides Isaac, Abraham feels called by God to sacrifice him: “Do you trust me to keep my promise to you even though I am asking you to do something that would seem to make that impossible?” (Gen. 22). Abraham trusted God, and their relationship is celebrated as a hallmark by Jews and Christians to this day. Again, with the children of Israel God repeatedly asks: “Do you trust me enough to get you out of Egypt? . . . to give you food and water in the desert? . . . to bring you victorious into the land I have promised you?” The story records the tests

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they failed (see Ps. 106). Nevertheless, they looked back on the exodus experience as central to building their relationship with God. Despite their disobedience and his punishment of them, they were his and he was theirs in a way that would have been impossible had they stayed in Egypt with its fleshpots, leeks, and cucumbers. Further, through his pioneering redemptive act (Heb. 2: 10), God in Christ turns martyrdom into an opportunity for intimacy and identification with him. If one person loves another, he not only wants to know what it is like for that person, he wants to know what it is like to be that person. If the cross of Christ does not unveil the mystery of why God permits so much suffering in the first place (that is, the mystery of why [T5] is true), it does reveal his love in becoming incarnate to suffer with us. He is not content to be immutable and impassible, to watch his writhing creation with the eye of cool reason. He unites himself to a human consciousness and takes the suffering to himself. Thus, he knows from experience what it is like for pain to drive everything else from a finite consciousness and to press it to the limits of its endurance. When the martyr regains his wits enough to notice, he can recognize Christ crucified as providing the company that misery loves. Beyond that, the more the believer loves his Lord, the more he wants to know what it was like for him, what it is like to be him. The cross of Christ permits the martyr to find in his deepest agonies and future death a sure access to Christ’s experience. No doubt it was this perspective that made the early church rejoice in being counted worthy to suffer for the Name (Acts 5:41). Moreover, as the believer enters into the love of Christ and shares his love for the world, he will also be able to appreciate his own suffering as a welcome key into the lives of others. Thus God uses the harassments of his people by sinners both as instruments of divine judgment and as opportunities for relationship building, intimacy, and identification. The religious martyr who perseveres at the cost of his life wins his highest good. For in loving God more than any temporal good and trusting God to see to his good in the face of death, he is rightly related to God. He is also freed from the power of evil, because evil controls us only by bribing us with temporal goods we want more than we want to obey God. There is no remaining capital with which to “buy off” the martyr who is willing to pay the highest price for his loyalty. Finally, such a

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martyr has become heir to Christ’s promise that “the pure in heart . . . shall see God” (Matt. 5:8). THE M A RT Y R DOM MODEL A ND ITS LIMITATIONS

I have proposed martyrdom as a paradigm of redemptive suffering. And the redemptive potential of many other cases that, strictly speaking, are not martyrdoms can be seen by extrapolation from the considerations of the preceding section. (a) For instance, there is suffering in which the victim not only will not but cannot obtain the benefits of relationship development. Some are too witless to have relationships that can profit and mature through such tests of loyalty. Some people are killed or severely harmed too quickly for such moral struggles to take place. At other times the victim is an unbeliever who has no explicit relationship with God to wrestle with. Even so, this type of suffering may provide the persecutor and onlooker with opportunities for reconciliation. (b) Alternatively, much suffering comes through natural causes—disease, natural disaster, or death—and so apparently involves no personal persecutor (other than God) who can be moved to repentance by the victim’s plight. Here, nevertheless, the victim’s faith in God may be tried and emerge stronger. When all is said and done, however, not all suffering can be seen to have a redemptive value via this model. For example, what about cases at the intersection of types (a) and (b), where no one observes suffering naturally inflicted on the young or mentally deficient? Further, some would argue that the cost/benefit ratio for such a “redemptive” strategy renders it morally unconscionable: the price for the victim is too high and the success rate is too low, both in relation to God’s goals with the persecutor and in relation to his purposes with the martyr. Martyrdom often deepens the cruelty of the tormentor and tempts the victim beyond what he can bear (for example, in modern brainwashing). The possible conversion of the persecutor and onlooker and the possible enriching of the victim’s faith are not, it is claimed, goods great enough or (often) probable enough to justify such losses on the victim’s side. In short, it seems there would have to be more in it for those who suffer in order for such divine license to sinners and noninterference with nature to be morally justifiable. Yet, what further goods could there be?

Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil 225 THE V ISION OF GOD A ND THE PROBLEM OF EV IL

In my opinion, suffering cannot seem a wise, justifiable, or loving redemptive strategy except when embedded in the larger context of a Christian worldview. Intimacy with God as the incommensurate good. Christians believe that (T17) The best good is intimacy with God and the worst evil is his absence. Human beings were made to be happy enjoying a “face-to-face” intimacy with God. Genesis implies that Adam and Eve experienced it in the garden (Gen. 2–3) and it is that to which the saints look forward in heaven. By contrast, hell will be some sort of existence entirely bereft of God’s presence. Unbelievers may find this latter point difficult to credit, since they deny the existence of God and yet find in the world as it is many goods to be enjoyed and satisfactions to be taken. A Christian will not be surprised at human pleasure in things here below, because he insists that the whole earth is full of the glory of God. When we appreciate a beautiful mountain scene or immerse ourselves in Mozart or are lost in a Cezanne painting, we are experiencing God shining through the mask of his creatures. When humans share deep, satisfying intimacy, part of the joy they taste is God in the middle of it. And this is so whether or not he is recognized there. Since ordinary human experience is thus “God­infested,” we are in no position to imagine the horror of a creation in which he was entirely hidden from view. St. Paul speaks for Christians when he acknowledges that “now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been understood” (1 Cor. 13:12). Nevertheless, for a few saints and perhaps on rare moments in the lives of most Christians, it seems as if God drops his mask to give the believer a more direct if still unclear view. Maybe it was out of such rapturous experience that St. Paul wrote with confidence that “the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Rom. 8:18) and counted “everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus as my Lord” (Phil. 3:8). In other words,

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(T18) The good of “face-to-face” intimacy with God (the evil of his total absence) is simply incommensurate with any merely temporal evils (goods). St. Stephen cannot help forgiving his murderers when he sees Jesus (Acts 7:56–8:1); the martyrs “have forgot their bitter story in the light of Jesus’ glory.” Morally sufficient reasons and the incommensurate good. If a face-to-face vision of God is an incommensurate good for human beings, that will surely guarantee, for any cooperative person who has it, that the balance of goods over evils will be overwhelmingly favorable. Indeed, strictly speaking, there will be no balance to be struck. And no one who received such benefits would have any claim against God’s justice or complaint against his love. God will have bestowed on those who see him “up close” as great a good as such a finite container can take. If so, it seems that God’s justice and love toward creatures can be vindicated apart from any logically necessary connection between the evils suffered here below and some great enough good. In short, where “excuse” is taken to mean “morally sufficient reason,” (T4) The fact that an evil was necessary for a greater good would provide an omniscient and omnipotent being with an excuse only if the evil were a logically necessary prerequisite to or consequence of the good, is false. This is not to say that, subjectively speaking, a person in the middle of terrible suffering might not complain, doubt, or rail against God. Nevertheless, retrospectively, from the viewpoint of the beatific vision, no one would be disposed to blame God for not eliminating or preventing various evils or to regard God’s love as limited or insufficient. And St. Paul is able to adopt this position even in prospect (Rom. 8:18). Divine wisdom, temporal evils, and the meaning of life. What about the interpretation of (T4) on which “excuse” means “prudential justification”? After all, if God wants the saints to enjoy the beatific vision (which ex hypothesi has no logically necessary connection with temporal evils), is not their sojourn through this vale of tears a waste (foolish management) for him as

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well as “a pain” for them? Could God really be serious about this life if his principal response to its ills were simply to obliterate it in a final cloud of glory? Would not such a scenario rob our earthly suffering of any meaning? Once again, does not the conjunction of (T4) and (T5) combine to show that God is foolish? This objection assumes that the only way that an omnipotent, omniscient God’s permission of evils could be rationalized is by a logically necessary connection between the actual evils and great enough goods. Traditionally, Christians have disagreed. After all, the rationality of a person’s behavior is in part a function of his purposes and his consistency and efficiency in pursuing them. No doubt God could have “brought many sons to glory” (Heb. 2:10) without a detour through the temporal world. His not doing so is explained by his wider and over-arching purpose in creation, which is to raise the finite and temporal above itself into relationship with the infinite and eternal. His persistent commitment to relationships with created persons (T6 and T7) reaches a radical focus in the Incarnation. The evils of sin, sickness, and death were not part of God’s original intentions but a byproduct of his creation of free persons and/or a plurality of mutually interfering natures (for example, humans, birds, and mosquitoes), and the Christian does not know (T5) why he permits so many of them. (For Christians, the answers to Q2–Q4 remain a mystery.) Nevertheless, the Christian revelation does say that God incarnate faces evils in deadly earnest, ultimately on the cross. It would not be consistent for the God who is so committed to the temporal order as to enter it and suffer in it himself to snatch his people out of it in some gnostic ascent. Thus enduring temporal suffering, God’s people share in the divine commitment to the temporal order. Suffering as a vision of the inner life of God. For all that, I believe Christian mysticism would not hesitate to admit a logically necessary connection between temporal suffering and a very great good, on the ground that temporal suffering itself is a vision into the inner life of God. The relation is thus not one of logically necessary means or consequence but rather that of identity. Perhaps—pace impassibility theorists—the inner life of God itself includes deep agony as well as ecstatic joy. Alternatively, the divine consciousness may be something beyond both joy and sorrow. Just as for Otto human beings can only experience the divine presence now as tremendum (a deep dread and anxiety), now as mysterium (an attraction beyond words),

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so perhaps our experiences of deepest pain as much as those of boundless joy are themselves direct (if still imperfect) views into the inner life of God. Further, just as lesser joys and pleasures (for example, the beauty of nature, music, or painting) may be more obscure visions of the glory of God, so also lesser degrees of suffering. Instructed by Christian mysticism, I suggest that a Christian might endorse not only (T18) The good of “face-to-face” intimacy with God (the evil of his total absence) is simply incommensurate with any merely temporal evils (goods) but also (T19) Any vision into the inner life of God has a good aspect, this goodness at least partly a function of the clarity of the vision. He need not go so far as to maintain that any vision of God, however obscure or painful, has an incommensurately good aspect. Nor need he deny that (T20) Experiences of suffering have an evil aspect proportionate to the degree of suffering involved. Nevertheless, he might be led to reason that the good aspect of an experience of deep suffering is great enough that, from the standpoint of the beatific vision, the victim would not wish the experience away from his life history, but would, on the contrary, count it as an extremely valuable part of his life. Note that, unless the Christian maintains that any experience of suffering whatever has an incommensurately good aspect, he will not claim to rest his whole defense on this putative logically necessary connection of identity alone. Rather, his vindication of divine goodness might still rely heavily on the incommensurate goodness of the beatific vision itself. Nevertheless, Christians believe that God intends to be good to his people in calling them to share his dogged pursuit of relationships within the temporal

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order. The fact of (T19) might be seen to lend credibility to the wisdom in this divine purpose, by giving a depth of meaning to their temporal suffering independently of its external relations to other logically independent goods, whether eternal or temporal. Objections. The danger in this Christian-mystical suggestion (as Ivan Karamazoff and J. S. Mill contended about other attempts to draw a logically necessary connection between temporal evils and great enough goods) is that it runs the risk of making suffering seem too good. To begin with, someone might object that if suffering were a vision of the inner life of God, there would be nothing wrong with our hurting people, and especially with our causing them great suffering. For such experiences are alleged in (T19) to have a good aspect in some direct proportion to their intensity. A Christian could reply, “Non sequitur.” God is the one who is responsible for ensuring that each person’s life is, with that person’s cooperation, a great good to him on the whole. Christians believe that God calls his people to share in his work. But God is the one who defines the finite person’s responsibility for another’s good. Christians could agree with secular moralists that sometimes one person has an obligation or at least a right to cause another person to suffer for his own good—for example, by spanking the two-year-old that runs into the street or by speaking a painful word of correction. But Christian mysticism would neither compel nor countenance this suggestion that any created person has a vocation to sadism (or to masochism, either). Again, someone might charge, on this view it would be fully compatible with divine goodness if human beings suffered eternally in hell forever. Indeed, insofar as suffering lasted forever, it would constitute for the damned soul an infinite good. A twofold reply is possible: First of all, given (T11) and (T12), Christians do not believe that God would be wrong to consign sinners to eternal punishment. Second, it is arguable whether, given (T18), it is accurate to conceive of hell as the continuance of temporal evils, however sinister, rather than as the absence of God. As noted above, I doubt that we have any notion of how devastating that would be, although we might speculate with C. S. Lewis that the absence of God would bring a total disintegration of created personality.4 In any event, hell considered as everlasting temporal punishment is not the “good” Christians believe God to have in mind for his people. For one thing, not every good is fitting for every sort

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of creature. As Aristotle observed in rejecting Platonic forms long ago, the putative metaphysical good of immutability is logically (metaphysically) ruinous to plant and animal natures. Similarly, some adult freedoms and pleasures are harmful for children. Perhaps omnipotence would be inappropriate for created persons of limited wisdom and good will. And even if the everlasting temporal suffering of a created person would have a good aspect, and indeed accumulate toward an infinite sum, it is a good that would break down and destroy the creature (in something of the way the tortures of brainwashing do). A loving God would not, any more than a loving parent, want to give his children goods that would naturally tend to destroy them. A more profound answer to this second objection reverts to (T7) and the nature of the relationships for which God created us, namely, relationships of intimate sharing and loving self-giving. He wants us to share not merely his agony (or the aspect we experience in this life as agony) but also his joy. He wants us to enjoy our relationship with him and wants to make us happy in it. Needless to say, the experience of everlasting temporal torment does not “fill the bill”; for that we need a more balanced view of God.

CONCLUSION

Christians will not want to depreciate the awfulness (awefulness) of suffering in this life, by the innocent and the guilty, by the intelligent and the witless alike. They will not appear beside racks of torture to proclaim that it does not really matter or to exhort the victim to gratitude. Nevertheless, they see in the cross of Christ a revelation of God’s righteous love and a paradigm of his redemptive use of suffering. Christian mysticism invites the believer to hold that a perfectly good God further sanctifies our moments of deepest distress so that retrospectively, from the vantage point of the beatific vision, the one who suffered will not wish them away from his life history—and this, not because he sees them as the source of some other resultant good, but inasmuch as he will recognize them as times of sure identification with and vision into the inner life of his creator. For Christians as for others in this life, the fact of evil is a mystery. The answer is a more wonderful mystery—God himself.

Redemptive Suffering as a Christian Solution to the Problem of Evil 231 NOTES

I owe whatever is right in this paper to those who, at various times in my life, have tried to teach me how to follow Christ—most recently, A. Orley Swartzentruber, rector of All Saints’ Episcopal Church, Princeton, New Jersey; Allan Wolter, OFM, of Catholic University of America; James Loder of Princeton Theological Seminary; Jon Olson of Bloy House and Christ Church, Ontario, California; and many friends at the Community of Jesus in Orleans, Massachusetts. The sharp objections and subtle reflections of my colleague Roger Albritton and of my critics, especially David A. Conway of the University of Missouri, St. Louis, have—at least at times—restrained me from claiming too much. Finally, I am indebted to my husband, Robert Adams, who, by living with me, practices what I preach! The errors are due to my own sinful confusion. 1. Alvin Plantinga, God, Freedom, and Evil (New York: Harper and Row, 1974), 49–64. 2. Ibid., 64. 3. I owe this example to James Loder’s lectures. 4. C. S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain (New York: Macmillan, 1962), 125–26.

P A R T

I I I

Perspectives in Theodicy Augustinian Theodicy Irenaean Theodicy Process Theodicy Openness Theodicy Felix Culpa Theodicy

C H A P T E R

1 3

A Good Creation’s Capacity for Evil S T. AU G U S T I N E

bk XI, chap. 17. That the flaw of wickedness is not nature, but contrary to nature, and has its origin, not in the Creator, but in the will It is with reference to the nature, then, and not to the wickedness of the devil, that we are to understand these words, “This is the beginning of God’s handiwork”;1 for, without doubt, wickedness can be a flaw or vice only where the nature previously was not vitiated. Vice, too, is so contrary to nature that it cannot but damage it. And therefore departure from God would be no vice, unless in a nature whose property it was to abide with God. So that even the wicked will is a strong proof of the goodness of the nature. But God, as He is the supremely good Creator of good natures, so is He of evil wills the most just Ruler; so that, while they make an ill use of good natures, He makes a good use even of evil wills. Accordingly, He caused the devil (good by God’s creation, wicked by his own will) to be cast down from his high position and to become the mockery of His angels—that is, He caused From The City of God, Book XI, chaps. 17, 18, 21, 22, and Book XII, chap. 3, trans. Marcus Dods.

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his temptations to benefit those whom he wishes to injure by them. And because God, when He created him, was certainly not ignorant of his future malignity, and foresaw the good which He Himself would bring out of his evil, therefore says the psalm, “This leviathan whom Thou has made to be a sport therein,”2 that we may see that, even while God in His goodness created him good, He yet had already foreseen and arranged how He would make use of him when he became wicked. bk XI, chap. 18. Of the beauty of the universe, which becomes, by God’s ordinance, more brilliant by the opposition of contraries For God would never have created any, I do not say angel, but even man, whose future wickedness He foreknew, unless He had equally known to what uses in behalf of the good He could turn him, thus embellishing the course of the ages, as it were an exquisite poem set off with antitheses. For what are called antitheses are among the most elegant of the ornaments of speech. They might be called in Latin “oppositions,” or, to speak more accurately, “contra-positions”; but this word is not in common use among us, though the Latin, and indeed the languages of all nations, avail themselves of the same ornaments of style. In the Second Epistle to the Corinthians the Apostle Paul also makes a graceful use of antithesis, in that place where he says, “By the armour of righteousness on the right hand and on the left, by honour and dishonour, by evil report and good report: as deceivers, and yet true; as unknown and yet well known; as dying, and, behold, we live; as chastened, and not killed; as sorrowful, yet always rejoicing; as poor, yet making many rich; as having nothing, and yet possessing all things.”3 As, then, these oppositions of contraries lend beauty to the language, so the beauty of the course of this world is achieved by the opposition of contraries, arranged, as it were, by an eloquence not of words, but of things. This is quite plainly stated in the Book of Ecclesiasticus, in this way: “Good is set against evil, and life against death: so is the sinner against the godly. So look upon all the works of the Most High, and these are two and two, one against another.”4 bk XI, chap. 21. Of God’s eternal and unchangeable knowledge and will, whereby all he has made pleased him in the eternal design as well as in the actual results For what else is to be understood by that invariable refrain, “And God saw that it was good,” than the approval of the work in its design, which is

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the wisdom of God? For certainly God did not in the actual achievement of the work first learn that it was good, but, on the contrary, nothing would have been made had it not been first known by Him. While, therefore, He sees that that is good which, had He not seen it before it was made, would never have been made, it is plain that He is not discovering, but teaching that it is good. Plato, indeed, was bold enough to say that, when the universe was completed, God was, as it were, elated with joy.5 And Plato was not so foolish as to mean by this that God was rendered more blessed by the novelty of His creation; but he wished thus to indicate that the work now completed met with its Maker’s approval, as it had while yet in design. It is not as if the knowledge of God were of various kinds, knowing in different ways things which as yet are not, things which are, and things which have been. For not in our fashion does He look forward to what is future, nor at what is present, nor back upon what is past; but in a manner quite different and far and profoundly remote from our way of thinking. For He does not pass from this to that by transition of thought, but beholds all things with absolute unchangeableness; so that of those things which emerge in time, the future, indeed, are not yet, and the present are now, and the past no longer are; but all of these are by Him comprehended in His stable and eternal presence. Neither does He see in one fashion by the eye, in another by the mind, for He is not composed of mind and body; nor does His present knowledge differ from that which it ever was or shall be, for those variations of time, past, present, and future, though they alter our knowledge, do not affect His, “with whom there is no variableness, neither shadow of turning.”6 Neither is there any growth from thought to thought in the conceptions of Him in Whose spiritual vision all things which He knows are at once embraced. For as without any movement that time can measure, He Himself moves all temporal things, so He knows all times with a knowledge that time cannot measure. And therefore He saw that what He had made was good, when He saw that it was good to make it. And when He saw it made, He had not on that account a twofold nor any way increased knowledge of it; as if He had less knowledge before He made what He saw. For certainly He would not be the perfect worker He is, unless His knowledge were so perfect as to receive no addition from His finished works. Wherefore, if the only object had been to inform us who made the light, it had been enough to say, “God made the light”; and if further information regarding the means by

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which it was made had been intended, it would have sufficed to say, “And God said, Let there be light, and there was light,” that we might know not only that God had made the world, but also that He had made it by the word. But because it was right that three leading truths regarding the creature be intimated to us, viz., who made it, by what means, and why, it is written, “God said, Let there be light, and there was light. And God saw the light that it was good.” If, then, we ask who made it, it was “God.” If, by what means, He said, “Let it be,” and it was. If we ask, why He made it, “it was good.” Neither is there any author more excellent than God, nor any skill more efficacious than the word of God, nor any cause better than that good might be created by the good God. This also Plato has assigned as the most sufficient reason for the creation of the world, that good works might be made by a good God;7 whether he read this passage, or, perhaps, was informed of these things by those who had read them, or, by his quicksighted genius, penetrated to things spiritual and invisible through the things that are created, or was instructed regarding them by those who had discerned them. bk XI, chap. 22. Of those who do not approve of certain things which are a part of this good creation of a good Creator, and who think that there is some natural evil This cause, however, of a good creation, namely, the goodness of God—this cause, I say, so just and fit, which, when piously and carefully weighed, terminates all the controversies of those who inquire into the origin of the world, has not been recognized by some heretics,8 because there are, forsooth, many things, such as fire, frost, wild beasts, and so forth, which do not suit but injure this thin-blooded and frail mortality of our flesh, which is at present under just punishment. They do not consider how admirable these things are in their own places, how excellent in their own natures, how beautifully adjusted to the rest of creation, and how much grace they contribute to the universe by their own contributions as to a commonwealth; and how serviceable they are even to ourselves, if we use them with a knowledge of their fit adaptations—so that even poisons, which are destructive when used injudiciously, become wholesome and medicinal when used in conformity with their qualities and design; just as, on the other hand, those things which give us pleasure, such as food,

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drink, and the light of the sun, are found to be hurtful when immoderately or unseasonably used. And thus divine providence admonishes us not foolishly to vituperate things, but to investigate their utility with care; and, where our mental capacity or infirmity is at fault, to believe that there is a utility, though hidden, as we have experienced that there were other things which we all but failed to discover. For this concealment of the use of things is itself either an exercise of our humility or a leveling of our pride; for no nature at all is evil, and this is a name for nothing but the want of good. But from things earthly to things heavenly, from the visible to the invisible, there are some things better than others; and for this purpose are they unequal, in order that they might all exist. Now God is in such sort a great worker in great things, that He is not less in little things—for these little things are to be measured not by their own greatness (which does not exist), but by the wisdom of their Designer; as, in the visible appearance of a man, if one eyebrow be shaved off, how nearly nothing is taken from the body, but how much from the beauty!—for that is not constituted by bulk, but by the proportion and arrangement of the members. But we do not greatly wonder that persons, who suppose that some evil nature has been generated and propagated by a kind of opposing principle proper to it, refuse to admit that the cause of the creation was this, that the good God produced a good creation. For they believe that He was driven to this enterprise of creation by the urgent necessity of repulsing the evil that warred against Him, and that He mixed His good nature with the evil for the sake of restraining and conquering it; and that this nature of His, being thus shamefully polluted and most cruelly oppressed and held captive, He labours to cleanse and deliver it, and with all His pains does not wholly succeed; but such part of it as could not be cleansed from that defilement is to serve as a prison and chain of the conquered and incarcerated enemy. The Manichaeans would not drivel, or rather, rave in such a style as this, if they believed the nature of God to be, as it is, unchangeable and absolutely incorruptible, and subject to no injury; and if, moreover, they held in Christian sobriety that the soul which has shown itself capable of being altered for the worse by its own will, and of being corrupted by sin, and so, of being deprived of the light of eternal truth—that this soul, I say, is not a part of God, nor of the same nature as God, but is created by Him, and is far different from its Creator.

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bk XII, chap. 3. That the enemies of God are so, not by nature, but by will, which, as it injures them, injures a good nature; for if vice does not injure, it is not vice In Scripture they are called God’s enemies who oppose His rule, not by nature, but by vice; having no power to hurt Him, but only themselves. For they are His enemies, not through their power to hurt, but by their will to oppose Him. For God is unchangeable, and wholly proof against injury. Therefore the vice which makes those who are called His enemies resist Him, is an evil not to God, but to themselves. And to them it is an evil, solely because it corrupts the good of their nature. It is not nature, therefore, but vice, which is contrary to God. For that which is evil is contrary to the good. And who will deny that God is the supreme good? Vice, therefore, is contrary to God, as evil to good. Further, the nature it vitiates is a good, and therefore to this good also it is contrary. But while it is contrary to God only as evil to good, it is contrary to the nature it vitiates, both as evil and as hurtful. For to God no evils are hurtful; but only to natures mutable and corruptible, though, by the testimony of the vices themselves, originally good. For were they not good, vices could not hurt them. For how do they hurt them but by depriving them of integrity, beauty, welfare, virtue, and, in short, whatever natural good vice is wont to diminish or destroy? But if there be no good to take away, then no injury can be done, and consequently there can be no vice. For it is impossible that there should be a harmless vice. Whence we gather, that though vice cannot injure the unchangeable good, it can injure nothing but good; because it does not exist where it does not injure. This, then, may be thus formulated: Vice cannot be in the highest good, and cannot be but in some good. Things solely good, therefore, can in some circumstances exist; things solely evil, never; for even those natures which are vitiated by an evil will, so far indeed as they are vitiated, are evil, but in so far as they are natures, they are good. And when a vitiated nature is punished, besides the good it has in being a nature, it has this also, that it is not unpunished.9 For this is just, and certainly everything just is a good. For no one is punished for natural, but for voluntary vices. For even the vice which by the force of habit and long continuance has become a second nature had its origin in the will. For at present we are speaking of the vices of nature, which has a mental capacity for that enlightenment which discriminates between what is just and what is unjust.

A Good Creation’s Capacity for Evil 241 NOTES

1. Job 40:14. 2. Ps. 104:26. 3. 2 Cor. 6:7–10. 4. Eccles. 33:15. 5. Timaeus 37. 6. James 1:17. 7. Timaeus 29. 8. The Manichaeans. 9. Compare Plato, Gorgias.

C H A P T E R

1 4

Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil D AV I D R AY G R I F F I N

Augustine repeatedly affirmed God’s omnipotence and goodness. And he was acutely aware of the problem of evil that is occasioned by this combination of divine attributes and the apparent existence of evil. In his early Christian writings against the Manichaeans, he stressed that God created all natures, and that all natures are good, insofar as they are—i.e., whatever is, is good (e.g., C VII. 18).1 There is no nature that is evil, even the devil’s. Evil is due to will, not to nature (CG XII. 3). All evil can be accounted for in terms of the misuse of free will (FW III. 17, 48). Hence, although God is the creator of all natures, God is absolved from the responsibility for evil. In his later writings Augustine retracted some of his statements about free will that were used by the Pelagians. And he emphasized predestination much more, insisting that predestination is not based upon God’s prevision of faith and good works, but that faith and good works are the result of grace which follows from eternal predestination to salvation. But he never From David Ray Griffin, God, Power, and Evil: A Process Theodicy (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976), 55–71. Used by permission of the author.

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explicitly gave up the free-will defense of God’s goodness. He continued to maintain that evil ultimately comes from the free choice of creatures, so that God is not responsible for sin and hence is justified in inflicting evil as a punishment for sin. In this chapter, I will examine whether the tracing of evil to creaturely free will is compatible with Augustine’s doctrine of God’s power, and hence whether his defense of God’s goodness is tenable.

THE SUPER NATUR A LISTIC FR A MEWOR K OF AUGUSTINE’S THEODICY

In regard to the question as to why good people suffer and seem to get the same rewards and punishments in this life as sinful people, Augustine states flatly that good and evil persons are treated the same way by God in regard to material goods. There are several reasons for this evenhandedness. It will encourage us not to covet material goods and not to cultivate religion for rewards in this life (CG I. 8; XXII. 22). It will help us realize that there are future rewards and penalties as well as present ones (CG I. 8). Whereas suffering is punishment for bad persons, it helps good ones prove their perfections or correct their imperfections (CG I. 29). For example, when virgins are raped this helps destroy their pride, actual or potential (CG I. 28). Furthermore, the good people in a community, as well as the bad, love this present life, and thus deserve punishment (CG I. 9). And in losing temporal goods, the good really lose nothing important, for they do not thereby lose their faith and their godliness (CG I. 10 and 28). God even permits baptized infants, who are unsurpassed in innocence, to be tormented, in order to teach us to bewail the calamities of this life and desire the life to come (CG XXII. 22). However, God does sometimes interfere, delivering present rewards and punishments, so that we will believe in his providence (CG I. 8). From these statements one can see that Augustine’s view of the meaning and end of life is almost totally supernatural, so that the question of the balance of goods and evils that we experience in this life is not really very important. They can all be justified in terms of their relation to the supernatural end of life. However, although he offers many possible justifications for the way things happen, he admits that God’s judgments are finally unsearchable. But, he says, speaking of the day of judgment,

244  Augustinian Theodicy we shall then recognize the justice of all God’s judgments . . . and . . . we shall also recognize with what justice so many, or almost all, the just judgments of God in the present life defy the scrutiny of human sense or insight, though in this market it is not concealed from pious minds that what is concealed is just. (CG XX. 2)

Faced with this answer to the question as to why evil has been caused or allowed by an omnipotent God, many people would want to stand with Ivan in the chapter entitled “Rebellion” in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. Ivan admits that at the end of the world a “higher harmony” may be realized, and that if he is there, he may then cry aloud with the rest, “Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.” But, both in spite of this possibility and because of it, he wants to get his protest on the record in advance. He announces that he hopes he will not join that chorus, for he cannot accept the idea that any “higher harmony” could justify the evils that were allegedly necessary for this harmony, such as the suffering of innocent children. However, whether or not we can share Augustine’s faith that it will be revealed to us some day that the distribution of good and evil in this life reflects wholly just judgments on God’s part, this does provide a possible answer to the problem of evil. That is, although one might not believe it, or might rebel against it, there is nothing necessarily self-contradictory in the answer. In a context where belief in an omnipotent God and a future life is already accepted on other grounds, it is possible consistently to maintain that all presently unanswerable questions as to why God caused or at least permitted certain things will be answered in and by this future life. Later I will argue that today one cannot simply assume the existence of an omnipotent God and a future life when dealing with the problem of evil. But it would be anachronistic to criticize Augustine on these grounds. Accordingly, this examination of Augustine’s theodicy must be primarily concerned with the problem of evil as it emerged in terms of his own central ideas. This means dealing with his attempt to reconcile the doctrine of supernatural rewards and punishments for this life with the assertion of God’s absolute goodness. Whereas this discussion will not directly be of much interest to those who do not believe in a future life (especially one understood in terms of rewards and punishments), or to those who at least do

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not believe that a future state should be the primary focus of the religious life, this examination of Augustine’s position will be indirectly relevant to the possibility of “justifying God’s ways to humanity” simply in terms of the good and evil in our present existence. For, this discussion will be relevant to the possibility of reconciling the belief in a good and omnipotent God with the reality of any type of genuine evil whatsoever.

THE FR EE-W ILL DEFENSE

One absolutely clear teaching of Augustine regarding the future life is that it will not be a pleasant experience for all persons. In fact, a majority will be condemned to eternal punishment (CG XXI. 12; E XXIV. 97). And equally clear, at least in his later writings, is the teaching that the question as to who will be saved is settled entirely by God (GFW XLV; PS XI, XIX, XXXIV). In regard to how it can be just of God unilaterally to elect some for salvation and to condemn the rest to punishment apart from any question of merit, Augustine has a two-part response: On the one hand, in reference to the question as to why God chooses the particular persons chosen for salvation, Augustine refers to Paul’s statement in Rom. 9:20 about the potter and the clay, saying that this statement reminds us to consider the limits of our capacities (E XXV. 99; PS XVI). The other half of Augustine’s answer deals with the more general question of the justice of saving some and not the rest. The answer to this is that all people have freely sinned, and therefore all people deserve punishment (CG XII. 8). God would be perfectly just if all of them were condemned to eternal punishment. The fact that God graciously chooses to save some simply shows that God is merciful as well as just (E XXV. 99; PS XVI). Augustine’s entire theodicy hinges on this argument. If he cannot consistently claim that all people (except the God-man, of course) deserve eternal punishment, his theodicy fails. The context for this argument is his doctrine of original sin and its effects. The first people had the possibility of not sinning (posse non peccare) and yet sinned. As they were our parents, we all sinned “in” them. Because of this, we do not have the possibility of not sinning (non posse non peccare). We can do no good unless we are freed from our bondage to sin by God’s

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grace, which returns us to Adam’s state of having the ability not to sin. (The third possible state, that of not having the ability to sin [non posse peccare], will characterize those who attain eternal life.) There are three crucial aspects of Augustine’s argument that all people deserve eternal punishment. First, he must argue that the punishment is just in the sense of being proportional to the crime. And this he does, arguing that Adam’s sin was very heinous, partly because it was such an easy sin to avoid (CG XIV. 12). Second, he must argue for the intelligibility of the idea that the rest of humanity sinned “in” Adam, and hence is responsible for this first sin. Both of these arguments have seemed weak to many. But the debate about these issues does not have relevance to the more general problem of reconciling omnipotent goodness and genuine evil. Hence I will not rehearse this debate, but will move to the third crucial step in the argument, the idea that we could be said to have sinned freely. In order to broaden the issue, so that the rather archaic and questionable idea of humanity’s sinning in Adam can be ignored, I will examine the question as to whether anyone could sin freely in the Augustinian universe, be they angels, humans before the fall, humans after the fall but before receiving grace, or humans after grace. Augustine certainly means to affirm the reality of free choice. He sees that the whole idea of precepts would be nonsensical unless we had freedom to choose to obey them (GFW II, IV), and that unless sin is voluntary, it would not be sin (TR XIV. 27). Furthermore, he sees that unless there is volition that does not come from God, God would be the author of sin (SL LIV). For Augustine, the evil will is the one thing in the universe that God did not create (CG V. 8, 10). The devil’s wicked will came from the devil himself, not from God (NOG 32). And the original sin of humanity resulted from human free will (NAG III). It cannot be overstressed how central to Augustine’s thought is this affirmation of free will. In his early writings he was especially concerned with Manichaeanism, and stressed that all beings are created by a good God and are therefore good. Evil is not to be explained on the basis of any being whose nature is bad, whether this being be created or uncreated. In order to account for evil, then, Augustine distinguished between the created “nature,” which all beings have, and the “will,” which free beings have. The will as such is also created. But God does not create its evil volitions. In fact,

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these evil volitions have no efficient cause at all, but only a “deficient” cause (CG XII. 6, 7). Only upon this basis could Augustine simultaneously reject Manichaean dualism and yet avoid suggesting that his own monotheistic God was responsible for the world’s evil. He saw evil willing as the source of all evil; he said that there is no evil other than sin and its punishment (TR XII. 23). But is this affirmation of free choice on the part of some of God’s creatures compatible with Augustine’s doctrine of God? Prima facie it seems incompatible with his doctrine that God is both immutable and omniscient. And it seems incompatible with his doctrine of God’s omnipotence. I will first examine the compatibility of creaturely free will with an immutably omniscient God and then turn to the problem raised by Augustine’s doctrine of omnipotence.

FR EE W ILL A ND DI V INE OMNISCIENCE

By itself the doctrine of an immutable being would not be prejudicial to the freedom of worldly beings, if this immutable being did not know the world, as was the case with Aristotle’s God. And by itself, the doctrine of an omniscient being would not be prejudicial to worldly free choice, since this doctrine could simply mean that this being knows all things that are knowable, and one could maintain that a free choice is not knowable until after it is made. In other words, the omniscient being would not know the future (except insofar as some more or less abstract characteristics of the future are already settled in the present). But Augustine holds that God is both omniscient and immutable; and he explicitly points out that this entails that God is not affected by anything, so that there can be no increase in the content of the divine knowledge (CG XII. 17; XI. 21). Accordingly, omniscience includes prescience. In fact, Augustine takes this characteristic to belong to the defining essence of deity, saying that “one who is not prescient of all future things is not God” (CG V. 9). This makes the reality of free choice on the part of the creatures quite dubious. Augustine argues that God’s prescience of all things does not mean that our wills are not genuine causes, since God, in foreknowing all things, foreknows the causes of all things. Human wills, which are genuine causes

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of human actions, are included in that order of causes which God foreknows (CG V. 9). And in foreknowing what will be in the power of our wills, God does not foreknow simply nothing (CG V. 10). This reconciliation seems purely verbal. The meaning of the “freedom” that is thereby allowed to us is not such as to make us responsible in the sense that Augustine’s theodicy requires. The word “freedom” can be defined in many ways, of course, and different meanings can be relevant in different contexts. But when one is asking whether an action is “free” in a context in which the issue is whether the agent could justifiably be held responsible in the sense of being liable to incur blame, one must be asking whether the agent could have done otherwise. Or, since some people (such as Augustine) distinguish between willing and doing, one could be asking whether a person’s willing is blameworthy. One would then have to be asking whether the individual could have willed something different from what he in fact did will. Free choice in this sense is not compatible with an omniscient being who knows the details of what is still the future for us. If this being knows infallibly that next year I will do A, instead of B or C, then it is necessary that I will do A. It may seem to me then as if I make a real choice among genuine alternatives, but this will be illusory. I really could not do otherwise. If I were to do otherwise, God’s immutable, infallible knowledge would be in error, and this is impossible. So in what meaningful sense will I be responsible for that choice? The response often made here is that, although I will not have been able to choose B or C, I will choose A because I want to choose A. And if A is a wicked deed, then I am blameworthy for wanting to do something wicked. But here we only need to focus on willing or wanting instead of doing, or to see willing as a type of doing. In any case, we can ask whether I shall be able at that future moment to will to do either B or C (even though I shall actually have to do A). Here the answer must be: If God knows that I shall will to do A, then I shall necessarily will to do A. And how can I be blameworthy for willing something when there was absolutely no possibility that I could have willed otherwise? If at this point the response is made that I shall necessarily will A at that future moment because of my character, and that I am in part responsible for forming my own character, the same objection must be stated. That is, to the extent that we form our own characters we do this by the choices we make, especially

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those kinds which we reinforce by frequent repetition. But if there is a being who eternally knows all things, then every single “choice” in my life prior to wicked deed A and the desire to do it is as devoid of real alternatives as the wicked deed A itself. Hence I am not responsible for my character any more than I will be for that particular decision. If this analysis is correct, then an immutably omniscient God (who would certainly know that it is correct) would be unjustified in condemning anyone to punishment for sinning. For, from the moment of conception, a person’s life could not have been one iota different from its actual course. So the person exercises no freedom in any sense that would justify blame. This conclusion follows merely from the definition of God as an omniscient being who is also immutable in all respects.

FR EE W ILL A ND DI V INE OMNIPOTENCE

When Augustine’s notion of omnipotence is brought into focus, the selfcontradictory character of his reconciliation of God’s goodness with worldly evil becomes even more apparent. The previous discussion about omniscience was based upon allowing tentative validity to Augustine’s claim that God could foreknow some things, i.e., evil wills, without causing them (PS XIX). But now it will become apparent that this claim cannot be maintained. For Augustine, omnipotence belongs to the defining essence of deity as fully as does immutable omniscience. He stresses that the first sentence of the creed is a confession of faith in God the Father Almighty. Then he adds: “For he is called Almighty for no other reason than that he can do whatsoever he willeth and because the efficacy of his omnipotent will is not impeded by the will of any creature.” To deny this, he says, would be to undermine our confession of faith (E XIV. 96). Elsewhere he says that “he who denies that all things, which either angels or men can give us, are in the hand of the one Almighty, is a madman” (CG X. 14). However, one meaning of “omnipotence” that might be suggested by these statements (that all things are in God’s hands and that nothing can impede the divine will) is not the full Augustinian meaning. That is, these statements could be compatible with the following sketch of the world, which Augustine sometimes suggests: God created the world, willing that

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everything be good. God included beings with free will in this good creation. Some of these beings (some of the angels, and all of the humans, except the God-man) use their free will to sin, which means willing in a way that is contrary to God’s will (E XXVI. 100). Of course, God foresees this sin, and builds appropriate responses to it into the divine eternal plan. On the one hand, God includes a plan of mercy: But since he did foreknow that man would make bad use of his free will— that is, that he would sin—God prearranged his own purpose so that he could do good to man, even in man’s doing evil, and so that the good will of the Omnipotent should be nullified by the bad will of men, but should nonetheless be fulfilled. (E XXVIII. 104)

On the other hand, God includes punishments for the sin: Unbelievers indeed do contrary to the will of God when they do not believe His gospel; nevertheless they do not therefore overcome His will. . . . God’s will is forever invincible; but it would be vanquished, unless it devised what to do with such as despised it, or if these despisers could in any way escape from the retribution which He has appointed for such as they. (SL LVIII)

These passages suggest that God’s ideal plan, in which there would be no evil, is upset by the free will of creatures who go contrary to the divine will, and that God, foreseeing this misuse of free will, forms the plan so as to bring good out of evil. On the one hand, to some of the sinful creatures God returns good for evil, thereby manifesting the divine mercy, which is a good thing to do. On the other hand, God plans a punishment for the rest of the sinful creatures, thereby manifesting the divine justice, which is also a good thing to do. Essential to this account is the idea that creatures can really will and act contrary to the divine will. That idea is suggested in each of the preceding quotations as well as in the following one: “But, however strong the wills either of angels or of men, whether good or evil, whether they will what God willeth or will something else, the will of the Omnipotent is always undefeated” (E XXVI. 102). And Augustine defines humanity’s sin as doing what it willed, not what God had willed (E XXVI. 100). God’s will is

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always undefeated because deity can arrange things in such a way that its will concerning the creatures will be done whether the creatures act according to it or contrary to it (E XXVI. 100; XXVII. 107). However, although this is the sense that Augustine often gives to the notion that creatures cannot impede the divine will, and although this is the sense which he must suggest if his statement that creatures are justifiably punished for their actions is to have some plausibility, this is not the stronger sense which he gives to the notion elsewhere, and which his doctrine of God requires. According to this stronger sense, nothing happens other than what God wills to happen. For example, Augustine stresses “how certain, immutable, and effectual is the will of God,” and that God “willeth nothing he cannot do.” In regard to the Psalm which states that God has done all things that he would (composed inexactly from Ps. 115:3 and 135:6), Augustine says: This obviously is not true, if there is anything that he willed to do and did not do, or, what were worse, if he did not do something because man’s will prevented him, the Omnipotent, from doing what he willed. Nothing, therefore, happens unless the Omnipotent wills it to happen. He either allows it to happen or he actually causes it to happen. (E XXIV. 95)

And, whether God is said to “cause” something or merely to “allow” it, if it happens this is because God wills it: “For it would not be done without his allowing it—and surely his permission is not unwilling but willing” (E XXVI. 100). Not leaving any ambiguity, Augustine insists that we are not on any account “to underrate the fully omnipotent will of God.” For, “if he willeth, then what he willeth must necessarily be.” And, after offering his interpretation of a Scriptural passage that seems to cast doubt on this view, Augustine says: “We could interpret it in any other fashion, as long as we are not compelled to believe that the Omnipotent hath willed anything to be done which was not done.” He then adds: “There must be no equivocation on this point” (E XXVII. 103). (The Scriptural passage in question is 1 Tim. 2:4, which states that God “desires all men to be saved.” Augustine’s interpretation of this is that it does not really mean “all men” but “all kinds of men,” i.e., some from every class of human beings, e.g., rich and poor, rulers and subjects, etc.)

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This would seem to imply that even sinful choices are willed by God. And Augustine does not flinch from making this application. Whereas he had insisted that God does not create evil wills, he does say that God rules them (CG XI. 17). He states that those wills “which follow the world are so entirely at the disposal of God, that He turns them whithersoever He wills, and whensoever He wills” (GFW XLI). God “does in the hearts of even wicked men whatsoever He wills” (GFW XLII). Some passages suggest that the wicked willing is done independently by the creatures, and that God only then uses this self-determined wicked will. For example, Augustine says: It is not unjust that the wicked should receive power to harm so that the patience of the good should be proved and the iniquity of the bad should be punished. By the power given to the devil Job was proved that his justice might be made apparent; Peter was tempted so that he might not think too highly of himself. . . . God himself . . . did all things justly by the power he gave to the devil. Not for performing these just actions, but for the wicked will to do hurt which came from the devil himself, will he in the end be awarded punishment. (NOG 32)

However, this element of autonomy cannot be granted. The previous statements about omnipotence do not allow it. Also Augustine elsewhere says explicitly that even the willing is done by God: “The Almighty sets in motion even in the innermost hearts of men the movement of their will, so that He does through their agency whatsoever He wishes to perform through them” (GFW XLIII). And further: “God works in the hearts of men to incline their wills whithersoever He wills, whether to good deeds according to His mercy, or to evil after their own deserts” (GFW XLIII). Augustine recognizes, of course, that this idea that sinning is willed by God and thereby necessitated seems to negate the creatures’ freedom and responsibility, and hence to throw God’s justice for punishing them into question. Accordingly, he makes a distinction between two kinds of sin. Some sins are penalties for previous sin. God causes these “by a counsel most secret to Himself, indeed, but beyond all doubt most righteous” (GFW XLI). It is righteous because these sins that are caused by God are brought about in us because of previous sin on our part:

Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil 253 [God’s judgment is] sometimes manifest, sometimes secret, but always righteous. This ought to be the fixed and immovable conviction of your heart, that there is no unrighteousness with God. Therefore, whenever you read in the Scriptures of Truth, that men are led aside, or that their hearts are blunted and hardened by God, never doubt that some ill deserts of their own have first occurred, so that they justly suffer these things. (GFW XLIII)

This first wickedness on their part “was not made by Him, but was either derived originally from Adam, or increased by their own will” (ibid.). But can this be? Can there have been an original sin, by the wicked angels, the first humans, and/or by each human being, i.e., some act or even desire that was contrary to the will of God? Not in light of what has already been reviewed about the divine omnipotence. Nothing happens but what God wills to happen; and what God wills necessarily happens. So there is no way to distinguish between those sins which Augustine admits that God causes and those which he sometimes implies that God does not cause. Augustine’s way of overcoming the apparent contradiction—that we are responsible for evil willing and acting even though God causes them— is simply to assert that God’s causation does not take away our free agency. For example, he says that faith and works are commanded and also shown to be God’s gifts to us so that “we may understand both that we do them, and that God makes us to do them” (PS XXII). And in regard to the biblical statement that God “hardened” Pharaoh’s heart and then punished him, Augustine says: “Thus it was that both God hardened him by His just judgment, and Pharaoh by his own free will” (GFW XLV). But is this bothand position tenable? If God “makes” us do something, then do “we” do it at all? In a statement quoted previously, Augustine said that God sets in motion even the movement of people’s wills, “so that He does through their agency whatsoever He wishes to perform through them” (GFW XLII). But if God “does” the act, do the people really have any “agency” at all? Is it not self-contradictory and therefore simply nonsense to say that an act is B’s act, if the act was totally determined by A? Most theists have held that God cannot do the self-contradictory, e.g., make a round square. Is it not saying that the self-contradictory is done when it is said that God performs certain acts without causing these acts not to be our acts?

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The argument against this doctrine of double causation, which was suggested by Augustine and later developed as the doctrine of “primary and secondary causation,” will be continued later, especially in my chapter on the theodicy of James Ross. For the present I will simply state somewhat dogmatically that the doctrine is not intelligible, and hence does not help absolve God from the charge of injustice, if people are punished for sins which God causes “them” to commit.

SIN A ND THE DI V INE W ILL(S)

Furthermore, how can there even be any sin in the Augustinian universe? Augustine’s definition of sin includes the idea of going contrary to the will of God. And yet Augustine has so defined God’s omnipotence that nothing can happen which God does not will. He tries to overcome this contradiction by making a distinction between two “wills” in God. Whereas we go against God’s will in one sense when we sin, Augustine says, we nevertheless fulfill God’s eternal will. This distinction is suggested in a passage in which Augustine says that the fall of the wicked angels was ordained although not approved by God (CG XI. 19–20). Elsewhere he states that God inspires people to pray for things which God then does not grant. Regarding this, Augustine states that we can say: God wills and does not perform—meaning that He Who causes them to will these things Himself wills them. But if we speak of that will of His which is eternal as His foreknowledge, certainly He has already done all things in heaven and on earth that He has willed. (CG XXII. 2)

This same distinction is seen in the following passage, in which Augustine is speaking about those angelic and human creatures who have sinned: For, as far as they were concerned, they did what God did not will that they do, but as far as God’s omnipotence is concerned, they were quite unable to achieve their purpose. In their very act of going against his will, his will was thereby accomplished. . . . In a strange and ineffable fashion even that which is done against his will is not done without his will. (E XXVI. 100)

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It is in terms of this distinction between two meanings of “God’s will” that all those passages in Augustine must be interpreted which seem to say that the creatures have some freedom vis-à-vis God by which they can go contrary to the divine will, and hence be genuinely responsible. With this distinction made explicit, it becomes clear that nothing happens that is not willed and thereby necessitated by God’s eternal will. Accordingly, there is no original sinful free choice on the part of the creatures by which they can then be justly caused to commit further sins, and then justly punished for both types of sin.

A NA LYSIS OF AUGUSTINE’S POSITION

What, then, is Augustine’s position on the problem of evil?2 He clearly would not reject either premise 1 or premise 2 (i.e., that God is perfect, and that this perfection includes omnipotence). Could Augustine reject premise 3, which says that God could have created a world without evil in it? There is, indeed, one passage in which Augustine seems to foreshadow those who will suggest that evil, or at least the possibility of evil, is metaphysically necessary, since the world is made out of nothing, and the “nothingness” in it has some power to resist God’s power: Now, nature could not have been depraved by vice had it not been made out of nothing. Consequently, that it is a nature, this is because it is made by God; but that it falls away from Him, this is because it is made out of nothing. (CG XIV. 13)

However, Augustine’s numerous statements on God’s omnipotence show that this condition of being made out of nothing is not a sufficient (or even a necessary) condition for the occurrence of evil. And he explicitly says elsewhere that “it is undoubtedly as easy not to allow to exist what he does not will, as it is for him to do what he does will” (E XXIV. 96). And he asks rhetorically; “For who will dare to believe or say that it was not in God’s power to prevent both angels and men from sinning” (CG IV. 27)? Furthermore, the fact that the “nothing” out of which God created the world is “absolute nothingness” (ouk ōn), rather than “relatively nothing” (mē ōn) with some kind of autonomy, is indicated by

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Augustine’s rejection of the idea that evil is necessitated by the fact that God created the world out of some pre-existent stuff (C VII. 5). What about premise 4, which asserts that perfection includes moral perfection? There is indeed a strain in Augustine’s position which could be taken as a denial that God is moral in any sense that corresponds with our ideas of morality. Augustine refers approvingly to Paul’s statement that the clay cannot criticize the potter. One could take this to mean “might makes right.” And in one passage Augustine even says that “there is a very great difference between what it is fitting for man to will and what is fitting for God” (E XXVI. 101). However, the passages quoted four paragraphs above, plus numerous similar passages (e.g., PS XVI), including the passage quoted in the fourth paragraph of this chapter, clearly show that Augustine would not consider rejecting the idea that perfection includes moral goodness and that this is a moral goodness that we will be able to recognize as good when we can see things from a larger perspective. And, of course, the defense of God’s moral goodness is the main point at issue in theodicy. To reject statement number 6 would mean to reject the validity of logic when thinking about God and the world. Some of Augustine’s statements might be so interpreted, as he often appeals to the mystery of God’s ways, and the inability of the human mind to fathom God’s “unsearchable” judgments (PS XVI). However, I do not believe Augustine means to be making the formal point that logic has to be suspended in these matters. Rather, his intention is that now we often cannot understand how the content of God’s judgments is compatible with God’s righteousness. He has no doubt that at the day of judgment we will understand the compatibility of omnipotent goodness and worldly evil. And just as there is no suggestion that this will involve seeing that God is “beyond good and evil,” there is no suggestion that this will involve transcending the formal laws of thought. This leaves premises 5 and 7 to be considered. In the “simple statement” of the problem of evil (given in the Introduction), the equivalent of premise 5 is stated as follows: “If God is perfectly good, he would want to prevent all evil.” In concluding this discussion of Augustine, I will argue that, although he would reject this premise, the insertion of the qualifier “genuine” before “evil” in the expanded statement of the problem requires that we see the rejection of premise 7 (“There is genuine evil in the world”) as the Augustinian solution.

Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil 257 THE DENI A L OF GENUINE EV IL

What kind of evil does Augustine think there is in the universe? He specifi­ cally says that there is no “natural evil” (CG XI. 22). According to his use of this term, this means in the first place that there is nothing whose “nature” is evil, nothing that is “naturally” bad. Whatever is, is good. For all natures are created by God, and were created good (NOG 1). And there is no uncreated being, as the Manichaeans supposed, whose nature is evil. The devil is a creature; and even the devil’s nature is good. Accordingly, nothing is by nature intrinsically evil. In denying all “natural evil,” Augustine also means that there is no genuine evil in the universe below the level of creatures with freedom. As was stated in the previous paragraph, there is no intrinsic evil in this realm. Things such as fire, frost, and wild beasts are excellent in their own natures (CG XI. 22). All things are good, even though we may not like all things (C VII. 22). Augustine also believes there is no genuine instrumental evil arising from this realm. Some sufferings caused in us by this realm, which are prima facie evil, are in reality punishments from God, and as such are just (ibid.). And the things that cause these sufferings are actually useful to us, and hence are instrumentally good; we should believe this even when we do not yet see their utility (CG XI. 22). Furthermore, the irrational beings that sometimes cause suffering in us contribute grace and beauty to the universe as a whole; although we cannot see this from our limited perspectives, we should believe it (CG XI. 22; XII. 4). In short, in the realm of subhuman nature everything is intrinsically good; everything has positive instrumental value for us; and everything contributes to the good of the whole, so that there is no genuine evil in this realm. What about the suffering that is caused in us by the sin of other people? It is not genuinely evil, for the suffering inflicted is just: Not can any other nature which is less than divine be hurt unjustly. No doubt some people by sinning do harm unjustly. Their will to harm is counted against them, but the power by which they are permitted to do the harm comes only from God, who knows, though they do not, what those ought to suffer whom he permits them to harm. (NOG 11)

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Augustine explains more fully: “It is not unjust that the wicked should receive power to harm so that the patience of the good should be proved and the iniquity of the bad should be punished” (NOG 32). Accordingly, suffering due to the sin of other people is not genuine evil, for it does not make the universe a worse place than it would otherwise be. To put it otherwise, sin, considered in regard to its instrumental effects on other beings, is not genuinely evil. The only possible candidates for genuine evil, then, are moral evil, or sin, and its penalty. The penalty is caused by God, and hence, by definition (since there is no unrighteousness in God), cannot be genuinely evil. That is, once sin has occurred, it is better that it be punished than that it go unpunished. Accordingly, it is only sin itself that might be genuinely evil. And when Augustine speaks of evil, it is almost exclusively sin that he has in mind. He considers it intrinsically evil. But the question is whether this judgment of evil is a prima facie judgment only, or whether he thinks that sin is genuinely evil, so that the universe would have been a better place without it. The answer to this must be that he sees it as only apparently evil. He constantly repeats the theme that God, who could have prevented all evil, allowed it only because he could bring good out of it. Assuming that the good that God brings out of the evil were perfectly balanced by the resulting good, then the prima facie evil would be neither good nor bad, all things considered, but simply neutral. But if the resulting good more than compensates for the prima facie evil which was a necessary condition for the resulting good, then the prima facie evil is not simply neutral, but is instrumentally good. And this is what Augustine holds. He says that the beauty of the world is achieved by the opposition of contraries. God is thereby able to use the wickedness of humans and angels for good, “thus embellishing the course of the ages, as it were an exquisite poem set off with antitheses” (CG XI. 18). “To the eye that has skill to discern it, the universe is beautified even by sinners, though, considered by themselves, their deformity is a sad blemish” (CG XI. 23). Several other passages indicate that God not only compensates for prima facie evil, but more than compensates for it, so that it is really good that the prima facie evil occurred. Augustine says that God allowed man to be tempted by the devil “because He foresaw that by the man’s seed, aided

Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil 259

by divine grace, this same devil himself should be conquered, to the greater glory of the saints” (CG XIV. 27). “In this universe, even what is called evil, when it is rightly ordered and kept in its place, commends the good more eminently, since good things yield greater pleasure and praise when compared to the bad things” (E III. 11). “God judged it better to bring good out of evil than not to permit any evil to exist” (E VIII. 27). “If it were not good that evil things exist, they would certainly not be allowed to exist by the Omnipotent Good” (E XXIV. 96). In summary, Augustine’s position is that there is only one thing that is clearly evil intrinsically, and this is sin, or evil willing. But this prima facie evil is only apparently evil, for the universe is a better place with sin than it would have been without it. The one other thing that might be considered intrinsically evil, i.e., suffering, is never genuinely evil, for it is always a just punishment for sin and/or an aid toward achieving eternal life, which is such a great good that it more than compensates for any suffering. And those things which seem instrumentally evil within a limited context or from a partial perspective are not evil within the context of the universe as a whole. Accordingly there is no genuine evil in reality. This is a possible position to hold in the sense that it is not necessarily inconsistent (even though each person holding such a position may have inconsistencies in his thought). But two questions can be asked: First, is this position adequate to our experience? Or do we have intuitions about the reality of genuine evil which should be given higher credibility than at least one of the traditional Christian premises about the nature of a “perfect reality”? Second, is this conclusion that there is no genuine evil in the world adequate to Christian faith itself ? I believe we must answer these questions differently from the way Augustine did. His position, that there is no genuine evil, was necessitated by the particular way in which he tried to combine Greek and Hebrew ideas of deity. The idea of divine power that resulted from affirming God’s knowledge of and influence upon the world, on the one hand, and divine immutability and impassibility, on the other, implied that God caused all things. This belief, added to the idea that God is morally perfect, implied that there is no imperfection in the universe. Only a thoroughgoing revision of the idea of God can allow one consistently to affirm the virtually universal intuition that not everything is as good as it could have been.

260  Augustinian Theodicy NOTES

1. Below are given the works to which the symbols refer, along with the translations from which quotations are made: C CG E FW GFW NAG NOG PS SL TR

The Confessions. Trans. Edward Bouverie Pusey. The City of God. Trans. Marcus Dods. Enchiridion. Trans. J. F. Shaw. On Free Will. Trans. John H. S. Burleigh. Grace and Free Will. Trans. P. Holmes. Nature and Grace. Trans. John H. S. Burleigh. The Nature of the Good. Trans. John H. S. Burleigh. On the Predestination of the Saints. Trans. P. Holmes. On the Spirit and the Letter. Trans. P. Holmes. Of True Religion. Trans. John H. S. Burleigh.

The Confessions can be found in Robert Maynard Hutchins, editor in chief, Great Books of the Western World (Chicago: Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc., 1952), vol. 18. The City of God, Enchiridion, Grace and Free Will, Nature and Grace, On the Predestination of the Saints, and On the Spirit and the Letter are found in Basic Writings of Saint Augustine (2 vols., ed. with introduction and notes by Whitney J. Oates) (New York: Random House, 1948). On Free Will, The Nature of the Good, and Of True Religion are found in Augustine: Earlier Writings, vol. 6 of the Library of Christian Classics (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1953). 2. Augustine’s position on the problem of evil, as well as the positions of other thinkers, can be analyzed by reference to a formal statement of the problem of evil. Throughout my analysis I will refer to the following eight-step version of the theoretical problem of evil: 1. God is perfect reality. (Definition) 2. A perfect reality is an omnipotent being. (By definition) 3. An omnipotent being could unilaterally bring about an actual world without any genuine evil. (By definition) 4. A perfect reality is a morally perfect being. (By definition) 5. A morally perfect being would want to bring about an actual world without any genuine evil. (By definition) 6. If there is genuine evil in the world, then there is no God. (Logical conclusion from 1 through 5)

Augustine and the Denial of Genuine Evil 261 7. There is genuine evil in the world. (Factual statement) 8. Therefore, there is no God. (Logical conclusion from 6 and 7)

I believe this argument is valid, which means that the final conclusion follows from the premises. That is, 6 follows from 1 through 5, while 8 follows from 6 and 7. The question then is whether the argument is sound, which requires that, besides being valid, all its premises must be acceptable. [As presented earlier in Griffin’s God, Power, and Evil, from from which this chapter is excerpted.]

C H A P T E R

1 5

Soul-Making Theodicy JOHN HICK

Can a world in which sadistic cruelty often has its way, in which selfish lovelessness is so rife, in which there are debilitating diseases, crippling accidents, bodily and mental decay, insanity, and all manner of natural disasters be regarded as the expression of infinite creative goodness? Certainly all this could never by itself lead anyone to believe in the existence of a limitlessly powerful God. And yet even in a world which contains these things innumerable men and women have believed and do believe in the reality of an infinite creative goodness, which they call God. The theodicy project starts at this point, with an already operating belief in God, embodied in human living, and attempts to show that this belief is not rendered irrational by the fact of evil. It attempts to explain how it is that the universe, assumed to be created and ultimately ruled by a limitlessly good and limitlessly powerful Being, is as it is, including all the pain and suffering and all the wickedness and folly that we find around us and within us. The theFrom John Hick, “An Irenaean Theodicy,” in Encountering Evil: Live Options in Theodicy, ed. Stephen T. Davis et al. (Atlanta: Westminster John Knox Press, 1981), 39–48. Used by permission of Westminister John Knox Press.

262

Soul-Making Theodicy 263

odicy project is thus an exercise in metaphysical construction, in the sense that it consists in the formation and criticism of large-scale hypotheses concerning the nature and process of the universe. Since a theodicy both starts from and tests belief in the reality of God, it naturally takes different forms in relation to different concepts of God. In this essay I shall be discussing the project of a specifically Christian theodicy; I shall not be attempting the further and even more difficult work of comparative theodicy, leading in turn to the question of a global theodicy. The two main demands upon a theodicy hypothesis are (1) that it be internally coherent, and (2) that it be consistent with the data both of the religious tradition on which it is based, and of the world, in respect both of the latter’s general character as revealed by scientific enquiry and of the specific facts of moral and natural evil. These two criteria demand, respectively, possibility and plausibility. Traditionally, Christian theology has centered upon the concept of God as both limitlessly powerful and limitlessly good and loving; and it is this concept of deity that gives rise to the problem of evil as a threat to theistic faith. The threat was definitively expressed in Stendhal’s bombshell, “The only excuse for God is that he does not exist!” The theodicy project is the attempt to offer a different view of the universe which is both possible and plausible and which does not ignite Stendhal’s bombshell. Christian thought has always included a certain range of variety, and in the area of theodicy it offers two broad types of approach. The Augustinian approach, representing until fairly recently the majority report of the Christian mind, hinges upon the idea of the fall, which has in turn brought about the disharmony of nature. This type of theodicy is developed today as “the free-will defense.” The Irenaean approach, representing in the past a minority report, hinges upon the creation of humankind through the evolutionary process as an immature creature living in a challenging and therefore person-making world. I shall indicate very briefly why I do not find the first type of theodicy satisfactory, and then spend the remainder of this essay in exploring the second type. In recent years the philosophical discussion of the problem of evil has been dominated by the free-will defense. A major effort has been made by Alvin Plantinga and a number of other Christian philosophers to show that it is logically possible that a limitlessly powerful and limitlessly good God is

264  Irenaean Theodicy

responsible for the existence of this world. For all evil may ultimately be due to misuses of creaturely freedom. But it may nevertheless be better for God to have created free than unfree beings; and it is logically possible that any and all free beings whom God might create would, as a matter of contingent fact, misuse their freedom by falling into sin. In that case it would be logically impossible for God to have created a world containing free beings and yet not containing sin and the suffering which sin brings with it. Thus it is logically possible, despite the fact of evil, that the existing universe is the work of a limitlessly good creator. These writers are in effect arguing that the traditional Augustinian type of theodicy, based upon the fall from grace of free finite creatures— first angels and then human beings—and a consequent going wrong of the physical world, is not logically impossible. I am in fact doubtful whether their argument is sound, and will return to the question later. But even if it should be sound, I suggest that their argument wins only a Pyrrhic victory, since the logical possibility that it would establish is one which, for very many people today, is fatally lacking in plausibility. For most educated inhabitants of the modern world regard the biblical story of Adam and Eve, and their temptation by the devil, as myth rather than as history; and they believe that so far from having been created finitely perfect and then falling, humanity evolved out of lower forms of life, emerging in a morally, spiritually, and culturally primitive state. Further, they reject as incredible the idea that earthquake and flood, disease, decay, and death are consequences either of a human fall, or of a prior fall of angelic beings who are now exerting an evil influence upon the earth. They see all this as part of a pre-scientific worldview, along with the stories of the world having been created in six days and of the sun standing still for twenty-four hours at Joshua’s command. One cannot, strictly speaking, disprove any of these ancient biblical myths and sagas, or refute their confident elaboration in the medieval Christian picture of the universe. But those of us for whom the resulting theodicy, even if logically possible, is radically implausible, must look elsewhere for light on the problem of evil. I believe that we find the light that we need in the main alternative strand of Christian thinking, which goes back to important constructive suggestions by the early Hellenistic Fathers of the Church, particularly St. Irenaeus (A.D. 120–202). Irenaeus himself did not develop a theodicy, but

Soul-Making Theodicy 265

he did—together with other Greek-speaking Christian writers of that period, such as Clement of Alexandria—build a framework of thought within which a theodicy became possible which does not depend upon the idea of the fall, and which is consonant with modern knowledge concerning the origins of the human race. This theodicy cannot, as such, be attributed to Irenaeus. We should rather speak of a type of theodicy, presented in varying ways by different subsequent thinkers (the greatest of whom has been Friedrich Schleiermacher), of which Irenaeus can properly be regarded as the patron saint. The central theme out of which this Irenaean type of theodicy has arisen is the two-stage conception of the creation of humankind, first in the “image” and then in the “likeness” of God. Re-expressing this in modern terms, the first stage was the gradual production of Homo sapiens, through the long evolutionary process, as intelligent ethical and religious animals. The human being is an animal, one of the varied forms of earthly life and continuous as such with the whole realm of animal existence. But the human being is uniquely intelligent, having evolved a large and immensely complex brain. Further, the human being is ethical—that is, a gregarious as well as an intelligent animal, able to realize and respond to the complex demands of social life. And the human being is a religious animal, with an innate tendency to experience the world in terms of the presence and activity of supernatural beings and powers. This then is early Homo sapiens, the intelligent social animal capable of awareness of the divine. But early Homo sapiens is not the Adam and Eve of Augustinian theology, living in perfect harmony with self, with nature, and with God. On the contrary, the life of this being must have been a constant struggle against a hostile environment, and capable of savage violence against one’s fellow human beings, particularly outside one’s own immediate group; and this being’s concepts of the divine were primitive and often bloodthirsty. Thus existence “in the image of God” was a potentiality for knowledge of and relationship with one’s Maker rather than such knowledge and relationship as a fully realized state. In other words, people were created as spiritually and morally immature creatures, at the beginning of a long process of further growth and development, which constitutes the second stage of God’s creative work. In this second stage, of which we are a part, the intelligent, ethical, and religious animal is being brought through one’s own free responses into what

266  Irenaean Theodicy

Irenaeus called the divine “likeness.” The human animal is being created into a child of God. Irenaeus’ own terminology (eikon, homoiosis; imago, similitudo) has no particular merit, based as it is on a misunderstanding of the Hebrew parallelism in Genesis 1:26; but his conception of a two-stage creation of the human, with perfection lying in the future rather than in the past, is of fundamental importance. The notion of the fall was not basic to this picture, although it was to become basic to the great drama of salvation depicted by St. Augustine and accepted within Western Christendom, including the churches stemming from the Reformation, until well into the nineteenth century. Irenaeus himself however could not, in the historical knowledge of his time, question the fact of the fall; though he treated it as a relatively minor lapse, a youthful error, rather than as the infinite crime and cosmic disaster which has ruined the whole creation. But today we can acknowledge that there is no evidence at all of a period in the distant past when humankind was in the ideal state of a fully realized “child of God.” We can accept that, so far as actual events in time are concerned, there never was a fall from an original righteousness and grace. If we want to continue to use the term “fall,” because of its hallowed place in the Christian tradition, we must use it to refer to the immense gap between what we actually are and what in the divine intention is eventually to be. But we must not blur our awareness that the ideal state is not something already enjoyed and lost, but is a future and as yet unrealized goal. The reality is not a perfect creation which has gone tragically wrong, but a still continuing creative process whose completion lies in the eschaton. Let us now try to formulate a contemporary version of the Irenaean type of theodicy, based on this suggestion of the initial creation of humankind, not as a finitely perfect, but as an immature creature at the beginning of a long process of further growth and development. We may begin by asking why one should have been created as an imperfect and developing creature rather than as the perfect being whom God is presumably intending to create? The answer, I think, consists in two considerations which converge in their practical implications, one concerned with the human’s relationship to God and the other with the relationship to other human beings. As to the first, we could have the picture of God creating finite beings, whether angels or persons, directly in God’s own presence, so that in being conscious of that which is other than one’s self the creature is automatically conscious of

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God, the limitless divine reality and power, goodness and love, knowledge and wisdom, towering above one’s self. In such a situation the disproportion between Creator and creatures would be so great that the latter would have no freedom in relation to God; they would indeed not exist as independent autonomous persons. For what freedom could finite beings have in an immediate consciousness of the presence of the one who has created them, who knows them through and through, who is limitlessly powerful as well as limitlessly loving and good, and who claims their total obedience? In order to be a person, exercising some measure of genuine freedom, the creature must be brought into existence, not in the immediate divine presence, but at a “distance” from God. This “distance” cannot of course be spatial, for God is omnipresent. It must be an epistemic distance, a distance in the cognitive dimension. And the Irenaean hypothesis is that this “distance” consists, in the case of humans, in their existence within and as part of a world which functions as an autonomous system and from within which God is not overwhelmingly evident. It is a world, in Bonhoeffer’s phrase, etsi deus non daretur, as if there were no God. Or rather, it is religiously ambiguous, capable both of being seen as a purely natural phenomenon and of being seen as God’s creation and experienced as mediating his presence. In such a world one can exist as a person over against the Creator. One has space to exist as a finite being, a space created by the epistemic distance from God and protected by one’s basic cognitive freedom, one’s freedom to open or close oneself to the dawning awareness of God which is experienced naturally by a religious animal. This Irenaean picture corresponds, I suggest, to our actual human situation. Emerging within the evolutionary process as part of the continuum of animal life, in a universe which functions in accordance with its own laws and whose workings can be investigated and described without reference to a creator, the human being has a genuine, even awesome, freedom in relation to one’s Maker. The human being is free to acknowledge and worship God; and is free—particularly since the emergence of human individuality and the beginnings of critical consciousness during the first millennium B.C.—to doubt the reality of God. Within such a situation there is the possibility of the human being coming freely to know and love one’s Maker. Indeed, if the end-state which God is seeking to bring about is one in which finite persons have come in their own freedom to know and love him, this requires creating them initially in

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a state which is not that of their already knowing and loving him. For it is logically impossible to create beings already in a state of having come into that state by their own free choices. The other consideration, which converges with this in pointing to something like the human situation as we experience it, concerns our human moral nature. We can approach it by asking why humans should not have been created at this epistemic distance from God, and yet at the same time as morally perfect beings? That persons could have been created morally perfect and yet free, so that they would always in fact choose rightly, has been argued by such critics of the free-will defense in theodicy as Antony Flew and J. L. Mackie, and argued against by Alvin Plantinga and other upholders of that form of theodicy. On the specific issue defined in the debate between them, it appears to me that the criticism of the free-will defense stands. It appears to me that a perfectly good being, although formally free to sin, would in fact never do so. If we imagine such a being in a morally frictionless environment, involving no stresses or temptation, then we must assume that one would exemplify the ethical equivalent of Newton’s first law of motion, which states that a moving body will continue in uniform motion until interfered with by some outside force. By analogy, a perfectly good being would continue in the same moral course forever, there being nothing in the environment to throw one off it. But even if we suppose the morally perfect being to exist in an imperfect world, in which one is subject to temptations, it still follows that, in virtue of moral perfection, one will always overcome those temptations—as in the case, according to orthodox Christian belief, of Jesus Christ. It is, to be sure, logically possible, as Plantinga and others argue, that a free being, simply as such, may at any time contingently decide to sin. However, a responsible free being does not act randomly, but on the basis of moral nature. And a free being whose nature is wholly and unqualifiedly good will accordingly never in fact sin. But if God could, without logical contradiction, have created humans as wholly good free beings, why did he not do so? Why was humanity not initially created in possession of all the virtues, instead of having to acquire them through the long hard struggle of life as we know it? The answer, I suggest, appeals to the principle that virtues which have been formed within the agent as a hard-won deposit of his own right decisions in situations of challenge and temptation, are intrinsically more valuable than virtues cre-

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ated within him ready made and without any effort on his own part. This principle expresses a basic value-judgment, which cannot be established by argument but which one can only present, in the hope that it will be as morally plausible, and indeed compelling, to others as to oneself. It is, to repeat, the judgment that a moral goodness which exists as the agent’s initial given nature, without ever having been chosen by him in the face of temptations to the contrary, is intrinsically less valuable than a moral goodness which has been built up through the agent’s own responsible choices through time in the face of alternative possibilities. If, then, God’s purpose was to create finite persons embodying the most valuable kind of moral goodness, he would have to create them, not as already perfect beings but rather as imperfect creatures who can then attain to the more valuable kind of goodness through their own free choices as in the course of their personal and social history new responses prompt new insights, opening up new moral possibilities, and providing a milieu in which the most valuable kind of moral nature can be developed. We have thus far, then, the hypothesis that one is created at an epistemic distance from God in order to come freely to know and love the Maker; and that one is at the same time created as a morally immature and imperfect being in order to attain through freedom the most valuable quality of goodness. The end sought, according to this hypothesis, is the full realization of the human potentialities in a unitary spiritual and moral perfection in the divine kingdom. And the question we have to ask is whether humans as we know them, and the world as we know it, are compatible with this hypothesis. Clearly we cannot expect to be able to deduce our actual world in its concrete character, and our actual human nature as part of it, from the general concept of spiritually and morally immature creatures developing ethically in an appropriate environment. No doubt there is an immense range of possible worlds, any one of which, if actualized, would exemplify this concept. All that we can hope to do is to show that our actual world is one of these. And when we look at our human situation as part of the evolving life of this planet we can, I think, see that it fits this specification. As animal organisms, integral to the whole ecology of life, we are programmed for survival. In pursuit of survival, primitives not only killed other animals for food but fought other human beings when their vital interests conflicted. The life of prehistoric persons must indeed have been a constant struggle to

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stay alive, prolonging an existence which was, in Hobbes’ phrase, “poor, nasty, brutish and short.” And in his basic animal self-regardingness humankind was, and is, morally imperfect. In saying this I am assuming that the essence of moral evil is selfishness, the sacrificing of others to one’s own interests. It consists, in Kantian terminology, in treating others, not as ends in themselves, but as means to one’s own ends. This is what the survival instinct demands. And yet we are also capable of love, of self-giving in a common cause, of a conscience which responds to others in their needs and dangers. And with the development of civilization we see the growth of moral insight, the glimpsing and gradual assimilation of higher ideals, and tension between our animality and our ethical values. But that the human being has a lower as well as a higher nature, that one is an animal as well as a potential child of God, and that one’s moral goodness is won from a struggle with one’s own innate selfishness, is inevitable given one’s continuity with the other forms of animal life. Further, the human animal is not responsible for having come into existence as an animal. The ultimate responsibility for humankind’s existence, as a morally imperfect creature, can only rest with the Creator. The human does not, in one’s own degree of freedom and responsibility, choose one’s origin, but rather one’s destiny. This then, in brief outline, is the answer of the Irenaean type of theodicy to the question of the origin of moral evil: the general fact of humankind’s basic self-regarding animality is an aspect of creation as part of the realm of organic life; and this basic self-regardingness has been expressed over the centuries both in sins of individual selfishness and in the much more massive sins of corporate selfishness, institutionalized in slavery and exploitation and all the many and complex forms of social injustice. But nevertheless our sinful nature in a sinful world is the matrix within which God is gradually creating children for himself out of human animals. For it is as men and women freely respond to the claim of God upon their lives, transmuting their animality into the structure of divine worship, that the creation of humanity is taking place. And in its concrete character this response consists in every form of moral goodness, from unselfish love in individual personal relationships to the dedicated and selfless striving to end exploitation and to create justice within and between societies. But one cannot discuss moral evil without at the same time discussing the non-moral evil of pain and suffering. (I propose to mean by “pain”

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physical pain, including the pains of hunger and thirst; and by “suffering” the mental and emotional pain of loneliness, anxiety, remorse, lack of love, fear, grief, envy, etc.) For what constitutes moral evil as evil is the fact that it causes pain and suffering. It is impossible to conceive of an instance of moral evil, or sin, which is not productive of pain or suffering to anyone at any time. But in addition to moral evil there is another source of pain and suffering in the structure of the physical world which produces storms, earthquakes, and floods and which afflicts the human body with diseases— cholera, epilepsy, cancer, malaria, arthritis, rickets, meningitis, etc.—as well as with broken bones and other outcomes of physical accident. It is true that a great deal both of pain and of suffering is humanly caused, not only by the inhumanity of man to man but also by the stresses of our individual and corporate life-styles, causing many disorders—not only lung cancer and cirrhosis of the liver but many cases of heart disease, stomach and other ulcers, strokes, etc.—as well as accidents. But there remain nevertheless, in the natural world itself, permanent causes of human pain and suffering. And we have to ask why an unlimitedly good and unlimitedly powerful God should have created so dangerous a world, both as regards its purely natural hazards of earthquake and flood, etc., and as regards the liability of the human body to so many ills, both psychosomatic and purely somatic. The answer offered by the Irenaean type of theodicy follows from and is indeed integrally bound up with its account of the origin of moral evil. We have the hypothesis of humankind being brought into being within the evolutionary process as a spiritually and morally immature creature, and then growing and developing through the exercise of freedom in this religiously ambiguous world. We can now ask, what sort of a world would constitute an appropriate environment for this second stage of creation? The development of human personality—moral, spiritual, and intellectual—is a product of challenge and response. It does not occur in a static situation demanding no exertion and no choices. So far as intellectual development is concerned, this is a well-established principle which underlies the whole modern educational process, from pre-school nurseries designed to provide a rich and stimulating environment, to all forms of higher education designed to challenge the intellect. At a basic level the essential part played in learning by the learner’s own active response to environment was strikingly demonstrated by the Held and Hein experiment with kittens. Of two litter-mate kittens in the

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same artificial environment, one was free to exercise its own freedom and intelligence in exploring the environment, while the other was suspended in a kind of “gondola” which moved whenever and wherever the free kitten moved. Thus the second kitten had a similar succession of visual experiences as the first, but did not exert itself or make any choices in obtaining them. And whereas the first kitten learned in the normal way to conduct itself safely within its environment, the second did not. With no interaction with a challenging environment there was no development in its behavioral patterns. And I think we can safely say that the intellectual development of humanity has been due to interaction with an objective environment functioning in accordance with its own laws, an environment which we have had actively to explore and to cooperate with in order to escape its perils and exploit its benefits. In a world devoid both of dangers to be avoided and rewards to be won we may assume that there would have been virtually no development of the human intellect and imagination, and hence of either the sciences or the arts, and hence of human civilization or culture. The fact of an objective world within which one has to learn to live, on penalty of pain or death, is also basic to the development of one’s moral nature. For it is because the world is one in which men and women can suffer harm—by violence, disease, accident, starvation, etc.—that our actions affecting one another have moral significance. A morally wrong act is, basically, one which harms some part of the human community; while a morally right action is, on the contrary, one which prevents or neutralizes harm or which preserves or increases human well-being. Now we can imagine a paradise in which no one can ever come to any harm. It could be a world which, instead of having its own fixed structure, would be plastic to human wishes. Or it could be a world with a fixed structure, and hence the possibility of damage and pain, but whose structure is suspended or adjusted by special divine action whenever necessary to avoid human pain. Thus, for example, in such a miraculously pain-free world, one who falls accidentally off a high building would presumably float unharmed to the ground; bullets would become insubstantial when fired at a human body; poisons would cease to poison; water to drown, and so on. We can at least begin to imagine such a world. And a good deal of the older discussion of the problem of evil—for example in Part xi of Hume’s Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion—assumed that it must be the intention of a limitlessly good and pow-

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erful Creator to make for human creatures a pain-free environment; so that the very existence of pain is evidence against the existence of God. But such an assumption overlooks the fact that a world in which there can be no pain or suffering would also be one in which there can be no moral choices and hence no possibility of moral growth and development. For in a situation in which no one can ever suffer injury or be liable to pain or suffering there would be no distinction between right and wrong action. No action would be morally wrong, because no action could have harmful consequences; and likewise no action would be morally right in contrast to wrong. Whatever the values of such a world, it clearly could not serve a purpose of the development of its inhabitants from self-regarding animality to self-giving love. Thus the hypothesis of a divine purpose in which finite persons are created at an epistemic distance from God, in order that they may gradually become children of God through their own moral and spiritual choices, requires that their environment, instead of being a pain-free and stress-free paradise, be broadly the kind of world of which we find ourselves to be a part. It requires that it be such as to provoke the theological problem of evil. For it requires that it be an environment which offers challenges to be met, problems to be solved, dangers to be faced, and which accordingly involves real possibilities of hardship, disaster, failure, defeat, and misery as well as of delight and happiness, success, triumph, and achievement. For it is by grappling with the real problems of a real environment, in which a person is one form of life among many, and which is not designed to minister exclusively to one’s well-being, that one can develop in intelligence and in such qualities as courage and determination. And it is in the relationships of human beings with one another, in the context of this struggle to survive and flourish, that they can develop the higher values of mutual love and care, of selfsacrifice for others, and of commitment to a common good.

C H A P T E R

1 6

Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy W I L L I A M L . ROW E

John Hick has written extensively concerning the problem of evil.1 His writings on the problem are set within two general restraints. First, he holds constant the conception of God as omnipotent and perfectly good. Hick does not pursue the question of whether the facts about evil necessitate some drastic revision of our conception of God. In my discussion of his work, I shall accept this restraint. Secondly, Hick distinguishes the question of whether the existence of God is logically consistent with the facts about evil from the question of whether the facts about evil render belief in God unreasonable or irrational. It is the second of these questions that is the focus of Hick’s attention. Some philosophers hold that the facts about evil do not provide any rational grounds or evidence for disbelief in God. Thus, for them, the only serious problem is the question of logical consistency. I William Rowe, “Paradox and Promise: Hick’s Solution to the Problem of Evil,” in Problems in the Philosophy of Religion: Critical Studies of the Work of John Hick, ed. Harold Hewitt, Jr. (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1991), 111–24. Reproduced with permission of Palgrave Macmillan.

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side with Hick on this issue. The proposition that a given man is seventyfive years old and has an arthritic knee is logically consistent with his winning the next Boston Marathon. But surely the fact that he is seventy-five and has an arthritic knee gives us good rational grounds for believing that he won’t win the next Boston Marathon. So too, although the free-will defense may establish that the facts about evil are logically consistent with the existence of God, there remains the serious problem of the extent to which the facts about evil render it unreasonable or irrational to believe in God. Before we begin our examination of Hick’s proposed solution to the problem of evil, I want to make explicit an assumption of mine, which I believe Hick shares, and note several different forms the problem of evil may take for us. The assumption is that, although we may have difficulty in defining “intrinsic good” and “intrinsic evil,” this does not preclude us from knowing that certain things are intrinsically good and other things are intrinsically evil. We know, for example, that pleasure, happiness, love, the exercise of virtue, good intentions, and so on, are intrinsically good. We also know that pain, unhappiness, hatred, the exercise of vice, bad intentions, and so forth, are intrinsically evil. The problem of evil, then, is the problem of explaining why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit intrinsic evils to exist, or to exist in such abundance.2 But just how are we to conceive of our problem? Are we asking why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit any evil at all in our world? If this is our problem, then we can solve it by explaining how such a being would be justified in permitting just one instance of the evils that exist in our world. Are we asking why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit the various kinds of evil we find in our world? If this is our problem, then we can solve it by explaining how such a being would be justified in permitting an instance of each of these kinds of evil to exist in our world. Are we asking why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit the amount of evil (of these kinds) that we find in our world? If this is our problem, then we can solve it only by explaining how such a being would be justified in permitting all the evil (in its various kinds) that exists in our world. Or, finally, are we focusing on some particular evils and asking why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit these particular evils to occur? If this is our problem, then we can solve it only by explaining how such a being would be justified in permitting those particular evils to occur. So,

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once we think about the problem of evil, we come to see that there are four distinct problems of evil. And, as we shall see when we look at Hick’s soulmaking theodicy, what will solve one of these problems may be wholly inadequate to solve the rest of them. To any of the four problems of evil that I have just distinguished, a theist may make one or more of four different responses. First, as we have already noted, the theist may insist that the facts about evil that are noted provide no rational grounds at all for rejecting belief in God. The argument from the facts of evil to the non-existence of God may be stated as follows. No good we know of is such that obtaining it would justify God in permitting evil (these kinds of evil, the amount of evil, these particular evils). Therefore, it is reasonable to believe that no goods at all would justify God in permitting the evil in question. But, if no good at all would justify an omnipotent, perfectly good being in permitting the evil in question, then God does not exist. To this argument, theists who make the first response typically reject the reasoning as fallacious, involving an illicit inference from “we don’t know of any such good” to the conclusion that there aren’t any, or from “no goods we know about would justify such a being in permitting the evil in question” to the conclusion that no goods we don’t know about would justify such a being in permitting the evil in question.3 A second response would be to acknowledge that the argument does provide rational support for disbelief in God, but to go on and argue that our rational grounds for believing in God are stronger and, therefore, outweigh the grounds for disbelief provided by the facts of evil.4 A third response, like the second, may acknowledge that the argument, as stated, does provide rational grounds for disbelief. But this response goes on to suggest that there are other things we know or have reason to believe which, when conjoined with the premise of the argument (“No good we know of is such that obtaining it would justify God in permitting the evil in question”), gives us something that does not provide rational grounds for disbelief. Unlike the second response, however, the additional thing appealed to is not itself a reason for belief in God. For example, suppose one had good reason to believe that, if there are any goods that would justify an omnipotent, perfectly good being in permitting the evils in question, they would be goods we do not know. Now this information by itself is not a reason for belief in God. But, when we conjoin this information with the premise of the argument, the conjunc-

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tion does not provide rational support for the conclusion that no good is such that obtaining it would justify an omnipotent, perfectly good being in permitting the evil in question. So here, instead of saying that our reasons for disbelief are outweighed, we can say that they are defeated. Finally, one may directly challenge the premise of the argument by arguing that there are goods we know (or can imagine) the obtaining of which would justify God in permitting the evil in question. It is this final response that Hick gives to the problem of evil; in common with other theodicists, he endeavors to single out some good or goods which can be plausibly believed to justify an omnipotent, perfectly good being in permitting evil. In evaluating Hick’s proposals about the justifying goods, it would be incorrect to require that he must show that the goods in question will obtain. A theodicist does not have to establish that, but it must be argued that we do not have any good reasons to think that the goods will not obtain. It would not be helpful, for example, to propose that the good in question is every human being achieving moral perfection, or even moral competence, before bodily death. For we have very good reason to think that such a good does not obtain. To the extent that the good in question is one that we have reason to think will not obtain, we have reason to think that the good proposed does not justify any omnipotent, perfect being in permitting the evil in question. There are two good states that figure in Hick’s theodicy. The first is the state in which all human beings develop themselves into moral and spiritual beings.5 The second good state is that in which all such beings freely enter into an eternal life of love and fellowship with God.6 In order for these goods to be an omnipotent, perfectly good being’s reasons for permitting moral and natural evil, something like the following two principles must be true: a person’s freely developing into a morally better being is intrinsically more valuable than a person’s being made to be a morally better being; a person’s freely coming to love another being is intrinsically more valuable than a person’s being made to love another being. I believe both principles are true. But we should be wary of questionable inferences that may be drawn from such principles. First, it would be a neglect of Moore’s principle that the value of the whole need not be the sum of the values of the parts (the principle of organic unities) to conclude that freedom itself is of great intrinsic value.7 Secondly, to admit that freely developed goodness is intrinsically better than

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ready-made goodness does not imply that it would always be permissible to obtain the former rather than the latter. This would be so only if the degree to which the former is intrinsically better than the latter is infinite. By appealing to the two good states just mentioned, Hick proposes to explain why, if there is an omnipotent, perfectly good being, it would be true that (1) human beings are not immediately aware of his existence, (2) human beings exist as morally immature beings, (3) the world is a place where real harm can be inflicted by one person on another, and (4) the world operates with a fixed structure in which real pain and suffering occur. For only in an environment in which (1)–(4) obtain can human persons freely come to know and love God, and freely develop themselves into mature moral and spiritual beings.8 Is Hick right about all of this? So far as (2), (3), and (4) are concerned, I think reason is on his side. My only real doubts concern (1) and Hick’s claim that unless human beings existed at an “epistemic distance” from God they could not freely come to know and love God. And, even on this point, I am not clear as to the extent of my disagreement with Hick. If all Hick means to say is that, in order to come freely to know God (or to believe in God), one must exist at an epistemic distance from God, then I grant him his point. If God is directly present to me in all his power, glory, and love, my intellect compels my assent to the proposition that he exists; there is no room for free assent. The problem is that Hick does not stop with this point. He sometimes says that, in order to be a person, in order to be morally free, in order to be free with respect to loving God, we must exist at an epistemic distance from God. My difficulty here is twofold: I cannot find compelling reasons in Hick’s writings for these further claims, and these claims do not seem to me to be true. Does Hick make such claims? Consider the following passages: In such a situation [existing directly in God’s presence] the disproportion between Creator and creatures would be so great that the latter would have no freedom in relation to God; they would indeed not exist as independent autonomous persons. . . . In order to be a person, exercising some measure of genuine freedom, the creature must be brought into existence, not in the immediate divine presence, but at a “distance” from God.9 Within such a situation [epistemic distance from God] there is the possibility of the human being coming freely to know and love one’s Maker.

Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy 279 Indeed, if the end-state which God is seeking to bring about is one in which finite persons have come in their own freedom to know and love him, this requires creating them initially in a state which is not that of their already knowing and loving him.10 . . . if men and women had been initially created in the direct presence of God, who is infinite in life and power, goodness and knowledge, they would have had no genuine freedom in relation to their Maker. In order to be fully personal and therefore morally free beings, they have accordingly (it is suggested) been created at . . . an epistemic distance [from God].11

I take it as evident that a person could exist in a state of epistemic immediacy with God. Could a person be genuinely free and exist in a state of epistemic immediacy with God? Clearly such a person could not be free with respect to coming to know or believe in God’s existence. But could such a person be free with respect to developing morally in relation to other human beings? I don’t see why not. Of course, this person would know that God exists, loves all his creatures, and so on. But knowledge is one thing; developing moral character and acting out of a sense of duty toward your neighbors is something else. It is very hard to see how the knowledge of God would destroy one’s freedom with respect to moral development in relation to one’s neighbors. But what about loving God? Would one still be free with respect to loving God? In the second of the three passages quoted above, Hick, after noting, correctly, that epistemic distance would leave the person free to come to love God, points out that, were God to create the person in a state where he or she (from the moment of creation) already loves God, the person would not be free to come to love God. This is certainly true, but somewhat irrelevant to the point at issue. The question at issue is whether a person can exist in epistemic immediacy with respect to God and still be free to come to love God. Such a person would know God’s power and greatness, be aware of God’s immense love for all his creatures, and so on. But isn’t all this quite compatible with the person not responding to God’s love with love of his or her own? To say that a person’s freedom to come to worship and love God would be destroyed in such a situation is, I think, to confuse coming to have a very good reason to worship and love God with being compelled to worship and love God. It is, alas, part of the very nature of freedom to have the power not to do what one has a very good reason to

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do. So, while I fully agree with Hick that epistemic distance from God is necessary to cognitive freedom in relation to God, I can find no good reasons in Hick’s writings to support his further claims that epistemic distance from God is necessary for the very existence of human persons, for their being free to develop morally, and for their being free with respect to coming to love God. And if I am right about this, one must wonder about what good is served by our state of epistemic distance from God. Of course, without epistemic distance we would come to know God of necessity, not freely. And perhaps Hick would add a third to the two principles concerning intrinsic value noted earlier: freely coming to know of a being’s existence is intrinsically better than coming of necessity to know of the being’s existence. But it is far from clear that this third principle is true. Let us, however, put aside these qualms about what epistemic distance is required for and return to the thread of the argument. So far, I think, Hick has built a reasonable case for the hypothesis that (1) if we believe there is an omnipotent, perfectly good being, it would not be unreasonable for us to believe that this being might have the realization of the two goods noted above as his goal, and (2) if such a being did have the realization of these two goods as its goal, it would permit the existence of moral and natural evil in the world. For, unless there are real obstacles in nature to overcome, and unless human beings are capable of doing real harm to one another, freely attained moral and spiritual growth would be practically, if not theoretically, impossible. Has Hick, then, provided a reasonable solution to the problem of evil? As we have already seen, this is not just one question but four, for there are (at least) four distinct problems of evil (or four distinct levels of the problem of evil). The answer to our question depends, therefore, on which problem of evil we have in mind. My own view is that Hick has provided a reasonable answer to our first question: why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit any evil in the world. Moreoever, if we limit kinds of evil to natural evil, moral evil, human pain and suffering, and so on, I also think that Hick has provided a reasonable answer to our second question: why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit instances of the various kinds of evil to occur. But thus far nothing has been said that would explain why such a being would permit the amount of evil (of these kinds), or certain particular evils that exist in our world.

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The plain fact, as Hick recognizes, is that evil occurs in such massive amounts in our world that it often as not defeats the development of moral and spiritual growth. Why then does God permit evil in such massive amounts? If the excessive amounts of evil were to fall on those humans who are particularly recalcitrant to moral and spiritual development, we might reason that God allows it to fall on them to enable them to become more sensitive to their need for such development. But incredible amounts of pain and suffering fall equally on the innocent and the guilty. Moreover, evil falls so unrelentingly on some people (whether saints or sinners) that it can only be seen by us as destructive of the soul-making enterprise. And, when we look at particular evils, it seems ludicrous to suppose that, had God prevented any one of these evils, someone’s moral and spiritual development would thereby have been prevented or in some way frustrated. That Hick recognizes the need for theodicy to address the amount and intensity of evil in the world is clear from the following remark: It [theodicy] attempts to explain how it is that the universe, assumed to be created and ultimately ruled by a limitlessly good and limitlessly powerful Being, is as it is, including all the pain and suffering and all the wickedness and folly that we find around us and within us. (Emphasis added)12

What then is Hick’s response? So far as I can determine, Hick takes the remaining difficulties to be principally three: (1) the sheer amount and intensity of evil in the world; (2) the fact that this evil falls randomly and haphazardly on both the just and unjust; and (3) the question of whether the postulated goods for the sake of which God permits such evils can be worth the price (Dostoevsky’s question). My interest here is Hick’s attempt to deal with the first two of these difficulties. That he takes these to constitute major difficulties for his theodicy is evident from the following: the problem does not consist in the occurrence of pain and suffering as such; for we can see that a world in which these exist in at least a moderate degree may well be a better environment for the development of moral personalities than would be a sphere that was sterilized of all challenges. The problem consists rather in the fact that instead of serving a constructive purpose pain and misery seem to be distributed in random and meaningless ways, with

282  Irenaean Theodicy the result that suffering is often undeserved and often falls upon men in amounts exceeding anything that could be rationally intended.13

What seems obvious to Hick and to us is (1) that the amount and intensity of evil in our world far exceeds what is needed for soul-making, and (2) that the evils in our world are distributed in a haphazard fashion, apparently unrelated to anyone’s stage of development in soul-making. In the light of this, how can anyone seriously propose the good of soul-making as the reason for God’s permission of all the pain and suffering in our world? Hick’s persistent answer is to employ what he calls the method of “counterfactual hypothesis” and to emphasize the importance of mystery in soul-making. Let us see how the argument goes with respect to the fact that the amount and intensity of evil in our world appears far to exceed what could be rationally intended for soul-making. In response, Hick asks us to consider a world in which no evil occurs in an amount beyond what is needed to play a role in significant soul-making. Moreoever, he asks us to suppose that we all know that this is so. He then argues that the result would be that we would make no significant efforts to overcome evil. But it is precisely such efforts (or the need for them) that lead to significant moral growth and development.14 A similar line of argument is developed for the haphazard distribution of evil among the just and unjust. In a world in which suffering by a person is permitted only if it is merited or needed for soul­making, then, if we further suppose that we all know this to be so, no one would make efforts to relieve the suffering of others.15 Paradoxically, then, soul-making would be considerably limited in a world in which we all knew or rationally believed that suffering is permitted only as it is required for soul-making. There is, I believe, real merit to this line of argument. To help us understand and assess Hick’s argument, I shall use the expression “an excess evil,” where “e is an excess evil” means that e is an evil that an omnipotent being could have prevented without loss of significant soul-making.16 The point of Hick’s argument seems to be this. Significant soul-making requires not only the existence of evils, but also that it be rational for us to believe that excess evils exist; it must be rational for us to believe that evils occur that omnipotence could have prevented without loss of significant soul-making.17 For, if we were to believe that each evil that occurs is one that even an omnipotent being could not prevent without loss of soul-

Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy 283

making, we would make no significant efforts to overcome such evils. And, as we have noted, it is precisely such efforts that are crucial to significant moral growth and development. Significant soul-making, then, has two requirements. First it has a factual requirement: there must be real evils to be overcome. Secondly, it has an epistemic requirement: it must be rational for us to believe that excess evils occur in our world. This second requirement has the air of paradox. It seems to say that evils not needed for soul-making are, after all, needed for soul-making. But it does not say this. What Hick’s paradox says (roughly) is that rationally believing that there are evils not needed for soul-making is, after all, needed for soul-making. And, although paradoxical, such a claim is not incoherent.18 How does Hick’s argument strengthen his theodicy? Well, having noted that soul-making requires real evils to be overcome, the problem was that it seems obvious to us that the amount and intensity of evil is far in excess of what an omnipotent being would have to permit for significant soulmaking to occur. Hick’s ingenious response is that, if it were not rational for us to believe that excess evil occurs, soul-making would be significantly diminished. Some might reject his claim. I am inclined to accept it. And what this implies is that the amount, intensity, and distribution of evil in our world must be such as to create and sustain our belief that evils occur in excess of what an omnipotent being would need to permit for our moral and spiritual growth. Suppose we grant the force of Hick’s argument. My objection to it is that it does not really solve the problem of the amount and intensity of evil in our world. For it not only seems obvious to us that evil occurs far in excess of what an omnipotent being would have to permit for soul-making; it also seems obvious to us that evil occurs far in excess of what an omnipotent being would have to permit for us to be rational in believing that excess evil occurs. Clearly, if there is an omnipotent being, such a being could have prevented a good deal of evil in our world without in the least altering the fact that the amount and intensity of evil makes it rational for us to believe that evils occur in excess of what an omnipotent being would need to permit for our moral and spiritual growth. Hick’s argument does show that our world must have enough evil to support the belief that there are excess evils. But, since it is clear that evil occurs far in excess of what is necessary to support such a belief, Hick’s argument does not solve the problem of the amount, intensity, and distribution of evil in our world.

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Hick’s argument has the defect of being an “all-or-nothing argument” or a “where will it all end argument.” Let me illustrate this defect by an example. When I first taught at Purdue many, many years ago, the teaching load was twelve hours a week (four courses a semester). I recall a discussion with a Purdue administrator in which I suggested that the quality and quantity of research might be improved by reducing the teaching load to nine hours a week. He looked at me with a shocked expression, and then proceeded to point out that, if we were to reduce the teaching load to nine, the same reasons would apply and we would then have to reduce the load to six hours a week. But, again, the same reasons would apply and we would eventually have to reduce the teaching load to no hours, with the result that the university would close. “And so, Professor Rowe,” he triumphantly concluded, “you see that the teaching load must be kept at twelve hours a week.” This argument is a “where will it all end” argument, or an “all-ornothing argument.” If it were a good argument, which it is not, it would have justified a teaching-load of fifteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-four, or even more hours a week. (I refrained from pointing out to the administrator this possible extension of the argument.) And I cannot help but believe that Hick’s argument suffers from the same defect. We look around our world and observe massive amounts of evil, enormously beyond what anyone would expect in a world governed by an omnipotent, perfectly good being bent on providing its creatures with an environment in which they could grow morally and spiritually. We say to Hick, “Surely this is not a world governed by an omnipotent, perfectly good being bent on providing its creatures with an environment in which they can grow, morally and spiritually.” In reply Hick says, “But don’t you see: if the apparently excess evil were cut in half, the same objection would still apply. So the only real alternative to the actual situation is one in which the amount of apparently excess evil is reduced to zero, one in which it is obvious to all of us that no evil or degree of evil is permitted unless its permission is absolutely essential to moral and spiritual growth. But, if that were the way of it, none of us would actively seek to prevent or overcome evil, with the result that significant moral and spiritual growth would be thwarted.”19 The mistake in this argument is the more-or-less implicit assumption that the same objection would be applicable until apparently excess evils were reduced to the level of zero. If Hick is right in holding that some mea-

Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy 285

sure of apparently excess evil is required for significant soul-making, then it must be acknowledged that a world fit for moral and spiritual growth would be one in which some evil appears to us as excessive and unrelated to soulmaking. There would be a threshold below which the deity could prevent such evils only at the cost of limiting moral and spiritual development. But isn’t it abundantly clear that we are far above that threshold? For Hick’s argument to work he needs to contend that, were the amount and degree of evil in our world that we take to be beyond what could be “rationally planned” any less than it in fact is, there would probably be some loss in soul­making. What he in fact shows is that, were the amount and degree of such evil reduced to zero, there would be some loss in soul-making. In like manner, the Purdue administrator does show that, were the teaching-level reduced to zero, some unfortunate consequence would ensue. What he needs to show is that, were the teaching-load reduced to something significantly below twelve but significantly above zero, that same, or some other, unfortunate consequence would ensue. Earlier I quoted Hick’s statement that what a theodicy aims to do is explain, on the assumption that there is an omnipotent, perfectly good being, how it is that the universe “is as it is, including all the pain and suffering and all the wickedness and folly that we find around us and within us.” I have argued that, if this is the aim of theodicy, we must judge Hick’s own theodicy as falling substantially short of its goal. In terms of the four problems of evil I noted earlier, I think we can say that Hick’s theodicy does seem to solve the first two problems: Hick provides a reasonable answer to the question of why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit any evil at all in the world, and he goes some way toward providing a reasonable answer to the question of why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit instances of the different kinds of evil to occur in the world. Moreover, I think his final argument enables us to see how an omnipotent, perfectly good being would be justified in permitting instances of pain and suffering that appear to us to be excessive and unrelated to the soul-making process. But, when we tum to our final two problems—the explanation of the amount and degree of intrinsic evil, and the explanation of particular evils—I believe Hick’s theodicy, like all other theodicies, fails to offer any believable solution. And, since it is particular evils, and the amount and degree of evils, that are generally regarded as providing the strongest basis for

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rational disbelief in an omnipotent, perfectly good being, I conclude that Hick’s theodicy, although perhaps the best we have, does not succeed in turning aside the strongest arguments for disbelief based on the facts of evil.

NOTES

1. See, for example, John Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed. (London: Macmillan, 1985); God and the Universe of Faiths (London: Macmillan, 1973); Philosophy of Religion, 3rd ed. (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1983), chap. 4; and Hick’s “An Irenaean Theodicy,” in Encountering Evil: Live Options in Theodicy, ed. Stephen T. Davis et al. (Atlanta: Westminster John Knox Press, 1981), 39–52. 2. This statement is quite close to Hick’s general formulation of the problem: “Can the presence of evil in the world be reconciled with the existence of a God who is unlimited both in goodness and in power?” (Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed., 3). 3. In my “Evil and Theodicy,” Philosophical Topics 16 (1988): 119–32, I have argued that this response is inadequate. 4. In my “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” American Philosophical Quarterly 16 (1979): 335–41, I labeled this response by the theist “the G. E. Moore Shift.” 5. I hold that freely performing act A is logically inconsistent with being causally determined to do A. Hick holds a different concept of freedom. But he emphasizes authentic freedom, which in fact has implications similar to the implications of my concept of freedom. 6. The second of these good states (and probably the first) obtains only if God exists. But, as I have suggested, in order to be successful a theodicy need not establish that the good in question obtains. 7. See G. E. Moore, Principia Ethica (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1903), 27–31. 8. Several criticisms have been advanced against Hick’s efforts to explain why God would permit (1)–(4) to obtain. Hick replies to some of these criticisms in chapter 17 of Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed. For responses to further criticisms and a strong defense of soul-making theodicy see William Hasker, “Suffering, Soul-Making and Salvation,” International Philosophical Quarterly 28 (1988): 3–19. 9. Hick, “An Irenaean Theodicy,” 42–43. 10. Ibid., 43. 11. Hick, Philosophy of Religion, 3rd ed., 45–46. 12. Hick, “An Irenaean Theodicy,” 39. It would be a mistake, I think, to understand Hick to be here charging theodicy with the task of explaining why God would

Paradox and Promise in Hick’s Theodicy 287 permit this or that particular evil—if to provide such an explanation is to show how God’s permission of that evil is necessary for some particular exercise of human freedom, or some particular bit of moral and/or spiritual development. It would also be a mistake to take the passage quoted as implying that Hick thinks that a theodicy must explain the precise amount and precise degree of intensity of evil in the world—if to provide such an explanation is to show why God’s permission of just that amount or that degree of intensity was necessary for optimizing moral and spiritual growth through free human choices and actions. Instead, I think Hick’s view is that a theodicy need only explain why our world contains a considerable amount of evil and why it sometimes appears to us that some evils could have been prevented by God without any loss of soul-making. In addition, I think he holds that it must not be unreasonable to believe that the goods proposed may well be the reason why an omnipotent, perfectly good being would permit the world to be as it is. (I take it, though, that Hick would hold that if God exists there is an explanation of why he permits particular evils, and why he permits the precise amount and intensity of evil in the world.) 13. Hick, Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed., 333. 14. Ibid., 334–35. 15. Hick also notes that, if punishment for evil doing were immediate and apparent to us, morality would be replaced by prudential self-interest. See Hick, God and the Universe of Faiths, 59; Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed., 333–36. 16. Perhaps there are two equally severe evils such that either could be prevented without loss of soul-making, but one must be permitted to prevent such a loss. I shall ignore such complications in order to keep the notion of an excess evil as simple as possible. A complete account of the notion would need to take account of such possibilities. 17. Actually, all the argument technically shows is that it must not be true that it is rational for us to believe that no excess evils exist. 18. An analogy to Hick’s paradox might be the following. Suppose a marathon runner is such that, if he believes that he will win, he won’t train and, therefore, won’t win. But, if he has grounds for believing that he will lose, he will train to the utmost so as to come as close to winning as he can. Of such a person it might be correct, although paradoxical, to say, “rationally believing that he won’t win is, after all, required if he is to win.” 19. For examples of “all-or-nothing arguments,” see Hick, “An Irenaean Theodicy,” 49–50; and Evil and the God of Love, 2nd ed., 327–28, 333–36.

C H A P T E R

1 7

Divine Persuasion Rather than Coercion D AV I D R AY G R I F F I N

This is a [treatment of ] the theoretical problem of evil as it appears in the Western philosophical and theological traditions. . . . [It is] written from the perspective of the “process” philosophical and theological thought inspired primarily by Alfred North Whitehead and Charles Hartshorne. . . . [C]ertain assumptions about the nature of God’s power that made the problem so intractable are not necessarily inherent in the idea of perfect power and do not necessarily belong to the essence of the Judeo-Christian idea of deity. . . . [T]he critical issue is the nature of power. Specifically, the question is: If an actual world necessarily has power, is it possible for God to have the type of power in relation to the world which was ascribed to God by the traditional doctrine of omnipotence? . . . A central, and perhaps the central, notion in the traditional idea of God in Western thought has been the notion that God controls, or at least could control, every detail of the events in the world. This has been taken as belonging to the defining essence of “God”—a being would not be God, it is From David Ray Griffin, God, Power, and Evil: A Process Theodicy (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976), 11–13, 16–25, 261–81. Used by permission of the author.

288

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said, if it did not have this power. . . . God is “omnipotent” in the sense that nothing happens which God does not either cause or at least permit. . . . The word “omnipotent” literally means “all-powerful,” but, as we will see, this “literal” meaning is filled with ambiguity. . . . The problem of evil is generally formalized as a syllogism. . . : A. If God is omnipotent, God could prevent all evil. B. If God is perfectly good, God would want to prevent all evil. C. There is evil. D. Therefore [an omnipotent, perfectly good] God does not exist. . . . [A]n expanded version of the statement is more helpful . . . : 1. God is a perfect reality. (Definition) 2. A perfect reality is an omnipotent being. (By definition) 3. An omnipotent being could unilaterally bring about an actual world without any genuine evil. (By definition) 4. A perfect reality is a morally perfect being. (By definition) 5. A morally perfect being would want to bring about an actual world without any genuine evil. (By definition) 6. If there is genuine evil in the world, then there is no God. (Logical conclusion from 1 through 5) 7. There is genuine evil in the world. (Factual statement) 8. Therefore, there is no God. (Logical conclusion from 6 and 7) I believe this argument is valid, which means that the final conclusion follows from the premises. . . . I need to define the notions of “genuine evil” and “only apparent evil,” as well as a third possible meaning for the term “evil” which this distinction presupposes, i.e., “prima facie evil.” By “genuine evil,” I mean anything, all things considered, without which the universe would have been better. Put otherwise, some event is genuinely evil if its occurrence prevents the occurrence of some other event which would have made the universe better, all things considered, i.e., from an all-inclusive, impartial perspective. “Prima facie evil” is anything that may be judged evil at first glance, superficially, i.e., when considered from a partial perspective, and/or within a limited context. Some prima facie evils may be considered, upon reflection, to be

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genuine evils. But other prima facie evils may be judged to be “only apparent evils.” . . . I have found the failure to reflect upon the metaphysical question of the nature of actuality qua actuality to be the single most serious failure in discussions of the problem of evil, and the failure which has been most central in the failure to arrive at a satisfactory resolution. . . . Theists, to be worthy of the name, are required to hold a position that could not possibly be rationally defended. . . .

WOR SHIPFU LNESS A ND THE OMNIPOTENCE FA LL ACY

[Let us] consider the arguments which, usually implicitly, lie behind the view that premises 2 and 3 must both be affirmed. The argument for the retention of premise 2 can be formulated as follows: A. A perfect reality must exemplify all admirable attributes in the greatest possible manner. B. For our thought, the “greatest possible” is to be defined in terms of the “greatest conceivable.” C. Power is an admirable attribute. D. A being that is omnipotent is conceivable. E. Therefore a being that is omnipotent is possible. (B, D) F. Therefore a perfect reality must be an omnipotent being. (A, C, E) . . . I take “perfect” to be synonymous with “greatest conceivable” and hence with “greatest possible.” Accordingly, [premise D] only asserts that it is possible for a being to have the greatest power that it is possible for a being to have. Hence it is tautologous. And in this case the conclusion states only that a perfect reality must have the greatest power that it is possible for a being to have. This leaves entirely open the question of the extent and nature of the power that it is possible for a being to have. . . . [T]he crucial question is that of the basis for affirming premise 3. There is an argument for it, usually implicit, yet sometimes expressed. But the argument is fallacious. . . . Most authors agree that omnipotence should not be defined as the power simply to do anything that happens to be verbalizable. . . .

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[Most] would agree with Thomas Aquinas that it is more accurate to say that the logically impossible cannot be done than to say that God cannot do it, as if this were some limitation on divine power. . . .1 [However, most] authors . . . assume the following definition: “The power unilaterally to effect any state of affairs, if that state of affairs is intrinsically possible.” . . . [However, it] does not necessarily follow . . . that, simply because a state of affairs (SA) is intrinsically possible, a being with perfect power could unilaterally bring about SA. . . . It is only if God is an omnipotent being, and as such could guarantee the absence of genuine evil in an actual world, that the presence of genuine evil is contradictory to the existence and/or the goodness of God. . . . [Here we have encountered] what I term the “omnipotence fallacy.” The nature of the fallacy can be made clear by formalizing the argument as follows: P. An omnipotent being can unilaterally bring about any state of affairs that it is logically possible for a being unilaterally to bring about. R. An actual world (i.e., one with a multiplicity of actual beings) devoid of genuine evil is a logically possible state of affairs. S. Therefore, an omnipotent being could unilaterally bring about an actual world devoid of genuine evil. The argument is not formally valid, since the oscillation between a logically possible action (P, S) and a logically possible state of affairs (R) makes this a form of the four-term fallacy. Another premise is needed to connect the two issues. Accordingly, the argument would need to be expanded by the insertion of premise Q: P. An omnipotent being can unilaterally bring about any state of affairs that it is logically possible for a being unilaterally to bring about. Q. If a state of affairs among a multiplicity of actual beings is logically possible, it is logically possible for one being unilaterally to bring about that state of affairs. R. An actual world (i.e., one with a multiplicity of actual beings) devoid of genuine evil is a logically possible state of affairs. S. Therefore an omnipotent being can unilaterally bring about an actual world devoid of evil. (P, Q, R)

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The addition of premise Q makes the argument formally valid. But is it sound? Specifically, is Q acceptable? It has been accepted by all traditional theists. . . . Of course, this acceptance has been for the most part implicit, as Q has rarely if ever been explicitly formulated, since the clear distinction between logically possible things or states of affairs and logically possible actions is rarely made. But, once the distinction is clearly made so that the issue is brought into focus, what justification is there for accepting Q? That is, on what basis can one move from the assertion that a state of affairs among a multiplicity of actual beings is intrinsically possible to the assertion that some one being could unilaterally effect this state of affairs? . . . . The key premise needed to support Q would be the following: X. It is possible for one actual being’s condition to be completely determined by a being or beings other than itself. If X is accepted, nothing stands in the way of the acceptance of Q. And if Q is accepted, then S follows (assuming R), and we are returned to the center of the problem of evil. But should X be accepted? Premise X, which speaks of actual beings, begins: “It is possible . . .” But what kind of possibility is at issue? This is not an issue that can be settled by logic alone. Rather, this is a metaphysical issue. In fact, this is what many would consider the metaphysical issue par excellence, the difference between actuality and the other types of “being,” such as possibility. (Even if one proclaims their nondifference, this is a metaphysical claim.) And yet much and perhaps a majority of the recent discussion of the problem of evil has been carried on as if the issues could be adjudicated apart from any metaphysical commitments. It is the implicit acceptance of this metaphysical premise without any explicit recognition and hence justification of this metaphysical claim that lies behind the omnipotence fallacy. The problem is the assumption that the meaning of perfect power or omnipotence can be settled apart from a metaphysical discussion of the nature of the “beings” upon whom this perfect power is to be exercised. This leads writers into arguments that are formally invalid because devoid of necessary premises. Haig Khatchadourian has spoken of the “crying need for an adequate delimitation of the concept of perfection, of perfect goodness, perfect

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power, and so on,” and has rightly said that “without this, little headway can be made.”2 What is striking in the recent discussion of the problem of evil is the small amount of attention devoted to the delimitation of the concept of perfect power, compared with the amount devoted to that of perfect goodness. Delimitation of the concept of perfect power requires a discussion of the nature of “world.” For the power involved in the problem of evil is a relational concept. It is God’s power in relation to something distinct from God, i.e., the world (insofar as monism, acosmism, or absolute idealism is not accepted). Put otherwise, to exert power is always to exert power over something (even if that something is oneself ). Hence, before drawing implications as to what a being with perfect power could do, the nature of the things upon which power is to be exerted must be considered. . . . I will now focus directly upon this metaphysical issue, indicating thereby my reason for rejecting premise X, which is that it is possible for one actual being’s condition to be completely determined by a being or beings other than itself. . . . I will begin negatively. For premise X to be accepted, actual (in distinction from imaginary or ideal) entities would have to be totally determinable, in all respects, by some being or beings other than themselves. In other words, they would be totally devoid of all power—power to determine themselves, even partially, and power to determine others, even partially. . . . [I]t has been increasingly accepted, since Berkeley, that the meaningful use of terms requires an experiential grounding for those terms. . . . [T]he issue at hand is whether we experience anything we might term an actual thing as being devoid of power. I say that we do not. . . . [Next] I will try to make the central point . . . clearer by discussing what the term “perfect power” or “omnipotence” can mean if it is a metaphysical truth that actual entities as such have some power, and that any actual world would have to contain actual entities. First, I take it for granted that most will agree that only individual actual beings can have or exert power. Power is not exerted by mere possibilities . . . nor by mere aggregates of individuals. Accordingly, if we are speaking of a reality with perfect power, we are necessarily speaking of an individual actual being. “Perfect power,” then, must be defined as the greatest power it is conceivable (possible) for a being to have. . . . The dispute arises only when one begins to indicate answers to the questions as to how much power and/or what kind of power it is conceivable for a being to have.

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The traditional theodicy has said in effect—although often denying it verbally—that one being could simply have all the power. That is implied if one accepts premise Q, and hence X behind it, since if one holds that B’s condition can be totally determined by A, this implies that B really has no power in relation to A. And if B represents the totality of the world, and A represents God, this means that God has all the power, while the world has none. However, if there is an actual world, and an actual world by metaphysical necessity contains a multiplicity of beings with power, then it is impossible for any one being to have a monopoly on power. Hence, the greatest conceivable power a being can have cannot be equated with all the power. . . . Such a view greatly alters the problem of evil. Even a being with perfect power cannot unilaterally bring about that which it is impossible for one being unilaterally to effect. And it is impossible for one being unilaterally to effect the best possible state of affairs among other beings. In other words, one being cannot guarantee that the other beings will avoid all genuine evil. The possibility of genuine evil is necessary. . . . [This is not to be confused with the claim] that genuine evil is necessary (which I see no reason for saying). . . . [It is equivalent to saying that] “it is logically necessary that the possibility for evil will exist in any world.” This position follows from the meaning of “world” as containing self-determining beings, since it is not logically possible for one being completely to determine the activity of another entity that by definition has activity that is underived from any other being. . . . Hence, the actual presence of genuine evil in the world is no disproof of the existence of an omnipotent being who wants to prevent all genuine evil. This view can be called “C omnipotence.” The C stands for both “coherent” and “creationistic.” It is the only view that is coherent if one is talking about the power a being with the greatest conceivable amount of power could have over a created, i.e., an actual, world. If the world is an actual creation, and not simply a complex idea in the divine mind, or simply aspects or “modes” of God, then all-powerful cannot mean having all the power. And if there are many centers of power, then no state of affairs in which these entities are involved can be completely determined by any one of them. The logic of C omnipotence would then involve the denial of the

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principle that God can unilaterally effect any state of affairs that is in itself intrinsically possible. Although an actual world without genuine evil is possible, it is impossible for an omnipotent being to guarantee such a world. That God really have all the power is the requirement set by writers such as Flew, Hick, Campbell, Pucetti, and Findlay for “true theism,” “Christian monotheism,” or “an adequate religious object.” They require that there be no genuine powers besides God, no powers that could have the slightest degree of independent activity in terms of which they could be hostile to deity, limit its influence, and thwart its will. With this requirement, monotheism becomes monism, or acosmism—one is saying in effect (if to be actual is to have power) that creatures can only worship God if they, the creatures, do not actually exist. “I omnipotence” can be used to refer to the traditional doctrine that an omnipotent being can unilaterally effect any state of affairs, if that state of affairs is intrinsically possible. The “I” can stand for either “incoherent” or “idealistic,” since such a definition is incoherent if it refers to an omnipotent being’s dealings with an actual world. It is only intelligible if worldly entities are defined as being completely determinable by another being. . . . The fact that one cannot discuss what an omnipotent being can do apart from a consideration of the nature of those unto whom it is done has not been totally overlooked in recent discussions. . . . S. A. Grave has [stated]: There is, by definition, the definition a consistent theism has to give, no logical impossibility in a man’s freely choosing the good on every occasion. There is, by definition, a logical impossibility in God’s making him freely choose the good on any occasion.3

Alvin Plantinga [and others agree here]. . . . This issue is of utmost importance for the problem of theodicy. One has not really “justified the ways of God” if the justification involves the loss of God’s perfection and hence deity. Since the basic meaning of “God” is rooted in the context of worship, and since we can only worship perfection, the resolution of the problem of evil is not really a theodicy if it suggests that God exemplifies admirable attributes in a less perfect manner than some other possible (conceivable) being. . . .

296  Process Theodicy

But the doctrine being advocated here is intended as an affirmation of the first premise. God is a perfect reality, that greater than which nothing can be consistently thought. This is so, in spite of the fact that God cannot unilaterally prevent all evil in the world, because it is impossible in principle for one being completely to determine the dispositions of other actual beings. Since this cannot be done, it is no limitation on divine perfection that God cannot do it. Accordingly, there is nothing in this theodicy which undercuts God’s perfection and hence worshipfulness. Of course, many may, because of cultural-psychological conditioning, find it difficult to worship God as here conceived. But, unless premise X and hence premise Q . . . are accepted, the fact that God as here understood does not in fact inspire worship in someone does not indicate that this God is not worthy of worship. It only indicates that there is a gap in the person between notions (coherent or not) which in fact elicit religious emotions, due to past conditioning, and present notions of perfection, to which religious emotions in principle should be attached. According to Whitehead, a major element in the history of religion is the long time it takes for novel general ideas to be appropriated with emotional intensity and hence found interesting. This is due to “dominant interests which inhibit reaction to that type of generality.”4 This, of course, is a serious problem. But it is not a problem for philosophical theology as such to solve. . . .

U NI V ER SA L CR E ATI V IT Y A ND DI V INE PER SUASION

[Now the] central task . . . is to show that God as conceived by process thought in particular exemplifies perfect moral goodness by the criteria of moral goodness which we actually employ. The strategy of the traditional theodicies was to say that God is responsible for evil but not indictable for it. They did this by maintaining that all evil is merely apparent, so that there is no genuine evil. Process theology also says that God is in an important sense responsible for much of the world’s evil but not indictable for it. But it does this without denying the reality of genuine evil. The general thesis of the process theodicy which follows is that the possibility of genuine evil is rooted in the metaphysical (i.e., necessary) characteristics of the world. In Whitehead’s words: “The categories governing the determination of things are the reasons why there should be evil.”5 . . .

Divine Persuasion Rather than Coercion 297

The first element in the process solution [is that] God’s power is persuasive, not controlling. Some traditional theodicies have indeed said that persuasion is the divine modus operandi (at least in relation to some of the creatures). But they have regarded the reason for this to be moral rather than metaphysical. . . . This modus operandi is thus said to result from a divine self-limitation. According to process thought, the reason is metaphysical, not moral. God does not refrain from controlling the creatures simply because it is better for God to use persuasion, but because it is necessarily the case that God cannot completely control the creatures. The metaphysical category behind this necessity is the category of the ultimate, which involves “creativity,” “many,” and “one.” “Creativity” (by which the many become one and are increased by one) is a universal feature of actuality. It is inherent in actuality.6 This does not mean that creatures derive their creative power from themselves, or that they are not dependent upon God for their existence. But it does mean that to be an actuality is to exercise creativity and that there is necessarily a realm of finite actualities with creativity of their own. To say that an actuality has creativity is to say that it has power. The nature of this creative power is twofold—the power of self-creation and of other-creation. In the language of causation, it is the capacity to exercise final causation and efficient causation. To explain how these two dimensions of creativity are related and to prepare the way for other points, it is necessary briefly to explain Whitehead’s unique understanding of what an “actual entity” is. An actual entity is an “occasion of experience.” In the first place, this means that, as for Berkeley and Leibniz, all actual entities experience; there is no dualism between experiencing and nonexperiencing actual entities. However, only genuine individuals are considered actual entities. As Leibniz held (unlike Berkeley), things such as sticks and stones, which rather obviously do not experience, are regarded as aggregates of actual entities. In the second place, the idea that an actual entity is an occasion of experience means that the full-fledged individuals of the world are momentary events. Unlike Leibnizian “monads,” which endure indefinitely through time, a Whiteheadian actual entity happens and then “perishes” in a sense, making room for succeeding events. Partly to indicate this event-character of actual entities, Whitehead calls them “actual occasions.”

298  Process Theodicy

Each actual occasion exists in two modes, first one and then the other. An occasion comes into being as an experiencing subject. The data of its experience are provided by previous actual occasions. Its reception of these data is called its “feelings” or “positive prehensions” of those previous occasions. . . . It becomes a unified subject by integrating these feelings. This process of integration into a concrete unity is called “concrescence.”7 When the process of concrescence is complete, so that the actual occasion has achieved a unified experience of all its data and its subjective reactions to them (each feeling has its “objective datum” and its “subjective form” of response to this datum), the occasion becomes an object of experience, i.e., an object for other subjects. Its subjectivity perishes, and it thereby acquires objectivity. It transmits some of its feelings to subsequent actual occasions. This process, in which data are passed from one occasion to another, is termed “transition.”8 These two processes, concrescence and transition, embody the two forms of creativity, the two types of power, inherent in each actual occasion. The process of concrescence embodies the occasion’s power of selfdetermination, its power of final causation. Although the present occasion is largely determined by the power of the past upon it, it is never thus completely determined: “However far the sphere of efficient causation be pushed in the determination of components of a concrescence . . . there always remains the final reaction of the self-creative unity of the universe.”9 . . . The main point to be stressed here is that the fact that our world is composed of actualities with this twofold type of power is not a contingent feature of our particular world. It exemplifies a metaphysical principle about reality: any world would necessarily contain actualities with this twofold creativity. . . . [For Whitehead,] creativity [is] the “ultimate metaphysical principle” which lies in “the nature of things.” . . . Whitehead makes the connection with the problem of evil, saying that if God is wrongly conceived, there can be no alternative except to discern in Him the origin of all evil as well as of all good. He is then the supreme author of the play, and to Him must therefore be ascribed its shortcomings as well as its success.10

Accordingly, it is impossible for God to have a monopoly on power. There must be an actual world; and every actual world will necessarily con-

Divine Persuasion Rather than Coercion 299

tain actualities with power—some power of self-determination, and some power to influence others. This twofold inherent power provides the twofold reason why God cannot unilaterally effect any state of affairs in the world that is intrinsically possible. . . . The world must transcend God in the sense of having its own creativity by which it can refuse to conform to the divine input, since this input is good and yet there is evil in the world.11 Evil arises from this capacity not to conform to the divine purpose: “So far as the conformity is incomplete, there is evil in the world.”12 In Whitehead’s opinion, “one of the greatest intellectual discoveries in the history of religion” was Plato’s suggestion “that the divine element in the world is to be conceived as a persuasive agency and not as a coercive agency.”13 Whitehead provides a conceptuality for understanding God’s modus operandi as persuasive. All pure possibilities, termed by Whitehead “eternal objects,” are contained in the “primordial nature” of God. This primordial nature is an envisagement of these ideals or eternal objects, with the urge toward their actualization in the world.14 Each actual occasion begins by prehending God and therefore this divine urge for the realization of possibilities. Each occasion thereby receives from God an “ideal aim” or “initial aim.” This is an initial persuasion toward that possibility for the occasion’s existence which would be best for it, given its context.15 This aim is sometimes termed the “initial subjective aim,” but it is not to be identified with the occasion’s “subjective aim” itself. The “subjective aim” is the aim which the subject actually chooses, and hence that possibility which it in fact actualizes. It may be identical in content with the initial subjective aim, but it need not be. The initial aim is given by God; the subjective aim is chosen by the subject. The fact that the power of this divinely given initial aim is not coercive, so that divine determinism is avoided, is made clear in many passages[, for example]: “An originality in the temporal world is conditioned, though not determined, by an initial subjective aim supplied by the ground of all order and of all originality.”16 . . . Whitehead does not reject divine providence altogether in order to solve the problem of evil. . . . [H]e does consistently reject the traditional notion of “unqualified omnipotence,” which is “accompanied by responsibility for every detail of every happening.”17 And he grounds this rejection upon the metaphysical position that creative power is inherent throughout the realm of actuality. Hence, the fact that God’s modus operandi is persuasive rather

300  Process Theodicy

than coercive is not due to a decision on God’s part which could be revoked from time to time. . . . [P]rocess theodicy need not necessarily reject the application of the term “omnipotent” to God. This term can be taken simply as a synonym for “having perfect power,” and this can be defined in terms of “C omnipotence” as opposed to “I omnipotence.” . . . Hence, premise 2 of the problem of evil is allowed to stand, while premise 3 is rejected.

NOTES

1. M. B. Ahern, The Problem of Evil (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1971), 15. 2. Haig Katchadourian, “God, Happiness and Evil,” Religious Studies 2 (1966): 111n. 3. S. A. Grave, “On Evil and Omnipotence,” Mind 65 (1956): 260. 4. Alfred North Whitehead, Adventures of Ideas (New York: Macmillan, 1933), 220. 5. Alfred North Whitehead, Process and Reality (New York: Macmillan, 1929), 341. 6. Whitehead, Adventures, 230. 7. Ibid., 303. 8. Whitehead, Process, 320, 322f., 236. 9. Ibid., 75. 10. Whitehead, Science and the Modern World (New York: Macmillan, 1926), 258. 11. Whitehead, Religion in the Making (New York: The World Publishing Company, 1960), 85. 12. Ibid., 60. 13. Whitehead, Adventures, 213. 14. Whitehead, Process, 47; Adventures, 357. 15. Whitehead, Religion, 152; Process, 128. 16. Whitehead, Process, 164. 17. Whitehead, Adventures, 217.

C H A P T E R

1 8

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought B RU C E R . R E I C H E N B A C H

Strategically placed at the core of the problem of evil—of how suffering, dysfunction, the unnecessary triviality of unrewarding experiences, and discord1 can exist in the presence of a God who has perfect power, knowledge, and goodness—lies an understanding of what God is able to do and in fact does. Because God has the power both to effect and to affect events in the world, both directly and indirectly, one must wonder why there is evil at all, or at least so much evil. Attempts have been made by process philosophers to reconceive the traditional understanding of divine power and thereby avoid, if not resolve, the incompatibility or tension that exists between God’s existence, God’s possession of perfection properties, and the presence of evil in the world. As David Griffin puts it, “A central, and perhaps the central, notion in the traditional idea of God in Western thought has been the notion that God controls, or at least could control, every detail of the events in the world. This Original essay used by permission of the author.

301

302  Process Theodicy

has been taken as belonging to the defining essence of ‘God’. . . . God is ‘omnipotent’ in the sense that nothing happens which God does not either cause or at least permit. ‘Permission’ is used here in the sense of allowing something to happen when one has the power to prevent it” (GPE, 16–17). This is the classic or traditional idea of omnipotence. Griffin holds that adopting this traditional view problematically precludes any successful resolution of the problem of evil, for it leads to the inference that God unilaterally could remove all evil if God desired to do so, and, presumably, as perfectly good, God would want to remove all evil. To resolve the problem of evil, process philosophers use the general strategy of clarifying the type of power possessed by God and other actual entities, which in process thought are delineated by having their own unity of experience. “The crucial issue is taken to be the nature of power. Specifically, the question is: if an actual world necessarily has power, is it possible for God to have the type of power in relation to the world which was ascribed to God by the traditional doctrine of omnipotence?” (GPE, 12–13). Process philosophers roundly reject the idea of omnipotence classically understood as God being able to unilaterally cause or permit every event. Rather, since God is an actual entity like other world constituents, God is part of the nexus of the world and cannot override the freedom of selfdetermining entities. Self-determination is an intrinsic feature of the actual world and not a gift derived from a divine creative act; an actual occasion or entity that loses its self-determination is no longer an actual occasion or entity. God’s power is maximized in terms of God’s ability to causally affect other actual entities by presenting ideal possibilities (final causation) and by persuasion (efficient causation) while accommodating their noneliminable freedom. The problem of evil can only be addressed by recognizing God’s “limits”: in terms of efficient causation, God can only persuade; he cannot unilaterally resolve issues by coercive power. This “cannot” may look like a limit, but in actuality it is not, for God still can do what is possible for God to do. And if God necessarily cannot unilaterally resolve situations involving evil, God cannot be held morally accountable for this impossibility. With the removal of belief in God’s unilateral coercive power, held by both traditional theodicists and their critics, the problem of evil disappears. This may look like the classical theist’s free will theodicy, where God is responsible for, but not morally responsible for, evil because he grants humans free will. But this apparent similarity is a grave misconception,

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 303

for the free will theodicy assumes that freedom is largely a human feature God granted in creation that can in principle be overridden or removed by its donor. For process thinkers, God did not give individuals or actual entities freedom, and God cannot override their intrinsic freedom. Selfdetermining power is an intrinsic property of actual entities. Hence, process thinkers cannot (and do not want to) use the classical version of the free will theodicy.2 Process thinkers want their readers to see that the traditional solutions to the problem of evil have not worked and will not work because they cannot work. Traditional theodicies cannot provide an adequate solution because advocates of these solutions have seriously misunderstood God’s power and the nature of the world. It is this formidable challenge to the classical solutions to the problem of evil and their critiques that we will undertake to carefully consider.

THE PA R A DOX OF OMNIPOTENCE

Some philosophers have sought to establish the unintelligibility of the concept of divine omnipotence by appealing to the paradox of omnipotence.3 Suppose that we define “omnipotence” as (D) A being x is omnipotent if and only if (1) it is capable of bringing about any contingent state of affairs (a) whose description does not contain or entail a contradiction, and (b) whose description does not exclude or entail the exclusion of x or any omnipotent agent from among those that may have brought about that state of affairs, and (2) no being y greater in power than x can be conceived. Does (D) fall prey to the paradox of omnipotence? We might formulate the paradox as follows, where x is any being: (3) Either x can bring about the existence of an object that x cannot lift, or x cannot bring about the existence of an object that x cannot lift. (4) If x can bring about the existence of an object that x cannot lift, then, necessarily, there is at least one state of affairs that x cannot actualize (namely, the lifting of the object in question).

304  Process Theodicy

(5) If x cannot bring about the existence of an object that x cannot lift, then, necessarily, there is at least one state of affairs that x cannot actualize (namely, the bringing about of the existence of an object that x cannot lift). (6) Hence, there is at least one state of affairs that x cannot bring about. (7) If x is an omnipotent being, then x can bring about any state of affairs that meets conditions (1) and (2) in (D). (8) Therefore, x is not an omnipotent being.4 In the argument above, (3) is true by virtue of the principle of excluded middle, while (6) follows from (4) and (5). (7) follows from our definition of omnipotence, while (8) follows validly from (6) and (7). Since for the paradox to succeed it must be shown that the states of affairs described in (4–6) meet conditions (1) and (2) of definition (D), let us focus our attention on premises (4) and (5). Since (5) parallels (4), what we have to say about (4) likewise will apply to (5). To see whether (4) meets condition (1) of (D), let me first suggest three possible descriptions of the state of affairs indicated in the antecedent of (4) insofar as they relate to (6). (9) An omnipotent being creates an object its maker cannot lift. (10) God creates an object that God cannot lift. (11) An object is created that its maker cannot lift. Considering (9) first, that (9) fails to meet condition (D1) can be seen as follows. The maker of the object referred to in the predicate is the omnipotent being mentioned in the subject of the sentence; further, as omnipotent, this being can lift anything. Hence we can reformulate (9) as (9*) An omnipotent being creates an object that a being that can lift anything cannot lift. But (9*), containing a contradiction, describes a logically impossible state of affairs and hence, in failing to meet (1a) in (D), lacks any relevance to the question whether a being is omnipotent. The same analysis results from the consideration of (10), provided God is considered necessarily omnipotent, for we can substitute for (10)

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 305

(10*) A necessarily omnipotent God creates an object that God, who can lift anything, cannot lift. As with (9*), (10*) likewise contains a contradiction and hence fails to meet condition (la) of (D). Thus (10*) is irrelevant to the issue of omni­ potence.5 Interpretation (11) depends on the referent of “its maker.” If “its maker” refers to an omnipotent being, the above problem resurfaces. It speaks of an object that a being that can lift anything cannot lift. If “its maker” refers to a finite being, then an omnipotent being can indeed bring about a state of affairs that would make (11) true, namely, bring about an x that cannot bring about a particular state of affairs. For example, an omnipotent being might create a beaver and cause it to construct a twenty-five-foot dam of sticks and mud across a stream, a dam that, once constructed, the beaver as the maker would be unable to lift. But the maker (the beaver making the dam) is finite, and hence so understood (11) is irrelevant to omnipotent beings. We can conclude that in invoking such an antecedent, (4) is irrelevant to the omnipotence of any being. A similar case can be made for (5). If interpreted along the lines of a negation of (9) or of (10), (5) fails to meet condition (1a) of (D) and hence is irrelevant to the issue of omnipotence. If interpreted like the negation of (11) along the lines of an infinite referent, a contradiction results. If interpreted along the lines of a finite referent for x, (5) is plainly false: an object can be created that its (finite) maker cannnot lift, as shown above. Thus, again, the antecedent is irrelevant to the question of omnipotence. Hence, proposition (6) does not follow from (4) and (5), and the paradox of omnipo­ tence fails. The above discussion suggests that there are certain limits to God’s power, namely, the limits of the rational. Although from the perspective of some thinkers, even the imposition of this condition restricts God’s freedom, a correct counterargument is that to do the logically impossible is to do nothing.6 Consequently, this stipulation of the limit of the rational does not really impose a limit on God’s power. But are there other limits to God’s power? One such candidate has been proposed by process thought, namely, that limits are imposed by the world itself as composed of necessarily self-determining actual entities.

306  Process Theodicy THE OMNIPOTENCE FA LL ACY

The process philosopher David Griffin has serious objections to (D) and thereby (7). For him, the advocacy of this notion of omnipotence leads to the unresolvability of the problem of evil, for if God can unilaterally bring about any state of affairs, God can unilaterally remove genuine evil, something that God has not done.7 Griffin terms what lies behind (7) the “omnipotence fallacy” (GPE, 263): P: An omnipotent being can unilaterally bring about any state of affairs that it is logically possible for a being unilaterally to bring about. R: An actual world (i.e., one with a multiplicity of actual beings) devoid of genuine evil is a logically possible state of affairs. S: Therefore, an omnipotent being could unilaterally bring about an actual world devoid of genuine evil. Unfortunately, he continues, the argument itself is not formally valid, since it contains an “oscillation between a logically possible action (P, S) and a logically possible state of affairs (R)” (GPE, 264), therefore committing the fallacy of four-terms. Thus, Griffin notes, to make the argument valid, another premise—affirming that all states of affairs that are logically possible are states of affairs that it is logically possible for one being unilaterally to bring about—is necessary. This premise Griffin labels Q: It is logically possible for one being unilaterally to bring about a state of affairs among a multiplicity of actual beings.8 Suppose we grant that PQRS is formally valid. Is there any reason why the traditional theist who believes that God is omnipotent must accept the argument? Griffin claims that all traditional theists are committed to Q, although in a parenthesis he qualifies this statement when he admits that some theists limit the scope of Q. But if Q’s scope is limited, then theists are not committed to this argument. One can see that theists are not committed to the argument by considering P. P simply is false; there are logically possible states of affairs that an omnipotent being cannot bring about, because for an omnipotent being to bring them about involves a contradiction. Consider, for example, the proposition

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 307

(12) George freely performs the action of yelling at his dog. George’s freely yelling at his dog is a logically possible state of affairs that a being unilaterally could bring about; George himself can actualize it. At the same time, it is a state of affairs that an omnipotent being (given that George is not omnipotent) cannot unilaterally bring about, for to do so would be unilaterally to bring about the state of affairs of George’s being caused by another being freely to yell at his dog. Since freely bringing about a state of affairs entails that one was not caused by another to bring it about, (12) entails (13) No other being causes George to freely perform the action of yelling at his dog. Thus, it is the case that the state of affairs described in (12) fails to meet condition (1b) of our definition (D) of omnipotence, for (13) explicitly excludes any being other than non-omnipotent George, including an omnipotent being, from bringing about the state of affairs in question. Consequently, though (12) describes a logically possible state of affairs, it is not the case that an omnipotent being would be able or expected to bring about that state of affairs. Accordingly, proposition P is false, and no libertarian theist can be expected to assent to the argument PQRS. Griffin, however, rejects the argument PQRS for a different (though related) reason. It is instructive to see the argument he presents, for it will provide us with insight into how process philosophy looks at the critical question of the nature of God’s power vis-à-vis the doctrine of omnipotence. Griffin rejects argument PQRS—and along with it traditional theism—because in invoking Q, both the argument and traditional theism (presumably) presuppose the key premise X: It is possible for one actual being’s condition to be completely determined by a being or beings other than itself (GPE, 264). And X, he holds, is meaningless because determinism by any being is incompatible with the self-determination of actual beings or entities. However, traditional Christians who hold a libertarian view on human freedom likewise reject X in the case of actions of free beings or the condition of being free, for this would remove the freedom that characterizes humans.

308  Process Theodicy

Where traditional Christians and process thinkers differ concerns the scope of X: is “actual being” a technical term or a general term referring to anything that exists?9 Answering this question will help us to understand the process view of divine power.

LIMITATION BY NECESSA R ILY SELF-DETER MINING BEINGS

Process theology holds that the world is composed of actual entities or actual occasions,10 each of which is essentially and necessarily self-determining. God does not and cannot control actual entities, not because of any act of divine self-limitation, but because of metaphysical necessity—because of what it is to be an actuality. “It is necessarily the case that God cannot completely control the creatures. . . . To be an actuality is to exercise creativity” (GPE, 276), to have power, to be a self-determining being.11 Thus any world that God could have created (or, better, brought out of chaos, since there have always been finite actual occasions)12 would necessarily contain actual entities or occasions that were self-determining (possessing power). These self-determining actual entities include the entire continuum from inanimate electrons, atoms, molecules, and animate cells to animal and human psyches (minds, souls) (ER, 216). In effect, the beings referred to in Q and X are these self-determining actual entities or occasions. Griffin’s argument fundamentally proceeds as follows. (14) Necessarily, no actual entity is devoid of power. (15) Necessarily, if an actual entity can be completely determined by another, it must be devoid of power (GPE, 266). (16) Therefore, necessarily no actual entity can be completely determined by another. That is, X is false.13 The critical premise in Griffin’s argument is (14). In its defense, Griffin argues as follows: (17) The (only) actual entity I directly experience is my mind or soul. (18) My mind or soul has some power to determine itself.

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 309

(19) All actual entities are analogously the same. (20) Therefore, what I mean by actual entity is a being with some power to determine itself. (21) Therefore, all actual entities necessarily have some power to determine themselves. He contends that this is not an inductive argument, but an argument relying on an “empirical criterion of meaning” according to which “the meaningful use of terms requires an experiential grounding for those terms” (ER, 141). The term here is “actual entity,” and my experience of myself as having power provides the experiential grounding. We have “an experiential basis for speaking meaningfully of an actual entity which I can then transfer by analogy to other things” (GPE, 267). Several criticisms of this argument might be raised. First, regarding (19), why must all actual entities be analogous? Griffin rejects any inductive defense of the claim; instead it seems to be a reasonable a priori presumption of our language usage. Second, supposing that all actual entities are analogous, why should one think that they are analogous in one respect or property possession rather than another? Griffin holds that they are analogous with respect to self-determination; but why not also think that actual entities, as individuals, are analogous with respect to being animate or rational (which properties we experience of our minds but would not apply to electrons)? That is, why universalize one property rather than another? Third, even if the property is possessed universally, why should one think that this property is part of the meaning of the term? Griffin does not think that animation or sentience is part of the meaning of “individuality” (ER, 217). Finally, the very experiential criterion of meaning is problematic. We might not experience properties found in the meaning of a term; yet we can understand and use a term meaningfully. For example, it is part of the meaning of “electron” that it is a negatively charged particle; and though being a particle with a negative charge is not something I can experience, I can know what an electron is and use the term meaningfully. In short, even if (19) is true, (20) is suspect in that we have moved from an empirical feature of my singular experience in (17), through the a priori universality of (19), to the necessity, embodied in the meaning of the term “actual entity,” found in (20). But universality by itself cannot

310  Process Theodicy

establish the necessity of a property unless the a priori metaphysical is introduced. And this runs the risk, not of providing support for (14), but of begging the question. What does the falsity of X tell us about God’s power? Griffin argues for what he calls C omnipotence, that is, “coherent, creationistic omnipotence.” Power is a relational concept, such that any “delimitation of perfect power requires a discussion of the nature of ‘world.’ . . . Hence, before drawing implications as to what a being with perfect power could do, the nature of the things upon which power is to be exerted must be considered” (GPE, 265). Since the actual world—indeed, any actual world—is necessarily composed of self-determining actual entities or occasions that possess and actualize power outside the control of other beings, a being that is perfect in power cannot possess “a monopolistic concentration of power.” Actual entities have “both the power of self-determination and the power to exert causal influence upon others” (ER, 57), but not the power to determine other actual entities unilaterally. Thus, God does not have all the power there is, but God does possess all the power a being can conceivably possess consistent with there being other actualities necessarily having power.14 Consequently, this power does not allow God to deterministically and unilaterally bring about any state of affairs in the world, including the absence of evil.

GOD’S PER SUASI V E POW ER

What kind of power does God possess? God’s power is not the power of coercion, “measured by the incapacity to resist on the part of that on which it is wielded.”15 However, God uses his power in a persuasive manner. Whereas coercive power or compulsion is employed upon the less powerful or powerless, persuasion is employed upon those with sufficient power to resist. We have seen that all actual occasions are essentially powerful. For God to coerce actual occasions to perform in a certain manner would be to remove them from being actual occasions, which is metaphysically impossible. Therefore, God’s power—and corresponding action—cannot be understood in terms of compulsive, coercive, deterministic efficient causation. This means that to speak about God unilaterally bringing about states of affairs, as does (D) above, is fundamentally mistaken. Rather, God has the

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 311

power of influence or persuasion: God “exercises the optimum persuasive power in relation to whatever is.”16 What, precisely, is persuasive power? Some process thinkers have held that God’s power must be thought of in terms of final causation, wherein God introduces ideal initial aims and richer possibilities of order and complexity for actual occasions to realize. The process God calls forth novelty and, through conceptual innovation, free thought and free imagination; and ultimately he provides for the freedom of moral responsibility. God’s power is seen in God’s calling actual entities to the full realization of their potentialities. “By the way God constitutes himself he calls us to be what we can be and are not. He constitutes himself so as to provide each occasion with an ideal for its self-actualization, and it is in relation to that ideal that each human energy event forms itself.”17 Thus, God lures each and every actual entity to self-realization according to its nature. Griffin demurs from this identification of God’s persuasive power with final causation. He distinguishes between final causation, which is the causation of self-determination exerted intrinsically within a single actual entity, and efficient causation, which is the causal influence that one actual entity has (extrinsically) on another.18 The final cause for actual entities, on the one hand, is the initial aim supplied by God as an ideal possibility; on the other hand, it is the internal, subjective aim of the actual entity.19 God elicits novelty, increasing the enjoyment experienced by actual entities in realizing their possibilities, but whether the actual occasion adopts the initial aim is a matter of self-determination. It is the efficient cause, the causal influence exerted between actual entities, that concerns the doctrine of omnipotence.20 Griffin distinguishes two kinds of efficient causation: persuasive and coercive. These, he notes, can be understood both metaphysically and psychologically. In a metaphysical understanding, the actual entity or effect involved in persuasive efficient causation is not completely determined by the efficient causation brought to bear upon it; it partly determines itself in various degrees, which depend, for example, on whether it is inanimate or animate. In coercive efficient causation, the cause completely determines the effect. These two kinds of efficient causation are mutually exclusive: the effect is either completely determined (coercive causation) or not completely determined (persuasion). Understood psychologically, coercive and persuasive causation are

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not mutually exclusive but exist on a continuum; they seem synonymous, respectively, with extrinsic (coercively deterministic) and intrinsic (selfdeterminative) influences. Applying these distinctions to the power God can exercise, Griffin holds that God cannot exert psychologically-understood coercive efficient causation since, as externally determinate, this depends upon metaphysical coercion, of which God is also incapable. God also would be incapable of psychologically-understood persuasive efficient causation, since that is intrinsic and not extrinsic to the actual entity. When it comes to a metaphysical understanding of efficient causation, neither God nor anything else can conduct coercive efficient causation on actual entities, since they are essentially self-determinative. Hence, the only power of efficient causation that God has is persuasive (nondeterministic) efficient causation. The language here is confusing, not least because in ordinary language, persuasion is typically psychological (ER, 102), while coercion differs from persuasion not in degree but in kind. Perhaps we would be better served and the discussion significantly simplified to talk about whether the cause is sufficient to produce an effect in another. In fact, Hartshorne suggests this approach.21 This fits well with Griffin’s talk of God “using persuasion” (GPE, 276). While a coercive efficient cause would be sufficient to cause the actual occasion, a persuasive efficient cause cannot be sufficient to cause the actual occasion. But Griffin probably would not deem this substitution satisfactory, for persuasion requires that the actual entity (the effect) determine itself at least in part, whereas language about sufficient conditions does not require this; what prevents something from being a sufficient cause might be the necessity of other external causal conditions. Griffin also might reject this approach for another reason. If the “in part” is very small (Hartshorne “approximately” in referring to “conditions sufficient to determine approximately what happens”), and if natural laws (even if only limiters and not determiners) are operative,22 talking about sufficient conditions comes close to allowing God as a sufficient condition to approximately or mostly affect nature as God desires, even if only in a limiting way; this might allow the reintroduction of the problem of natural evil that process thought attempted to avoid. (I shall return to this point below.) One might think that in departing from definition (D) of omnipotence, Griffin advocates a conception of a finite God whose power is limited

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 313

by the power possessed necessarily and essentially by other actual occasions. Griffin rejects this contention on the grounds that God has all the power that God conceivably could have; no other being could possess more power.

THE CENTR A L PROCESS A RGUMENT

Griffin’s avoidance of the view that God’s power is finite (finitism) depends upon Griffin’s contention that the following propositions are necessarily true (in virtue of their being metaphysical principles applicable to all possible worlds). (22) There is an actual world (GPE, 279).23 (23) To be a world is to contain actual entities or actual occasions (GPE, 269, 279).24 (24) All actual members of a world either are or are composed of actual entities or actual occasions (GPE, 249, 277).25 (25) All actual entities or occasions are essentially self-determining.26 (26) The only power self-determining actualities can have consistent with there being other essentially self-determining actualities is persuasive power (GPE, 280–81). (27) God is an actual entity (GPE, 281). (28) God possesses the maximal possible persuasive power (GPE, 273).27 But are these propositions not only true but necessarily true? (22) obviously is true. Griffin thinks it is necessarily true because God is essentially creative and hence cannot exist without a world with which to engage creatively. Since God necessarily exists, actual entities necessarily exist and hence always have existed. God does not create ex nihilo; rather, God’s creating activity brings order out of chaos, harmony out of discord (GPE, 286). Classical theists agree that (22) is true, but not necessarily true; creation as bringing about the universe ex nihilo is a free act of God. But since the process view of how God creates is a consequence of this set of necessarily true propositions, we shall begin elsewhere in the set. Griffin holds (23) and (25) to be true by the definitions of “world” and “actual occasion.” Whether or

314  Process Theodicy

not (24) is true depends upon how one interprets “actual entity,” and this is clarified in (25). So understood, (24) asserts that all constituents of any world either are or are composed of experiencing, power-exercising, selfdetermining, creative actualities.28 Here, one might suggest, lies part of the core of the dispute between tradition and process theism. On the one hand, traditional theists restrict self-determination to conscious beings, and some even more narrowly to moral agents. For traditional theists, if (25) is true, (24) is false. On the other hand, process thought contends that the universe is totally composed of self-determining actual entities, both inanimate and animate. Both (24) and (25) are true. The other crucial difference between process thought and traditional theism lies in (26). Traditional theists allow coercion of self-determining beings when their power of self-determination is limited, obstructed, or temporarily removed. Of course, while coercively limited or obstructed, the being is not self-determining, and if self-determination is completely removed over a significant period of time, the being is a robot or is nonfunctioning (e.g., dead). Perhaps coercion can be more clearly shown in the claim by traditional theists that God allows or permits beings to exercise their power. Process thought also allows coercion of entities, but this is possible only because process thought makes a further distinction between two types of entities: individuals and aggregates. Individuals are either actual occasions (or actual entities) or serially ordered societies of such (ER, 216). Since individuals have a unity of experience, they are self-determining and hence cannot be coerced. Neither can they coerce; only by persuasion can they be efficient causes of other individuals. Aggregates (roads, balls, rocks, buildings, corpses) are enduring things, the objects of the world, with “no self or unity of experience and therefore no power of self-determination” (ER, 102). “The only experiences in the aggregate are the experiences of the actual occasions constituting the various enduring individuals.”29 They do have a coherence because they are composed of societies of self-determining individuals. But even so, they are not even in part self-determining, for the whole need not have the same properties as its parts. Consequently, they are only coercible; “aggregates as such can be moved only by another aggregate” (ER, 217). Individuals cannot co-

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 315

erce either aggregates or other individuals; they can only persuade. Neither can aggregates coerce individuals. And since God is an individual, not an aggregate, God cannot causally coerce or determine anything. What is interesting is what happens to X—“It is possible for one actual being’s condition to be completely determined by a being or beings other than itself”—when these categories are developed. X is meaningless for Griffin only if “actual being” refers to actual occasions or entities. But if “actual being” is expanded to include aggregates, which wait “upon some external force for movement” (ER, 217) and can be coerced (ER, 103), then Griffin must think, like the traditional theist, that X is true. So the movement of the discussion from actual entities to individuals and aggregates is not inconsequential to the process argument.

A PPLIC ATION TO R E A L LIFE

How does this metaphysic work out in real life? How do these abstract categories explain how fathers move their children from room to room, how people move their bodies, how billiard players control cue sticks to move balls, or how one person affects another person (to use Griffin’s examples)? Griffin gives the example of a father who picks up his young daughter to carry her against her will to another room. Her father can coerce her body when he picks her up, but he cannot coerce his daughter to want to move; only she can want to move. We might say that the father can coerce her body but can only persuade her will. One would think that the father, as a person choosing to carry his recalcitrant daughter, would be a prime example of an individual capable of self-determination. But since bodily coercion is involved, and coercion occurs only between aggregates, the father must be an aggregate. How can this be understood? Griffin holds that human beings are psychophysical entities composed of billions of actual entities. Yet they are not mere aggregates, for they have a series of dominant occasions of experience, called a soul or mind. Because a human being has a soul, it “is an example of that special type of structured society called a monarchical society” (ER, 111); “the psyche (as a serially ordered society) is the monarch, insofar as it synthesizes the various experiences of the cells into a unity of experience” (ER, 218). Having a soul,

316  Process Theodicy

humans (and animals with central nervous systems) are considered as selfdetermining and cannot be coerced. At the same time, we also can consider humans only in terms of their bodies. Qua bodies, humans are aggregates and hence can be coerced. So the father as deciding to carry the girl is viewed as an individual; and the father reasoning with his daughter and the daughter agreeing to move are regarded as individuals. But the father carrying the girl and the carried girl are viewed as aggregates, for the girl’s body is coerced to go to another room, and only aggregates can coerce aggregates. What can be said about the billiard player? The 8-ball is moved by the cue ball, obeying the laws of motion, and the cue ball is moved by the cue stick, which has been moved by the player’s hand. All of these are aggregates and hence can be determinately coerced (ER, 103). But how does the soul (the self-determining aspect) relate to the hand (or, more generally, to the body that is an aggregate)? Since the soul is an individual and individuals cannot move or coerce aggregates, it would seem that the soul cannot move the hand. Not so, says Griffin; the relation between soul (mind, psyche) and body is persuasive. The mind has persuasive power over the body because the body can make a self-determining response. But, one might reply, the individual qua body was treated as an aggregate, and since aggregates cannot prehend, they cannot be persuaded. Why then should one think that the body or part of the body that one wants to move persuasively and not coercively is an individual that can make a self-determining response? Griffin appeals to the fact that the body may not respond to our wishes to move it when it is “impaired by injury, drugs, alcohol, or weariness” (ER, 103), such that it is in part self-determining. But though the body or body part may not respond as we wish or at all, the fact that the body or a body part does not move when we want it to or in the way we desire fails to establish that the body has self-determining power; it only shows that the power of the mind and will can be contravened by other causal conditions, such as drugs or alcohol, which themselves originate externally to the body. Moreover, if the mind cannot coerce the body because the body can make a self-determining response, the body is no longer an aggregate but an individual, and the explanation given above of how the body can coerce the cue stick to move the ball is no longer applicable. The causal story is no longer consistent; problems arise at the point of the causal relation of mind to body, a difficulty not unknown to philosophers.

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 317

Griffin also holds that “the body can never, in the strict sense, coerce the psyche” (ER, 219). This is because the body as an aggregate cannot coerce an individual. But there exist many cases, especially in cases of physiologically based mental diseases, where the psyche is so coerced. Experiences of schizophrenic and autistic persons and of persons under hallucinogenic drugs are prime examples. Such persons have experiences which they neither might want nor can control, and these experiences determine features of their personality, behavior, and character. Or again, neurologists can stimulate the brain in particular places and ways to create particular experiences, which refutes Griffin’s position. To address these problems, Griffin’s discussion of the “organizational duality” between individuals and aggregates is couched, not in terms of what is the case, but of what is regarded as being the case. Here he introduces again the concept of “the monarchical society, which combines features of both aggregates and genuine individuals. Whether or not a monarchical society can be coerced depends on how it is being regarded” (ER, 218). The father is viewed as an aggregate when he carries his daughter; he is regarded as an individual when he decides to carry her. The billiard player’s hand is viewed an aggregate when it is moving the cue stick; it (or the central nervous system that moves it) is considered an individual when it is moved by the soul or mind. But the question is not “how we treat them”; the question is what these really are. If fathers and billiard players are aggregates, they can move aggregates and manipulate cue sticks; they are coercible and not self-determining. They are more like cues, balls, and hands than individuals. If they are individuals, they are self-determining and not coercible, but are incapable of acting in the real world composed of aggregates, which are coercible but not persuadable. The field of action for the psyche must be regarded as persuadable and hence self-determining. There are inanimate aggregates that can coerce and be coerced, and there are individuals who can persuade and be persuaded, but where individuals come into causal relation with aggregates and vice versa, Griffin’s explanation seems to depend on how aggregates are viewed in any given instance, not in terms of what they are. If the father viewed as an individual can move his daughter viewed as an aggregate coercively, why cannot God who is an individual be viewed as moving aggregates coercively? Griffin’s response is that we view the father moving the daughter because the father has a body, but we cannot view God

318  Process Theodicy

as moving aggregates because God has no body. “Absolute coercion occurs when body acts on body, aggregate on aggregate” (ER, 112). God can only exercise persuasive causation on individuals or psyches. But the psyche moves the body not by means of the body, but directly.30 And if, as we argued above, the mind can coerce the body (as is often the case, fortunately, in our daily motor existence), there is no difficulty in seeing God as moving nonsentient entities by coercion. God can be a sufficient condition for effects in aggregates. Griffin’s view of God is narrowed by his view that one individual can coercively affect or effect another only by means of a body. That is why he has a problem with creation ex nihilo. But if we do not impose on God the necessity of using materialist sufficient conditions in order to act, the way is open for God to be active in other ways, to be a sufficient condition for bringing about events. As Genesis states, “God said and it was so.” Genesis does not tell us how God acts, but then again, Griffin cannot tell us how the psyche as an individual moves the central nervous system. Acknowledgement of the fact does not necessitate understanding the how. Griffin wants us to believe that the difference between classical theism and process theism is metaphysical (GPE, 265–67). He is correct: the dispute ultimately is not about paradoxes or fallacies but about the way one deems the world to be, about competing worldviews. It is about propositions (22–28) and about how classical and process theists view existents in general. And it is about how they view human beings—their soul and their body and their respective powers. Contrary to Griffin, the evidence is clear that the mind can (and often does) coerce the body, and the body and external factors can coerce the mind or soul. And if this is so, there is nothing metaphysical to prevent God from causally determining the world or exercising his permissive power to allow self-determining moral agents to act. In summary, one’s initial commitments usually determine the outcome of the discussion. The process philosopher, in affirming propositions (22– 28), sees the world totally filled with self-determining actual occasions that either are or compose all that is.31 To account for what surely seems like coercion, these actual entities are conjoined into aggregates that lack selfdetermining power. But in moving from actual beings to aggregates, as we noted above, the causal relations of coercion and persuasion become problematic. X, as applied to aggregates, is no longer false, and the possibility of other causal relationships, viewed in terms of sufficient conditions, emerges.

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 319

In short, the scope of X matters. The traditional theist sees the world as containing not only self-determining beings but also things or events whose natures, states, and existence can be and are determined through external and internal causation. One cannot read scripture without seeing God as personally working in the world in such a fashion. For process thought, God is not a person but an actual entity that can influence persuasively but not determinately produce effects by efficient causation. For classical theism, God is a person who can bring about his purposes, though often God chooses to do so through persons who exercise morally significant freedom. Though process thought provides significant insights that can and have been incorporated into traditional theism, the traditional theist finds little compelling reason to adopt a process metaphysic of self-determining actual entities or occasions. Given the problems we delineated above, the classical theist will strongly dispute Griffin’s bold contention that “the metaphysical position [of process thought] provides a more consistent, adequate, and illuminating account of experience and reality in general than any metaphysical position starting from the contrary hypothesis” (ER, 118).

THE NECESSIT Y OF THE POSSIBILIT Y OF EV IL

Griffin contends that a middle ground lies between the claim that genuine or gratuitous evil is necessary (which traditional theists and process philosophers would deny) and the claim that genuine or gratuitous evil is impossible (which atheists and many traditional theists affirm should follow from the Anselmian concept of a perfect God). The middle ground is that the possibility of genuine or gratuitous evil is necessary (GPE, 269). It is this that provides a resolution to the problem of evil. God must allow (for the traditional theist) or cannot prevent (for the process thinker) the possibility of evil in order to guarantee human freedom or genuine self-determination. The possibility of evil is necessary. Griffin’s distinction between the necessity of evil and the necessity of the possibility of evil reveals a point generally overlooked by theists and atheists alike.32 Not all evils must be justified, in the sense of being shown to be preconditions for or means to a good, in order for theists to make their case that God is not morally responsible for evil. The presence of gratuitous or

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genuine evil—evil that of itself does not lead to or produce any greater good—does not jeopardize claims that God exists or has certain perfection properties, so long as the possibility of the existence of evil is justified either as logically or metaphysically necessary (process theology) or as being necessary for a greater good (free will theodicy). This insight suggests that, in some respects, the difference between Griffin and certain traditional theists is not all that large. The difference between them lies not in the denial of the necessity of the possibility of evil but in the basis of the necessity, or, as Griffin puts it, in the metaphysical status of the necessity. For Griffin, the fundamental components of the world are self-creative. As Whitehead states, “All actual entities share with God this character of self-causation. For this reason every actual entity also shares with God the characteristics of transcending all other actual entities, including God.”33 The possibility of evil is necessary because actual entities have intrinsic powers that they can freely exercise. “One being cannot guarantee that all the other beings will avoid all genuine evil. . . . This position follows from the meaning of ‘world’ as containing self-determining beings, since it is not logically possible for one being completely to determine the activity of another entity that by definition has activity that is underived from any other being” (GPE, 269). From this Griffin concludes that the existence of genuine evil does not disprove the existence of an all-good and omnipotent (as he understands “omnipotent”) being. Though a world without evil is logically possible, a noncoercively omnipotent God cannot guarantee it or bring it about. God can persuade but not compel to that end because of the intrinsic nature of the world’s components as self-determining. For the traditional theist, likewise, a world without evil is logically possible. However, the possibility of evil is necessary because God desires rational creatures to attain moral good, which requires that they have morally significant freedom. And the possession of morally significant freedom makes possible both moral and natural gratuitous evil. That is, God’s voluntary granting of morally significant freedom and the requisite conditions for it (e.g., natural laws) makes it possible that humans perform evil acts or that suffering results from our physical involvement with physical nature, an involvement requisite to carrying out moral intentions.34 Gratuitous evil does not directly lead to, and hence cannot be justified by, any good. That is why this evil is gratuitous or, in Griffin’s language, genuine. The presence

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 321

of gratuitous or genuine evil does not entail anything about the existence of God or God’s lack of certain properties, so long as the possibility of there being evil is justified as being necessary for a greater good. The possibility of gratuitous evil results from conditions necessary for the existence and functioning of moral agents and the good they realize, and can realize, only as free agents. Hence, since the greater good realized by free agents requires morally significant freedom, which in turn makes possible moral and natural evil, and since an individual cannot be held morally accountable or blameworthy for what it is impossible to have done otherwise, it follows that God cannot be held morally accountable or blameworthy for gratu­ itous or genuine evils. By invoking a God who voluntarily limits his power to attain a greater good, we have a morally sufficient reason for allowing genuine or gratuitous evils without introducing a world totally composed of essentially self-determining actual entities or actual occasions.35 The difference, then, is that whereas the process theist sees God’s power as necessarily limited by the necessary self-agency of actual entities that compose the world, the classical theist sees God as voluntarily limiting his power in order to grant certain beings the morally significant freedom requisite for attaining a greater good. For the former, the scenario is a matter of metaphysical necessity; for the latter, it involves a voluntary act of self-limitation to bring about the conditions for realizing a greater good. But in both cases the explanation serves the same function: providing the possibility and space for self-determining entities. There is little practical difference, I suggest, with regard to resolving the problem of moral evil: evil for which self-determining human agents are responsible. Both the process theist and the classical theist contend that in order to have self-determining individuals or beings capable of achieving moral good, these beings must be free to a significant extent. The difference really affects natural evil, evils that, on the classical theist’s view, are not the moral responsibility of self-determining human agents. Process theists contend that the same answer suffices for both kinds of evil: since everything is either an actual entity or composed of such, and since all actual entities are essentially self-determining, God is not morally accountable for evil— moral, natural, or aesthetic. But as we have seen, with the introduction of aggregates and the complex way individuals interact with them, we need a more nuanced discussion of natural evil. The classical theist can appeal to

322  Process Theodicy

the self-determination of moral agents as a reason for God allowing natural evil, but not in the way that the process theologian does. For the classical theist, in order for there to be the possibility of morally significant choice and action, the world must have a general order, but this order makes natural evil possible. Griffin raises several objections to this traditional theistic free will theodicy; here I will consider only the first. He argues that, on this view, God could be more proactive in preventing the worst evils. The required violations of human freedom would be minimal and an insignificant price to pay for this protection. Traditional theists can make two replies. First, the same objection can apply mutatis mutandi to Griffin. On Griffin’s view, God is persuasively causative in the world, just not coercively causative. But then one might wonder whether God could be more persuasive, taking causally efficient action that is short of being sufficient or coercive to remove evil but that is approximately effective. For example, following Hartshorne’s suggestion regarding natural laws, could not God be more limiting in their effects on nature in a given circumstance? After all, actual entities have varying degrees of self-determination. Griffin’s response sounds familiar to the theist: God exercises his persuasive power maximally, but God’s maximal exercise cannot remove all evil, for evil arises from the self-determination of all actual entities. It might not appear that God is maximally persuasive, but that does not mean that God is not so. The traditional theist’s second response follows on the first: it is perfectly possible that God is already involved in removing the worst evils from the world. We do not know what a world might be like without a providential God, but very likely it would be worse than this world. But, Griffin replies, there are a significant number of horrendous evils that God seemingly could prevent with his coercive power, if God had such power as the classical theist suggests. The principle behind Griffin’s reply is that a coercively omnipotent God could and should always intervene to remove the worst evils, even at the price of removing some freedom. But what the worst evils are is a relative notion, relative to all the other evils. Hence, a consistent application of this principle would necessarily lead to a world without evil, without freedom, and without morally significant beings.36 This does not mean that we know where the line of maximal divine intervention lies. Indeed, petitionary prayer makes sense for us because we do not know this

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 323

line. But our ignorance of this line of divine intervention does not mean that such a line, beyond which significant human freedom is in jeopardy, does not exist. The same issue arises for Griffin as well, for one might suggest that God is not persuasively enough involved in the world, especially with regard to horrendous natural evils or discord. Granted, God cannot coercively eliminate the evils, but it seems that God could exercise his persuasive causation to a greater extent to limit horrendous evils. After all, God could have tried to persuade others to assassinate Hitler; or he could have been more persuasive in encouraging the Corps of Engineers to build higher dikes in New Orleans. Griffin responds that God not only persuades people, but God is using God’s persuasive power already to prevent or minimize horrendous evils (ER, 115). Like the traditional theist, Griffin does not know where the line of maximal persuasive involvement lies, except to say that from the amount of evil present in the world we cannot calculate that line of maximal persuasion (ER, 115–16), which is the same reply the libertarian theodicist gives to the initial criticism raised by Griffin.

CONCLUSION

From the foregoing discussion it is clear that libertarian traditional theists are able to resolve the paradox of omnipotence and do not commit the fallacy of omnipotence. It might be argued that process theodicy advances the discussion, in that it makes it logically and metaphysically impossible for God to unilaterally eliminate the evil in the world, rather than invoking a voluntary divine act of self-limitation. But as we have seen, this advantage quickly disappears when process thought allows God to be a persuasive efficient cause. A process theodicy not only faces similar objections to those raised against a libertarian theodicy but also commits us to a metaphysic of actual occasions that is implausible when conceived of universally and is fraught with problems when implemented practically on the scale of individuals and aggregates. But on one major issue Griffin is correct: the debate between a libertarian and a process theodicy is at heart a metaphysical debate regarding which worldview one believes it is most rational to adopt. And if one argues, as Griffin does, that the decision between worldviews should be based on which worldview is “more coherent,

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adequate, and illuminating” (ER, 119), traditional theists are confident in the logical coherence and rational adequacy of their view and ready to engage in the ongoing debate.

NOTES

1. The last two in this list are referred to as nonmoral evils, to be contrasted with the intrinsic goods of intensity and harmony. See David Ray Griffin, God, Power, and Evil: A Process Theodicy (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976), 282–84. Hereafter GPE. 2. John B. Cobb, Jr., and David Ray Griffin, Process Theology: An Introductory Exposition (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1976), 69–70, 74. 3. This chapter contains substantial revisions of and additions to chapter 8 in my Evil and a Good God (New York: Fordham University Press, 1982). 4. This is a revision of the argument as developed by J. L. Cowan, “The Paradox of Omnipotence Revisited,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 3, no. 3 (March 1974): 436. 5. George Mavrodes puts the point as follows: “The dilemma fails because it consists of asking whether God can do a self-contradictory thing. And the reply that he cannot does no damage to the doctrine of omnipotence. . . . On the assumption that God is omnipotent, the phrase ‘a stone too heavy for God to lift’ becomes selfcontradictory. For it becomes ‘a stone which cannot be lifted by Him whose power is sufficient for lifting anything.’ But the ‘thing’ described by a self-contradictory phrase is absolutely impossible and hence has nothing to do with the doctrine of omnipotence.” Mavrodes, “Some Puzzles concerning Omnipotence,” Philosophical Review 72, no. 2 (April 1963): 221–22. 6. See Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica I, q. 25, a. 3 and a. 4. 7. By “genuine evil” Griffin means “anything, all things considered, without which the universe would have been better” (GPE, 22). It contrasts with “only apparent evils,” which are evils “compensated for by the goodness to which they contributed.” A “genuine evil” is by definition an evil that cannot be justified by the appeal to a higher good, though there might be other grounds of justification, for example, that it is a logically or metaphysically necessary feature of any possible world. “Only apparent evils” are justified by appeal to a higher good. 8. This is Griffin’s revision of premise Q. David Ray Griffin, Evil Revisited: Responses and Reconsiderations (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1991), 62. Hereafter ER. 9. To anticipate, we will argue that in X, Griffin is using “actual being” as a technical term to refer to “individual occasions of experience that exercise self-

Evil, Omnipotence, and Process Thought 325 determination and then exert efficient causation upon others” (ER, 127). Classical theists would not use “actual being” in PQRS in this way. 10. “An actual entity is an ‘occasion of experience’” (GPE, 277). 11. See also Alfred N. Whitehead, Process and Reality (New York: Macmillan, 1929), 27–28. 12. Griffin, GPE, 279; Whitehead, Process and Reality, 146–47, 519; John B. Cobb, Jr., God and the World (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1969), 91–92. 13. Griffin says that X is both false and meaningless (GPE, 267). But it would seem that it cannot be both; if it is meaningless, it has no truth value. Griffin’s reply to this objection is that, using the surface meaning of “actual entities,” the claim that they can be unilaterally determined is false. But, understanding “actual entities” metaphysically, the claim is meaningless (ER, 122). 14. Charles Hartshorne, “Omnipotence,” in An Encyclopedia of Religion, ed. Vergilius Ferm (New York: Philosophical Library, 1945), 545. 15. Cobb, God and the World, 89. 16. Ibid., 90; see also Griffin, GPE, 273. 17. Cobb, God and the World, 81. 18. Griffin, ER, 98; see also Whitehead, Process and Reality, 320. 19. Whitehead, Process and Reality, 134, 374. For Griffin, “God’s final causation is God’s own act of self-determination” (ER, 101). 20. This internal process dispute about the nature of causation leads to different assessments of the process position. Here I follow the later clarification and emphasis developed by Griffin, who holds that the above view is mistaken. 21. “Where there is little freedom, as [with] an inanimate nature, there are often conditions sufficient to determine approximately what happens, and for most purposes this is all we need to consider. Where there is much freedom, as in the behavior of higher, including human, animals, there are still necessary conditions in the past, but sufficient past conditions only for a considerable range of possibilities within which each decision maker finally determines what precisely and concretely happens . . . in the agent’s own mind, that is, what decision is made.” Charles Hartshorne, Omnipotence and Other Theological Mistakes (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1984), 17. 22. Ibid., 18–21. 23. See also Charles Hartshorne, The Divine Relativity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1948), 73. 24. See also Lewis S. Ford, “Divine Persuasion and the Triumph of Good,” in Process Philosophy and Christian Thought, ed. Delwin Brown et al. (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1971), 290. 25. Whitehead, Process and Reality, 27; Ford, “Divine Persuasion and the Triumph of Good,” 290.

326  Process Theodicy 26. Griffin, GPE, 248, 266–67, 276–77, 292; Whitehead, Process and Reality, 41, 75. This does not rule out efficient causation, only coercive or deterministic efficient causation. 27. Hartshorne, Omnipotence and Other Theological Mistakes, 26. 28. Although all can experience, the degrees of experience become more meaningful as actual entities become animate. Hence, although there is no ontological dualism at the fundamental level between the sentient and nonsentient, actual entities possess gradations of importance, value, and functional diversity. Cobb and Griffin, Process Theology, 77–78; Griffin, ER, 216. 29. Cobb and Griffin, Process Theology, 78. 30. Griffin notes that the psyche moves body parts, such as hands, indirectly via the central nervous system, but even so it stimulates the central nervous system directly. Even if, as Griffin seems to think, we move the central nervous system indirectly by efficient causation of the cells, at some point the psyche moves something physical directly (ER, 128). Otherwise we derive an unwelcome infinite regress. 31. Whitehead, Process and Reality, 27. 32. For important exceptions, see Michael L. Peterson, God and Evil: An Introduction to the Issues (Boulder: Westview Press, 1998), chap. 7; William Hasker, The Triumph of God over Evil (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2008), chap. 7. 33. Whitehead, Process and Reality, 339. 34. See Reichenbach, Evil and a Good God, chaps. 3–5. More formally, one might say that a world containing significantly free persons making choices between moral good and evil and choosing a significant amount of moral good is superior to a world lacking significantly free persons and moral good and evil. 35. “A morally sufficient reason is a circumstance or condition that, when known, renders blame (though, of course, not responsibility) for the action inappropriate.” Nelson Pike, “Hume on Evil,” Philosophical Review 72, no. 2 (1963): 184. 36. See Reichenbach, Evil and a Good God, 82–84.

C H A P T E R

1 9

God, Evil, and Relational Risk JOHN SANDERS

Open theism is a view of the divine nature and the God-world relationship that arises out of what may be called the free will tradition of Christian thought. Although this theology of openness is not new in most respects compared to traditional Christian theism, it contains particular emphases and several new elements that together render it distinctive. This essay briefly summarizes open theism and then provides an approach to the problem of evil from this perspective. According to openness theology, the triune God of love has embarked on a project in which God decided to create beings capable of experiencing the divine love. It is God’s desire that we enter into reciprocal relations of love with God as well as with our fellow creatures. God freely and sovereignly decided to create (ex nihilo) a state of affairs conducive to this goal. A key aspect of this project is that God has decided to make some of his actions contingent upon our requests and actions. God elicits our free collaboration in his plans for the achievement of his goals. Hence, God can Original essay used by permission of the author.

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be influenced by what we do, and God truly responds to what we do— God is “open” to creation. God genuinely interacts and enters into dynamic give-and-take relationships with us. In order to bring this about, God has chosen to exercise a general rather than a meticulous form of providence. Meticulous providence means that God tightly controls everything that happens; nothing happens except what he specifically intends to happen in each and every situation. General providence means that God grants creatures considerable freedom, allowing space for us to operate. Consequently, God has chosen to take some risks by not determining everything that happens. Concomitant with general providential control and in order for truly personal relationships of love to develop, God endowed humans with libertarian freedom (the ability to do otherwise than we actually do). Moreover, God has flexible strategies. Although the divine nature does not change, God reacts to contingencies, even adjusting his plans, if necessary, to take into account the decisions of his free creatures. God is endlessly resourceful and wise in working toward the fulfillment of his ultimate goals. However, God’s plan is not a detailed script or blueprint, but a broad intention that allows for a variety of options regarding precisely how his goals may be reached. For example, in the Old Testament, if the Hebrew midwives had feared Pharaoh rather than God and killed the baby boys as they were ordered, then God would have responded accordingly and a different story would have emerged. Moses’ refusal to return to Egypt prompted God to resort to the plan of allowing Aaron to do the public speaking instead of Moses. What people do and whether they collaborate with God makes a difference concerning what God does. God is genuinely open to creation, and he does not “fake” the story of human history by allowing us to believe mistakenly that our choices make a difference in how the future unfolds. Finally, the omniscient God has “present knowledge.” God knows all that is logically possible to know and understands reality as it is. Consequently, God knows the past and present with exhaustive definite knowledge and knows the future as partly definite (closed) and as partly indefinite (open). God’s knowledge of what we call the “future” contains both knowledge of that which is definite (what God has decided to bring about unilaterally and those natural events that are determined to occur) and knowledge of possibilities (that which is indefinite). Hence, the future is

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partly open or indefinite and partly closed or definite. God knows all that can possibly happen, so God is not caught off guard—he has foresight and anticipates what we will do. Open theists tend to view Jesus as the unique disclosure of the nature and purposes of God (Heb. 1:3). In Jesus we see a God who is loving, wise, faithful, and almighty. The love of God manifested in Jesus is self-giving and self-sacrificing (agape). In this respect the apostle Paul’s description of love is also applicable to God: Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful. . . . It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things (1 Cor. 13:4–5, 7, NRSV).

If love does not force its way, and if this is how God acts toward us, then God may be said to endure our lack of love. Divine forbearance means that God is not blind to the evil infecting us. Rather, God evaluates our situation and takes the steps necessary to try to prevent the beloved from destroying herself and to bring about reconciliation. God’s wisdom is adept at overcoming obstacles that stand in the way of accomplishing the divine project. God is competent and resourceful in working with recalcitrant sinners. Moreover, God is faithful to his project. Instead of giving up on it and becoming resentful, he bears with us and endures the suffering we bring upon him when we refuse to live as he intended. Finally, God is almighty in that he has all the power necessary to deliver and care for us. However, God does not override our free will and force us to love (which would not be love anyway). Some open theists refer to God’s “self-limitation” in this regard, but it is better to say that God “restrains” the use of his power, to avoid the implication that God has lost power. Clearly, from this brief summary, open theists fall within the free will tradition of Christian thought but emphasize certain elements of that tradition more than usual. For example, though the traditional free will defense in response to the problem of evil agrees that the world is not the way God wants it to be, open theism emphasizes that God takes risks of some kinds and that God is vulnerable to grief when we fail to love. Furthermore, open theism emphasizes God’s responsiveness to creatures in reciprocal

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give-and-take relations. In terms of the standard terminology regarding the divine attributes, this means that open theists agree with traditional free will theists in rejecting strong immutability and impassibility. Moreover, along with many free will theists, proponents of openness reject the concept of divine atemporality in favor of everlasting temporality: they argue that it does not make sense to talk about divine grieving, responding, and the like, and at the same time affirm God’s timelessness. The open theist view of omniscience is most distinctive. Granted that God knows all that can be known, open theists maintain that the future actions of genuinely free creatures can only be known as probabilities, not certainties, and they deny that God has “middle knowledge,” that is, the knowledge of what every individual will do or would have done in all possible sets of circumstances. Having surveyed the essential features of open theism, I now turn to the question of how proponents of this view might address the problem of moral and natural evil.1

OPEN THEISM A ND MOR A L EV IL

The problem of evil should be framed in the context of what God intended to accomplish via his creational project. According to open theism, God’s purpose in creating was to bring forth beings who could respond to his love by loving God in return as well as by establishing loving relationships and social structures among creatures. This implies that God did not want moral evil to arise—it was not part of his plan. The Christian scriptures attest that God is implacably opposed to moral evil and that his heart breaks over the sinfulness of his creatures (e.g., Gen. 6:6; Isa. 2:10–15; Eph. 4:30). The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are portrayed as standing opposed to the harm we bring on one another. The world simply is not the way God wants it to be; creation has miscarried. For open theism, there is no “happy fall” (O felix culpa) into sin.2 Evil is not part of a divine blueprint ordained by God. Though a soul-making theodicy can have a limited role in an open theist theodicy, it is the free will defense and God’s work to redeem evil that take center stage. A question that must be raised is whether God can create free beings and at the same time guarantee that they never do evil. The answer is yes, if God creates us with a so-called compatibilistic type of freedom, for then

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God simply has to ensure that we have the proper desires in order to guarantee that we “freely” never commit evil. If God creates us instead with a libertarian freedom, God could still guarantee that we never do evil if God can do the logically impossible. However, if, as open theists affirm, God cannot do the logically impossible and God creates us with libertarian freedom, then God cannot guarantee that we will always do what is good. Since God desires relationships of love and since these cannot be coerced, the divine love is vulnerable to being rejected due to our use of our libertarian freedom. Since God enacts general rather than exhaustive control, the possibility exists that what God wants to happen in any particular situation may not happen—God’s will can be thwarted by our actions. God simply cannot guarantee that we will act in loving ways toward one another. God is solely responsible for creating a world with the conditions in which love was the desired possibility and the failure to love was also a possibility. But God is not responsible for evil actually occurring. This position is better called the “logic-of-love defense” rather than the “free will defense.” The free will defense is grounded in God taking the risk of creating people with libertarian freedom and refusing to exercise meticulous control (specific sovereignty). Proponents of the free will defense sometimes emphasize the intrinsic, as opposed to instrumental, value of libertarian freedom. Instead of beginning with human freedom, however, it is better to start with the nature of the divine project of producing significant others who are able to enter into reciprocal fellowship and collaboration with God. The logic-of-love defense is thus framed in terms of God’s purposes in creation rather than merely in terms of the supposed intrinsic worth of human freedom. In order for the conditions of love to be met, God exercises general rather than specific sovereignty. That is, God has established the overarching rules by which creation operates and allows them a good deal of autonomy. God does not meticulously control every detail of our lives, so God takes the risk that we might not do what he desires. This is in contrast to the specific sovereignty or meticulous providence view, described above, according to which God tightly controls everything that happens such that nothing happens except what God specifically intends to happen. God takes no risks because humans do precisely what God wants them to do in each and every situation.

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Although God exercises general sovereignty, the theology of openness, unlike process theology, affirms that God has the coercive power to prevent any and all instances of evil. God could prevent humans from harming one another, so a problem for open theism is to explain why God does not intervene, or at least does not intervene more often, to prevent moral evils. A number of points may be made in response. One specific objection is that God, on the analogy of a human parent, ought to act more often to prevent harm and suffering. After all, what parent would stand by and allow his or her child to be assaulted by someone if there was any means of preventing it? The open theist response is that although God is in some respects like a human parent, God is not completely like a human parent, for God is uniquely responsible for upholding the ontological, moral, and relational structures of the universe. God has a role that is unlike the role of any human. Even in our own lives we play different roles. For instance, though I have responsibility for the health of my children, it is not my role to prescribe drugs for them or perform surgery on them. In his role as the one who established and sustains his creational project, God cannot also bring it about that he abandons the very conditions for the project. The Almighty could veto any specific human evil act, but if he made a habit of it, this would undermine the very type of relationships he intends. God cannot prevent all the evil in the world and still maintain the conditions of fellowship intended by his purpose in creation. Another objection is that God should allow only those people to come into existence that he knows would love and trust him. This objection fails, however, because open theists affirm the present knowledge view of omniscience. Accordingly, God does not know prior to creation that any given individual will become, for example, a child abuser, a murderer, a tyrannical leader of a small country, or a CEO who rips off his company. The God of open theism does not have either middle knowledge or simple foreknowledge whereby he could know such things.3 Even so, could not God at least act to remove moral monsters, such as Adolf Hitler or Joseph Stalin, when he becomes cognizant of their intentions? But this assumes a too individualistic understanding of human life. The Hitlers and Stalins of the world do not act alone; neither do they develop alone. Their personal development and their horrendous actions arise out of complex social frameworks and the choices and actions of many others.

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Hence, it is not simply a matter of God removing a single individual and thereby correcting the problem.4 One does not necessarily put a halt to the Holocaust or the massacres in Rwanda merely by preventing one or a few individuals from harming others. If God were to act to prevent such terrible evils, then God would have to radically alter the conditions of the project of his creation. It is not self-evident that the elimination of any given tyrant or other evildoer would mean that no one else would take that person’s place, possibly making matters even worse. Given the web of social relationships, God may not be able to prevent moral monsters from arising without abandoning the type of project he established. Also, recall that the God of open theism has only present knowledge and so cannot know with certainty what would occur if a particular individual were removed or blocked. Nevertheless, most open theists hold that God does intervene in specific situations. Some people are healed, for example, in response to prayers. Why, then, does God not heal everyone? Does God play favorites? The God of open theism would certainly anticipate that something dreadful was about to happen, and that God has the power to prevent it, so why does God not prevent it? This is a difficult question for open theists as well as for all theists who hold that God has the ability to intervene, but in fact a number of responses are available. Although none of us has any claim or right to a special act of God, for God is not at our beck and call, the question of divine favoritism remains if some people receive protection or healing and others do not. Establishing that God was showing favoritism or was acting arbitrarily, however, would require access to all of God’s knowledge and intentions, and that simply is not possible. Additionally, it is at least reasonable to speculate that God is much more active than we can ever identify but that most of his work, like an iceberg hidden below the surface, goes on unseen by us. God may be doing much in any given situation even if we do not detect his presence or if it is not the sort of help we desire. Furthermore, free will theists, in contrast to proponents of meticulous providence, can say that one reason for God’s choosing not to intervene in a particular situation is his unwillingness to interfere with the libertarian freedom of the people involved. Some open theists hold that God might occasionally override and violate the free will of a human, while others maintain that God never does this. The question still arises for the former group:

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why does not God override free will more often in order to bring about a better world? David Basinger, for one, replies that we cannot know the extent to which God is already doing this. Perhaps, he says, God has already maximized the extent to which he may profitably violate human freedom.5 The critic claims that the world would be better if God vetoed certain human decisions (or did so more often). It is not easy to know how this claim could be established. Although initially it might seem a simple matter for God to change someone’s decisions and thus improve a situation, this may not be so simple given the interaction of people with one another. A 2004 movie called The Butterfly Effect portrayed a college student whose friend is abused by her father. The young man finds a way to go back in time and change one of the variables so that his friend would not end up in this abusive situation. However, the slight change he makes does not bring about the general results he desired; for now, though his friend is not abused, other bad events occur in her life. Again and again he goes back in time, trying to fix the situation so that it turns out as he wants. However, no matter what variables he changes, things continue to go badly for those he loves. The critic’s notion that God could change this person a little here and that person a little there and thus make the world an overall better place may not be realistic. We simply do not know all the variables in life and the effects of slight changes in them.6 A God with middle knowledge would know precisely how things would turn out if a specific change were made in a situation, but a God with middle knowledge still has to be lucky enough that among his options are ones in which people respond more positively rather than less so (more on this topic below). Open theists, however, reject the concept of God’s middle knowledge. A God with present knowledge would not know for certain what would, in fact, happen if a specific human decision were vetoed. Hence, God could not guarantee that the world would definitely be better if God vetoed more, or even any, libertarian choices by humans. The open theist who maintains or accepts the possibility that God does occasionally override human freedom can say, at most, that a God with present knowledge would know the probabilities of various responses to his actions and that God has the wisdom to act on this knowledge prudently. Open theists also affirm that God is at work in many ways and that our lives are affected by numerous human and nonhuman forces that resist and seek to undermine God’s program, whether we are aware of them or

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not. And whether we think of these powers as demonic beings, as does Gregory Boyd, or as malevolent social forces, the point is the same: God is hard at work keeping creation from disintegrating. These forces demand God’s competence, wisdom, and power to keep creation going in the direction he intends without overturning the very rules he established at creation. Open theists believe that God is doing all he can, short of overriding his project, to prevent what evil he can, and, for that evil that does occur, God works to bring good out of those situations (Rom. 8:28). Moreover, open theists, as opposed to theological determinists, can say that God in no way wants the evils of this world. They are not part of a detailed plan of God by which absolutely everything occurs for the sake of a specific greater good. In the natural realm, it is not God’s desire for creation that a young child contracts a painful and incurable cancer. In the moral realm, neither is it God’s intention for creation to include evils such as rape, terrorism, corporate theft, or abuse of the natural environment. Such evils are gratuitous or pointless, for they were not intended with the purpose of attaining a greater good.7 Proponents of specific sovereignty sometimes claim that such evils are for the purpose of helping us learn a lesson. Although free will theists can certainly affirm that God works to bring good out of evil situations and that we may, indeed, learn something from our suffering or the suffering of others, it is impossible to maintain that God always succeeds in his efforts. We humans simply do not always respond in loving ways to suffering. Some of us become embittered or hateful and perpetrate further violence on others. Though some of us respond in redemptive ways to evil, not all of us do. Given our libertarian freedom, God cannot guarantee that a greater good will arise out of each and every occurrence of evil. A number of criticisms of the openness approach to the problem of moral evil have appeared in recent years. Three will be addressed here since they help to highlight the differences between openness theology and other theological perspectives. First, proponents of meticulous providence, or theological determinists, claim that open theism comes to the same conclusion as they do regarding the mystery of why God intervenes in some situations and not others, and thus offers no new insight. This is not the case, however. Theological determinists maintain that God providentially controls each and every action of humans, including each aspect of each action.8 Even though we call certain events, which seem evil from our vantage

336  Openness Theodicy

point, accidents or tragedies, from God’s perspective they are necessary for achieving the greater good. There is no pointless evil. The openness position, in contrast, is quite different. It is one thing to say that God, for reasons we do not fully understand, allows autonomous agents to do tragic and terrible things. It is quite another thing to say that God deliberately plans and intends for all these evil things to happen, so that in no single respect would God want the world to be any different than it actually is. A consistent theological determinist would have to say that God does not grieve over the rape of a little girl, for it is exactly what God intended to happen. For open theists, God does not intend such evils, he grieves over them, and he seeks to redeem them. Another criticism comes from Molinists, who claim that a God who takes risks is abhorrent and the epitome of moral recklessness.9 Proponents of middle knowledge hold that God cannot take risks because, from all the feasible worlds that God could have created, he selected and created the one he deemed best. Since God knew what each individual would do in any given circumstance, God chose to create this world, knowing in exhaustive detail exactly what would happen in it. Open theists have several replies to this. First, the idea of divine risk taking has been part of the soteriological landscape from the beginning of Christian theology, as shown in the common assertion that God desires each and every human to experience redemption but will not force anyone to participate in it (1 Tim. 2:4; 2 Pet. 3:9). Assuming that universalism is false and that some individuals ultimately reject God’s grace, this means that God takes the risk, in creating such a world, that some people will be lost—an outcome that he does not want.10 This view has been upheld, for example, by the majority of the early church fathers, the Eastern Church, Arminian-Wesleyans, and Pentecostals. Except for Molinists, free will theists affirm the traditional free will defense in a form that entails divine risk taking. Open theists simply highlight this notion. Further, risk taking is not always bad; it is necessary for various aspects of our relationships. For example, in order for trust to develop, we must make ourselves vulnerable. Open theists maintain not that God risks for the sake of risk but rather that God risks for the sake of love. Moreover, open theists do not hold that God places everything at risk but rather only that some elements of the divine-human relationship are at risk.

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A final point with respect to the Molinist critique is that though a God with middle knowledge does not take risks, such a deity, still, will be either lucky or unlucky. Molinists severely downplay the element of luck, yet it is an essential component of their view since the counterfactuals of freedom (what humans with libertarian freedom would do in any given circumstance) are not under God’s control. If God is lucky, then there is at least one feasible world where humans do, for the most part, what God wants them to do. If God is really fortunate, then there is a feasible world in which creatures always do exactly what God desires them to do. Clearly, God was not that lucky. If God is unlucky, then God may have had to settle for a world of modest good and great evil.11 A third, very general critique—which is sometimes voiced by process theologians—is that open theism simply fails to advance the discussion on the problem of evil. Since the God of open theism is omnipotent and can intervene in human affairs, the open theist is still left with the question as to why God does not intervene to prevent some evils.12 In response, although open theism does not claim to have the final word on the problem of evil, it has strengthened the free will defense in a number of important ways. Open theism emphasizes divine risk taking and its theological significance; arguably, open theism is the most logically consistent form of free will theism when it comes to affirming divine passibility (God suffers with and for his creatures), divine temporality, and God’s implacable opposition to evil. Because open theism maintains that God has present knowledge rather than either simple foreknowledge or middle knowledge, it avoids the claim that God must be held responsible for creating a world in which he knew that evil would inevitably arise. Furthermore, for the open theist, God cannot be said to want or intend the evil in the world. For these reasons, open theists can justifiably hold that their model is most faithful to the biblical narrative of God’s actions in his creational project, is more logi­ cally consistent than other forms of free will theism, and yields fruitful ways in which to live the Christian life. OPEN THEISM A ND NATUR A L EV IL

Among open theists, two overall responses to the problem of natural evil are discernable. Many resort to a natural law theodicy in which so-called

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natural evil is part of the necessary structures of creation.13 The structures in themselves are not evil; they are necessary aspects of the created order. For example, water sustains us, but we can also drown in it. Lightning brings essential nitrogen to the soil, but it may also strike us dead or start forest fires. Certain genetic traits that are beneficial for some things may make us susceptible to other problems. We are learning more and more that certain natural forces that we have labeled “evil” actually have beneficial effects. As our knowledge of the structures of creation and the interconnectedness of the forces of nature increases, we cannot easily imagine alternative structures that retain the good elements but lack the ones that can cause us harm. If God created a world in which air currents and water vapor bring needed rain but these same elements sometimes form hurricanes, then God takes the risk that people will suffer from them. God does not want creatures to be harmed by these natural forces, but it may be the case that he cannot have creational structures that nurture creatures without the possibility of harm. The risk of human suffering is simply not avoidable in the world as we know it.14 A determinate order in nature is extremely beneficial for our lives since we can plan and live accordingly. God cannot simply remove the possible harm that those structures can bring without removing the very determinate order that makes life possible. Those who argue that nature could be governed by fundamentally different laws, equally suitable or more suitable for supporting life, must shoulder the burden of proof and show the plausibility of such an alternative. The second strategy employed by some open theists is to ascribe natural evil to the work of demonic beings. Gregory Boyd, for instance, argues that God is at war with supernatural beings who are attempting to destroy God’s project.15 Though he does not believe that demonic forces are the sole cause of all natural evil, he proposes that they are responsible for many birth defects, floods, diseases, and the like. Boyd argues that Jesus regarded infirmities and diseases as the results of evil powers and not as part of God’s intentions for his creatures. Though Boyd believes the natural law theodicy is useful, it must be supplemented with an appeal to demonic activity.16 Boyd seems to subsume “natural” evil under moral evil; he then uses the free will defense to argue that, just as God cannot remove human freedom to cause harm without undermining his creational project, so God cannot remove the free will of fallen angelic beings to cause harm.

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Whether the structural or demonic explanation for natural evil is given, open theists agree that God does not want the suffering that these forces bring. Neither should suffering be understood in general as God’s punishment of human sin. Although some scriptural texts enjoin Christians to interpret their suffering, typically that brought about by persecution, as divine discipline (itself not necessarily punishment), scripture nowhere turns this into a general principle that all suffering, particularly from natural evils, should be interpreted in this light. In fact, Job, Ecclesiastes (8:14), and Jesus in the Gospels (Luke 13:1–3; John 9:1–6) reject the idea that all suffering is God’s punishment of sin. Finally, it should be noted that much of what we call “natural evil” is the result of human decisions. For instance, the agricultural practices dictated by the governments of Ethiopia and Sudan have produced famine in these countries. The policies of humans have had disastrous consequences in nature time and again throughout human history. The choices we make, individually and corporately, about how to use our resources greatly affect our lives. If we cut down the rain forests or build cities on fault lines with inadequate buildings, we may bring devastation on ourselves that God never wanted. If we spray certain chemicals on our food supply to protect them from insects but then acquire cancer, is God to blame?

CONCLUSION

Open theism seeks to develop from within the free will tradition an approach to the problem of evil that emphasizes divine risk taking. It emphasizes that evil is not part of God’s plan for creation, that God experiences suffering because of our evil, that God is working temporally in human history to overcome evil, and that God did not know prior to creation exactly how his creational project would develop. Open theists may make use of a variety of theodicies: natural law, soul-making (in a limited fashion), and even theories of spiritual warfare. The main theodicies, however, will be those of the logic of love and God’s work of redemption. The logic-oflove defense provides a way of understanding the structures in which suffering and evil could come about in God’s creational project, even though he never intended such evil. The structure of love, coupled with general

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sovereignty, yields the conclusion that there is gratuitous evil. Horrible events happen that God does not specifically want to occur. This was a risk God took in establishing these structures. Open theists are under no illusions that they have the perfect solution to the problem of evil. Every response to the problem of evil has difficulties, and which view one favors often comes down to value judgments regarding the difficulties with which one is willing to live. Nonetheless, open theists believe that the approach stated above yields some beneficial practical results. For instance, a woman who has been abused by her husband need not believe that it was “God’s will” that she suffer so. God did not ordain such evils for her to learn some lesson. This alone should relieve a great burden from many people who have been taught that everything that happens to us is part of the divine blueprint for the greater good. A fair number of people in churches are angry at God, though it is considered improper to confess it. The anger arises because people have been told to believe that God ordained their cancer or the death of a daughter for the sake of some unknown good. However, if God did not ordain such evils, then we need to think of God’s relationship to such events differently. We are free to grieve such losses and work to redeem what we can from them. Moreover, if such things as famines, wars, racism, and exploitation of children are not “all for the best” and are not sent by God, then we can understand that we are called by God to be collaborators with him against such evils. Contrary to theological determinism, it is not true that whatever happens is God’s will. Consequently, to remain passive in the face of evil is to go against God. Instead, God wants us to actively combat and redeem evil. The open theist is free to challenge the status quo and must reject the notion that “whatever is, is right” since God wants it that way. By collaborating with God against evil, we go beyond the logic-of-love defense (against the logical problem of evil) to actively working to overcome evil. William Hasker argues that “we need to shift from the prospective justification of evils to the retrospective redemption of those same evils.”17 It is not enough merely to defend God; we are called to participate in his redemptive activity, for the Christian God is actively working to bring good out of evil (Rom. 8:28). The biblical narratives amply demonstrate that events did not always go as God desired. God is not exercising exhaustive control over the world,

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but neither does he stand impotent before it. God’s powerful love is demonstrated in a definitive way through the cross and resurrection of Christ. In the face of both moral and natural evil, Jesus stands fundamentally opposed to them and seeks to overcome them by suffering and resurrection. The resurrection is our sign of hope that the future will bring a transformation of our present conditions. Suffering and death do not have the final word. Love and life triumphed over the forces of evil through the cross and resurrection. Moreover, the Holy Spirit continues to work to redeem the evil situation. God is not yet finished, and as long as God is working there is hope that the future will be different from what we presently experience. These reasons give us courage to be God’s fellow laborers in the struggle for shalom, working to extend God’s victory over evil to every aspect of life.

NOTES

1. Though I believe that what I say in this essay about open theism is representative of most open theists, there are points of disagreement that the reader may notice as my essay unfolds. 2. This is the view of many who affirm theological determinism, or the “no risk” model of God. For a critique of Paul Helm’s use of the idea of the “happy fall,” see my The God Who Risks: A Theology of Providence (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1998), 253–57. 3. Though this is an issue for middle knowledge, it is not a problem for simple foreknowledge since a God with simple foreknowledge cannot use that knowledge to prevent from happening what he truly knows will happen. For a detailed explanation, see my “Why Simple Foreknowledge Offers No More Providential Control than the Openness of God,” Faith and Philosophy 14, no. 1 (Jan. 1997): 26–40. 4. See Frank G. Kirkpatrick, Together Bound: God, History, and the Religious Community (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 137–39. 5. David Basinger, Divine Power in Process Theism: A Philosophical Critique (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988), 63. 6. The open theist Gregory Boyd develops the idea of “variables” to explain why God does not intervene in certain situations. See his Is God to Blame?Moving Beyond Pat Answers to the Problem of Evil (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2003), chaps. 4–6. I use the concept only to show that the critic has a difficult challenge here. Boyd’s approach seems to imply that God has middle knowledge, or, at least, that knowledge of probabilities is more useful than it is. Hasker criticizes this approach in

342  Openness Theodicy his chapter “The Sceptical Solution to the Problem of Evil,” in Hasker, Providence, Evil, and the Openness of God (London: Routledge, 2004), 43–57. 7. Since my fellow open theist William Hasker has an essay on gratuitous evil in this anthology, I will not develop the idea here. 8. See, for instance, Paul Helm, The Providence of God (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1994), 104. 9. See Thomas P. Flint, Divine Providence: The Molinist Account (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998), 107, and William Lane Craig, “Middle Knowledge and Christian Exclusivism,” Sophia 34, no. 1 (1995): 135. 10. For a survey of views as to whether, and if so how, God might redeem those who have never heard about Jesus, see my No Other Name: An Investigation into the Destiny of the Unevangelized (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 1992), and Clark Pinnock, A Wideness in God’s Mercy: The Finality of Jesus Christ in a World of Religions (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, 1992). 11. Molinists seldom take this seriously when discussing providence. 12. See the exchange on this subject between process theist David Ray Griffin and open theist William Hasker in chapter 1 of Searching for an Adequate God: A Dialogue Between Process and Free Will Theists, ed. John B. Cobb and Clark H. Pinnock (Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans, 2000). See also William Hasker, “The Problem of Evil in Process Theism and Classical Free Will Theism,” Process Studies 29 (2000): 194–208; reprinted in his Providence, Evil, and the Openness of God, 136–50. 13. See, for instance, John Polkinghorne, Science and Creation (Boston: Shambala, 1988), 66–67. 14. A possible criticism of this point is that many Christians believe that in the eschaton, humans will not experience suffering as we presently do; so why do we have to experience it now? In response, it seems to me that we know far too little about the eschaton to propose it as an alternative to the way we think things should have been in the original creation. Others have suggested that we will have resurrection bodies such that even if the same sorts of natural forces are present in the eschaton, we may not be affected by them in the same way; or, we will have perfected characters and knowledge such that we might always be able to avoid (prevent) the suffering from these natural evils that we now experience. 15. Gregory Boyd, God at War: The Bible and Spiritual Conflict (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1997); Satan and the Problem of Evil: Constructing a Trinitarian Warfare Theodicy (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2001). 16. Boyd’s main criticism of natural law theodicy is that God could, he believes, shift the path of a tornado a few feet so that it does not kill a group of children in a church, and do so without undoing natural laws (see his Satan and the Problem of Evil, 278–84). However, Boyd’s view does not evade the same difficulty, for even if demons

God, Evil, and Relational Risk 343 were the cause, could not God have shifted the path of the tornado a little? After all, Jesus, in Boyd’s view, overturns the work of demons by calming a storm and healing people. Boyd could respond that in this type of warfare God can revoke the free will of the demonic forces, but if God did so habitually, then it would make void the very structures of creation he established. But that is, essentially, what the natural law proponent is saying. 17. Hasker, Providence, Evil, and the Openness of God, 55.

C H A P T E R

2 0

God’s Providence Takes No Risks PAU L H E L M

This essay is a contribution to theodicy—the justifying of God’s ways to humankind—in the face of the many evils of our world. But it is offered as a modest contribution to such a project, in fact, a very modest contribution. One kind of evil consists of the personal evils that occur in a life which are, to all intents and purposes, unfair. Sometimes we think we observe a correlation between some vile action and what then happens to the agent. He “gets what he deserved”; he had it coming to him. But at other times, and perhaps more frequently, there is an absence of such a correlation, and even an inverse relationship. Why do the wicked prosper? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why do the innocent suffer? (Ps. 73). Why is the incidence of pain and evil so seemingly unfair and pointless, so utterly destructive? My project here looks at one classic view of God’s relation to human action and how it addresses this sort of evil. Original essay used by permission of the author.

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Yet about this modest area of enquiry I shall make a bold claim. I shall claim that such a view of God’s relation to human action and suffering— what I call the “no-risk” view of divine providence—can hope to make sense of the kind of relationship between God and humankind that figures prominently in the Bible and in Jewish and Christian religion and piety. Views of providence as “risky” have to soft-pedal at this point. Furthermore, the account I defend offers as paradigms of the divine-human relationship those very incidents in scripture which “openness” theologians say that they alone can do justice to. I refer to famous instances of divine-human dialogue in scripture—the Lord’s dealings with Abraham and Moses, with Job and Jonah and Hezekiah, and, of course, with Jesus himself, the Suffering Servant. So I shall make bold to occupy the very ground that Christian openness thinkers appeal to by invoking a view of providence that is the very opposite of theirs and which they excoriate. The “openness” view describes itself as “relational,” as if every other view is “nonrelational.” But it has no monopoly. There are divine-human relations that it cannot account for, and the account it does offer is unacceptably anthropomorphic. To allay a possible misunderstanding or two, I shall begin the argument a little way back. When there is a theological or philosophical debate about God and personal evil and how it is to be addressed, it must not be taken for granted that there is agreement about everything else except the matter in question. More may be implicated in their differences than how people are to think of evil in their lives. These differences may start much further back, in their respective concepts of God. If one has a concept of God as a Mr. Fixit (in either the diplomatic or financial senses) or thinks of him along the lines of a coach or a football manager or a military general or a family counselor, then that person’s approach to God’s relation to personal evil will necessarily be different from that of someone who thinks of God as the transcendent and yet immanent Creator, the ground of being whose thoughts are not our thoughts and whose ways are not our ways. The first approach sees God as one person, or three persons, among many others. The second approach sees him as the incomparable Triune Creator of all that is. Similarly, someone who thinks that the universe is arranged principally for our benefit, or even for one’s own individual benefit, will necessarily have a different approach to the justification of personal evil than someone who believes about God that “of him and to him and through him are all things”

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(Eph. 1:11). Someone who thinks of the universe principally as an arena in which God and humankind can each exercise their libertarian free choices will necessarily approach personal evil in a different way from one who thinks that God works all things after the counsel of his own will. Someone who thinks that most problems about the relation between God and the universe can be solved by careful thought will necessarily approach the justification of the ways of God differently than will someone who thinks that God’s judgments are unsearchable and his ways past finding out (Rom. 11:33). Someone whose attitude to personal evil presupposes that the death of our bodies is the terminus of life will necessarily approach the evaluating of that evil differently from someone who looks forward to the life everlasting. A person approaches the problem of evil holding many other beliefs. Evil can be discussed in abstraction from these, but not in isolation from them. So thoughtful treatments of the problem of evil cannot simply address it as a philosophical problem, as a problem of the consistency or inconsistency of certain sentences, or of the analysis of certain concepts. The problem is also theological—in fact it is basically theological. For insofar as it is concerned with the ways of God, then different accounts of those ways will inevitably lead to different approaches to evil. A different God, a different religion, means a different approach to the problem of personal evil. In what follows we are touching not merely on one view of providence but on a view of God and of religion itself. We shall return to these important matters at the end.

W H AT THE V IEW IS

My aim is to relate personal evil to the no-risk conception of divine providence, and so I shall spend the next few paragraphs sketching that view, which I believe is the scriptural view. And in view of the thrust of this essay, as attempting to relate providence to evil, my sketch of this view of providence will particularly emphasize the purposiveness of divine providence, its teleological character.1 In his paper “The Place of Chance in a World Sustained by God,”2 Peter van Inwagen tells the story of Alice, who suddenly remembers that she had promised to buy a box of crayons for her son, turns into an unfamiliar

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street in search of an appropriate shop, and is struck and killed by a car whose brakes have failed. Van Inwagen comments: here death may well be a “chance” occurrence (in the sense that it was not part of anyone’s plan), even though in one sense her death has an obvious explanation.3 The positions and conditions of the vehicles explain what happened, but that explanation does not reveal to us the point of the event, nor could it, for according to van Inwagen the event has no point. For van Inwagen such an event—a chance event in the sense of an event that was not a part of anyone’s plan—is not (and perhaps cannot be) a part of God’s plan either. For (I take him to be saying) nothing that has no point for a human being can have a point for God and so be a part of God’s plan. While not all no-risk views of providence entail the denial of van Inwagen’s view, the view I shall go on to defend does. On van Inwagen’s view, then, God takes risks in sustaining the universe, since chance events like Alice’s death can take place. This question of whether God takes risks in governing the universe has to do not with mere ignorance—with the sort of risk that is involved in betting on the turn of a card— but with what might be called “real” risk, namely, the real possibility that the universe might not turn out, or might not be turning out, in the way that God, in sustaining and governing it, wished or wanted or intended. If God takes risks, then (I shall assume) some events turn out as he does not intend, and as a consequence he suffers. (Of course it is perfectly possible to suppose that God might take risks in making such and such an arrangement, but that nothing in that arrangement turns out other than as he wants it to turn out, as when I take a risk in crossing the busy street but nevertheless cross it safely.) I also assume that the risky events in question, were they to occur, would have significance or importance; they would not be flea bites. God’s governing of the universe is purposive, means-end governing; in contrast, a carburetor governs the mixture of air and fuel in an engine, but it does not have any further end in doing so (although carburetors are installed by engineers to achieve such further ends). Divine governing is purposive. It is also what I shall call “positive government.” A person might govern a situation simply by frustrating any event that he does not want to occur, like a bouncer outside a nightclub. On this model, God would certainly be said to govern the universe, to be “in control,” if he adopted such a strategy with respect to all events as they unfold. Let us call such modes of

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government—no doubt there are many subvarieties—negative government.4 Positive government, in contrast, is government where there is no need to eliminate anything, because the governor is willing for whatever happens within his jurisdiction to occur exactly as it does occur. On the positive government model, then, there is a close relationship between means and ends. God does not govern the universe in order to achieve certain ends while leaving it entirely up to us how these ends are to be achieved. The end or ends are brought about through the particular means that God ordains. But are there not other ways of eliminating risk than divine, positive government of all that occurs? Assuming a strong, libertarian sense of freedom, many have argued that perfect divine foreknowledge, divine omniscience as it relates to what is future, eliminates risk for God, because God knows beforehand what will occur. This is sufficient to eliminate mere epistemic risk, of course, but the universe might nevertheless turn out in important respects other than God intended and so have been risky to create: risky, but without surprise for God. This is most notoriously the case in respect to the Fall; on some views the Fall was foreknown, and so not surprising for God, but nonetheless it was not as God intended. But I will not argue thus here. Many have argued that a no-risk sense of divine governing can be held consistently with libertarian free will by appealing to God’s middle knowledge, but I believe that middle knowledge faces philosophical and theological difficulties that render it implausible. However, I shall not rehearse these points here. To be sure, these perfect divine foreknowledge and middle knowledge views may be defended as no-risk views, but they are not the view I shall defend. I shall explore the idea of divine positive governance of the universe, assuming that these two mediating positions are unavailable. The no-risk view I defend here eliminates risk for God by appealing to his foreordination and not to foreknowledge or middle knowledge and the actualization of certain counterfactuals of freedom. God works all things according to his own will, including the evils that beset us all, down to the last detail. I shall from now on refer to this view as the exhaustive or “meticulous” view of providence.5 I have argued for this view of providence in standard philosophical fashion by claiming that it follows from generally accepted ideas about divine omniscience and divine omnipotence and basing my argument on

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what seems to me to be the reasonable principle that, in reflecting philosophically upon the concept of God, the connotation of such terms as omnipotence and omniscience when applied to God should be as wide as possible.6 Thus the term “omnipotent” is more appropriately applied to God when it connotes power over more types of actions and events than when it connotes power over fewer types of actions and events. Further, the term is more appropriately applied to God when it connotes power over more instances of each type of action over which power is exercised than power over fewer such instances. And it is similar to the scope of omniscience. After all, the rationale for employing such “omni” terms in the first place is to convey the idea of maximality. Their application should not be limited unnecessarily; otherwise, such terms when applied to God come to possess only rhetorical or hyperbolical value. In openness theism the account of omniscience is “tailored” to allow for the operations of libertarian free choice, and as a consequence there is much of the future that God is ignorant of even though he is, formally speaking, “omniscient.” The presumption must be, therefore, with respect to any type of event and to any instance of that type, that an omnipotent being has power over them in the sense that he positively governs them, and that an omniscient being knows the truths that are the correct descriptions of such actions, and indeed that divine omniscience and omnipotence are closely connected in that omniscience is an exercise of power. Of course, omnipotence and omniscience may be said to extend further than power and knowledge over what is in fact the case; they extend to possibilities. And so an omniscient being knows not only all actualities but the contents of all possible worlds, while an omnipotent being has power over possibilities, power to prevent or to actualize them. Here, however, because of the need to connect the no-risk, meticulous view of providence explicitly to evil, I shall adopt a more a posteriori approach. I shall briefly argue that the biblical and therefore the Christian view of God is that he governs all events and actions meticulously—and therefore that the Christian approach to evil must have this view of God as its foundation. A worked-out view of divine providence and evil has to be consistent with the following biblical data: that God is the creator and momentby-moment sustainer of his creation (Gen. 1:1; Col. 1:16f.; Heb. 1:3); that of him and to him and through him are all things (Rom. 11:36); that he

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knows the end from the beginning (see Isa. 46:10) and works everything after the counsel of his will (Eph. 1:11); that nothing can impede his purposes; that seemingly chance occurrences are in his control (Prov. 16:33), as are the hearts of kings (Prov. 21:1); that he intends good by the same action as others intend evil by (Gen. 50:20); that Satan and human tyrants are his servants (1 Chron. 21:1 with 2 Sam. 24:1 and Ezra 1:1; Acts 4:27f.); and that divinely inspired prophecies and dreams are fulfilled to the letter (Num. 23:19; Deut. 18:21–22; and, e.g., Gen. 37:5–8 with 42:6–9). In particular, this providence extended to every detail of the earthly life and ministry of Jesus Christ (John 19:31–37; 1 Cor. 15:3–4).

A DIFFICU LT Y OR T WO

Given that some free (and therefore responsible) human actions are evil, let us ask whether such evil actions as these could be positively governed by God. Could they be part of a scheme of things that, overall, God wills? If God positively governs evil actions, is he not evil?7 The divine character can be safeguarded when God positively governs human actions that are morally evil by recognizing that he willingly permits some particular evil actions. He is not and cannot be the author of such actions, but he may be willing for them to occur. But is not a God who is willing for an evil action to occur the cause of that action and so himself evil? I wish to present two alternative arguments for thinking that he is not. Willing Permission

As a preliminary to considering the first argument, it is necessary to clarify the meaning of willing permission. God positively governs some acts by permitting them. Yet for such permission to be consistent with meticulous positive government, it has to be a particular kind of permission; it has to be willingly given, and it has to be permission of particular actions and not merely the permission of certain types of action. But doesn’t introducing the idea of permission unacceptably modify the idea of divine positive government by introducing an element of conditionality? It does introduce an element of conditionality, but perhaps necessarily so. So far as God may ordain but not cause evil, there is an element of conditionality about what

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happens, since what happens is conditioned upon what agents other than God do. Such conditionality is presumably present in God’s relations to all human actions. Nevertheless, such conditionality is risk-free for God. Divine permission is compatible with the absence of risk for God as long as there are types of actions that God can prevent but nevertheless cannot cause, even though he may be willing for them to occur. Then God controls an evil action by permitting it—by deciding not to prevent it—and the evil action occurs because it is caused by the natures and circumstances of those who perpetrate it. The evil action is then not caused by God, although he willingly permits it as a necessary component part of some broader overall will. This leaves us with questions of why God has willingly permitted evil, and of exactly how evil comes about in a world created by an all-good God. Thankfully, attempting to answer these questions falls outside the scope of the present essay. So, God may willingly permit an evil act; indeed, since God cannot perform an evil act, if an evil act occurs, he must have permitted it, and if his government of that action is positive, he necessarily only permitted it, but willingly so. The nature of this permission is well expressed by Augustine: In a way unspeakably strange and wonderful, even what is done in opposition to His will does not defeat His will. For it would not be done did He not permit it (and of course His permission is not unwilling, but willing); nor would a Good Being permit evil to be done only that in his omnipotence He can turn evil into good.8

So for a being S willingly to permit an action A is for A to be the action of someone other than S; for S to ordain the occurrence of A and to have been able to prevent A; and for A not to be contrary to what S intends. On this conception, God foreknows everything and unconditionally governs everything, but he does not causally determine everything in the sense that he is the efficient cause of everything. Nevertheless, nothing happens that God is unwilling should happen. But it may still be insisted that if God willingly permits X, then God is the cause of X. It is tempting, but I believe crude and misleading, to assimilate the working of such permission to intramundane models of causation, and particularly to theories of physical determinism. Such permission has

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this in common with physical determinism, that what is physically determined and what is willingly permitted will each come to pass. But willingly to permit an action is not to cause that action in any straightforward sense of “cause.” As part of his critique of the no-risk view, John Sanders describes the Lord, in willingly permitting a rape, as himself a “rapist.” Such illjudged language is based on a thorough misunderstanding.9 We can express some of the difference between willing permission and causation like this. While it seems clear that intramundane causation is transitive, that if (where A, B, and C are mundane events) A causes B, and B causes C, then A causes C,10 there is no necessary transitivity in the case of the causal aspects or features of the divine willing permission. It is thus not necessarily the case that if God positively governs by willingly permitting some event B, and B causes C, then God causes C; rather, God may will C by willingly permitting that B causes C. As the Puritan Thomas Watson put it, “Herein is God’s wisdom, that the sins of men carry on his work, yet he has no hand in them.” God’s willing permission is thus not a straightforward case of mundane causation. It is a case of “cause” used analogically. This is just as it should be, given God’s mysteriously transcendent and yet immanent relation to his creation. So, there are ways of safeguarding the divine righteousness in the case of human acts that are morally evil, namely, the idea of God willingly permitting particular evil actions, in the sense understood. But it must also be understood that this is not a theory offering an explanation of the meshing of divine and human action, but an account that attempts to safeguard the consistency of the biblical data. Thus if, for any event E, E occurs, then God positively governs E either by bringing it about or being willing for it to occur. Whatever occurs does so because God positively governs it in this sense; whatever is true in virtue of what occurs is true because God so governs it. So, while saying that all events are positively governed by God entails that all events are willed by God, this is not equivalent to asserting that if E occurs, God has caused it. Just as many argue, in developing a free will defense, that not even God can ensure that a free agent only does what is morally right, invoking willing permission makes the important point that there is no possible world in which God can do evil. He may, however, willingly permit evil. This is an instance of particular permission; God permits particular acts, as distinct

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from giving general permission, as when a teacher allows a class to write an essay on any topic they choose. And God may do so willingly, not because he is willing for the evil act to occur per se, but because he ordains some wider good of which that act is a necessary part (e.g., Gen. 50:20; Acts 2:22–36). This willing permission of evil is something like the willingness of a parent to allow her sick child to undergo some extremely painful, but necessary, course of treatment, or even that the child should be subject to the malice of others. And God may willingly permit such a particular action, though of course without any feeling of psychological pressure or tension that often accompanies such human permittings. The Action-Description Argument

Nevertheless, there are biblical data about divine and human action which do not appear to be covered by this idea of willing permission. The tyrant Cyrus is referred to as God’s “shepherd,” his “anointed,” the one “who shall fulfill all my purpose” (Isa. 44:28; ch. 45). This can hardly be an instance of mere permission (“I will go before you and level the exalted places,” Isa. 45:2). Is the Lord, then, the cause of the evil that Cyrus perpetrated? Is he an accomplice of Cyrus’s, an accessory, or even perhaps the chief partner in his war crimes? Cyrus’s action may be described by him as an act of war (Isa. 45:1; Dan. 10:1). But why should we believe that it was only as so described that the Lord brought it about that Cyrus went to war for Israel? For the Lord, Cyrus’s action was not only an act of war but an act of deliverance of his covenant people. Biblically, the incident that draws a distinction in the descriptions of the same action most vividly is found in the history of Joseph and his brothers, where, at the climax of the story, Joseph asserts that though the brothers intended his banishment to Egypt “for evil,” the Lord meant it “for good” (Gen. 50:20). Here the idea of an action having multiple descriptions is invoked. That is, the same action may be described in contrary but equally true terms. For instance, Christ’s death, which took place according to the Lord’s “definite plan,” was at once both a wicked act, the righteous self-offering of the God-man, and the Lord’s laying on him the iniquity of us all (Acts 2:23). So did God intend Cyrus’s act of war, Joseph’s banishment by his jealous brothers, the wickedness of Christ’s crucifiers? If the answer to these

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questions is “Yes,” does it follow that we can prefix every true description of every detail of the universe with the phrase “God wills” or “God intends”? This interesting question is ambiguous as it stands, as made clear by the point about one action having different descriptions. Whereas Cyrus intends war in furtherance of his imperial ambitions (Isa. 45:4–5), there is no reason to think that God intends that war to further his imperial ambitions. Rather, God’s willing of that war is one element of an all-encompassing divine plan for the universe and especially for his covenant people, Israel. It would be fallacious to suppose that the divine attitude is the same with respect to every detail of that one divine plan separately considered. As Aquinas put it, “God, and nature, and indeed every causal agent, does what is best overall, but not what is best in every part, except when the part is regarded in its relationship to the whole.”11 God permits and causes certain evil actions in furtherance of some wider considerations. This is not, then, a case of God doing evil that good may come, as is often claimed. For God is not doing evil; rather, when one of his creatures performs an evil action, that action is ordained by God as part of some broader plan that is a faithful expression of God’s goodness. It is a fallacy to think that because some arrangement is wise, every detail of that arrangement, considered in isolation, is wise. It does not follow that every thread of my tartan tie is tartan.12 An Objection

One of the most frequently cited objections to the idea of God both willingly permitting and causing human actions is that this would cast God in the role of a puppet master, with you and I as the puppets. For anyone who is familiar with the literature, it is almost unnecessary to cite instances of the puppet objection, but here is one in respect of good rather than evil actions, although the point of principle is the same. If God causes the agent to will some moral good, then we might attribute some moral goodness to God in consequence, but why would we attribute moral goodness to the agent, who is nothing but a puppet of God’s will?13

Sometimes the language is updated; the objection is couched not in terms of puppets or dummies, but in terms of automata and brainwashing. Thus Richard Gale states:

God’s Providence Takes No Risks 355 They (viz. the causal compatibilists) accept, for example, cases of extensive brainwashing, posthypnotic suggestion, or intentional control over the inputs to a brain-in-a-vat as freedom cancelling. There are recognized limits to how far one person can go in causally controlling the behaviour of another person without negating the latter’s freedom. Now God is a person, but his control over created persons is even more extreme than in these man-man cases; not only does he sufficiently cause all of their behavior by bringing about certain instantial conditions and have the counterfactual power to produce alternative behavior, he also creates the causal structure of the universe, whereas finite controllers merely take advantage of a given causal structure.14

What shall we say to the puppet objection? I shall invoke Augustine’s strategy and underline the sui generis character of the divine-human relation. (Recall his reference to “a way unspeakably strange and wonderful” in the quotation from his Enchiridion given earlier.) While this move is philosophically unsatisfactory, since philosophers like to have answers to their questions, it is nevertheless highly appropriate. For, after all, the divinehuman relation is sui generis. What could be more extraordinary than the relation between the transcendent Creator and Lord of all and his creation, including his human creatures? If God is sui generis, then any relation between anything else and God looks likely to be sui generis as well. Surely any imaginable relation between any two or more of God’s creatures is likely to be more tractable to the human intellect than that between the Creator and any intelligent creature?15 Moreover, the proponents of the puppet objection recognize this. For they do not in fact claim that, given meticulous providence, the relationship between God and his human creatures is literally that of a puppet master to a puppet. If they do, where are the strings? A puppet master is also a creature. What they presumably mean is something like this: that given meticu­ lous providence, there is no closer or more appropriate analogy of the activities of God in respect to his creatures than that of a puppet master to his puppets. But to say that God is in certain respects like a puppet master is not to say that he is a puppet master. A proponent of meticulous providence could thus adopt an analogical counterargument as a strategy with respect to any analogy that his opponent offers, whether it be automata, programming, telepathy, super-neurologist, or whatever. All are misleading, and all

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fail to capture the divine-human relationship as the meticulous view of providence understands it, in exact terms.

THE DISTINCTI V E ETHOS OF METICU LOUS PROV IDENCE

With these rather extensive preliminaries behind us, we must now attempt to address the relation between meticulous providence and personal evil. Earlier I made the bold claim that in approaching the issue of God and personal evil, an upholder of meticulous, no-risk providence can confidently interpret the central biblical narratives that the openness thinkers believe they alone can do justice to. Openness theology sees these passages as cases of God being surprised, of him changing his mind, as he learns how his children freely react in the circumstances of their lives. Only such an approach, they say, does justice to the texts. All other interpretations do not take the passages with the literalness that is required. But this is not so. Let us consider the case of Hezekiah (see 2 Kings 20:1–11; Isa. 38:1–8). If we grant that God knows Hezekiah’s life from beginning to end and that he ordains every detail of it, what was he doing in first telling Hezekiah, through the words of Isaiah, that he will die, and then telling him that he will live a further fifteen years? To answer this question we must ask another: what operational consequences (so to speak) was the Lord intending by communicating to Hezekiah in this way? In considering the significance of the Lord’s answer to Hezekiah’s prayer, one must not pay exclusive attention to the relenting—or repenting—of the Lord and take this as evidence of his all-too-human vacillation. Rather, one must take the incident as a whole. And it is obvious, when we look at it in this way and (so to speak) operationally, that Hezekiah is being tested by the Lord.16 The purpose of the testing is to bring out Hezekiah’s faith in God, or to make him aware of his faith, or both. Hezekiah is brought to a position that would have been impossible without the testing, for it seems to be psychologically and logically impossible for someone who is being tested to know the outcome of the test beforehand. If the outcome of the test were known beforehand to the one being tested, then how could the trial that the person endures be a genuine test? So God accommodates himself to the human situation.17 It is a divine testing, where the test employed is not some

God’s Providence Takes No Risks 357

evil occurring as a result of an action of the creature, with God as a bystander unable to prevent it, but where the evil or loss or trial is sent by God himself. The case does not require that Hezekiah himself believed that God was ignorant of what he, Hezekiah, would do, nor that God was insincere in saying that he was going to die, but a recognition that he, Hezekiah, actually had to intercede. And it is quite gratuitous to say that the king does not take the prophet Isaiah’s words to imply a fixed future.18 But though this point about divine testing is important, and is one that the openness view cannot handle because that view does not adequately acknowledge the biblical idea of Fatherly correction, it does not exhaust all that needs to be said about meticulous providence and personal evil. The point of narratives like Hezekiah’s is that evil is threatened. But what of those cases where evil has occurred? On the no-risk view, such occurrences are also from the hand of God. Taking some examples from the New Testament, we may consider the case of those grieving Christians to whom Peter wrote (1 Pet. 1:3–9), or the incident of Paul’s thorn in the flesh (2 Cor. 12:7–10), or the plight of the Hebrew Christians to whom the Letter to the Hebrews was written. Their houses had been wrecked (Heb. 10:32–34) by those who did not like the fact that they were both Jews and Christians, and as a result they were in danger of losing heart. The writer does not offer comfort by telling them that God was alongside them, a surprised and somewhat bewildered, suffering God. Rather, after reminding them of various facts, such as the utter reliability of God’s promises (Heb. 6:13–15), and that they have a great, sympathetic High Priest in heaven (Heb. 7:26–28), and that the heroes of the Old Testament also endured suffering (Heb. 11), and especially that Jesus had suffered (Heb. 5:7, 12:1–4), he invites them to see what had happened to them as an instance of Fatherly discipline. Fatherly discipline! But God our Father can only discipline us if we are in his hands. The case of Paul’s thorn in the flesh shows us another way in which the occurrence of personal evil may be faced. The Lord refused to remove the thorn, the result of the tormenting of Satan’s messenger, despite Paul’s pleadings. Why was this? As Paul understood it, it was so that he could experience for himself the sufficiency of God’s grace and of God’s strength revealed in human weakness. As a result, although he struggled with the pain of persecutions and other difficulties—he was no masochist!—he could nevertheless delight in them.

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Do these New Testament examples simply make the familiar point about the value of evil in “soul-making”? Yes and no. The expression “soulmaking” is a vague one; everything depends upon how the “making” of the soul is to be understood. The virtues Paul mentions are not human dispositions, which may be produced in any of several ways, but they are graces, which are (as philosophers sometimes say) “internally related” to the ways in which they are produced. Paul’s faith and patience and strength in weakness were conceptually connected to the ways in which the Lord produced these in his life. They could not have come about in just any way. One more kind of example may be thought of as the limiting case of what we have just been considering. Sometimes the evils that occur in a life are so overwhelming that the thought that they might be divinely purposed is blotted out. How could the terrible earthquake, or a fatal cancer, or the abuse of the three-year-old be purposive? Our immediate reaction is to say that they cannot be. But this answer is too quick. What we should say, according to the meticulous view of providence, is that we do not presently know how these events fit into God’s purposes in a way that is consistent with his character. Earlier we noted that because of its stress on divine transcendence, this whole way of thinking about God contains an element of mystery, of not-knowingness. Why did God send these things? We do not know. Perhaps we haven’t even a clue. What, in these circumstances of radical ignorance, ought we to do? Quite apart from the obvious reaction of doing what we presently can to alleviate suffering and distress, the most appropriate reaction is surely to submit to the will of God in silence. This can be very irksome. But the point is not new (see, e.g., Ps. 38:13 and 39:9; Job 2:11–13; Hab. 3:17–19). This silence is neither the silence of contempt for God nor some fatalistic silence that comes with a shrug of the shoulders. It is not the silence of one who has been crushed, with no will to live left. It is the silence of sympathy and solidarity with those who suffer, and of enduring the utter bafflement of events willed by God that presently seem to be utterly at odds with his character: it is, for Christians, one form of the familiar contrast between faith and sight.19 In such circumstances much can be done, but talking is not part of it. Anne Bradstreet’s poetry has a number of instances of her submission to God’s willing of personal evil in her life, as in her quaint and yet vivid and moving “Here followes some verses upon the burning of our House,

God’s Providence Takes No Risks 359

July 10th, 1666.” She awoke to find flames engulfing the building. Recording her crying to God for strength in her distress, she wrote And, when I could no longer look, I blest his Name that gave and took, That layd my goods now in the dust: Yea so it was, and so ’twas just. It was his own: it was not mine; Far be it that I should repine.20

We see each of the reactions to evil—a recognition of Fatherly discipline, the fostering of Christian virtue, and submission in the face of God’s inscrutable will—in the case of Christ himself, at least if learning may be said to involve discipline. Without entering into the niceties of Christology, we may note that his life, climaxing in Gethsemane, was characterized by submission to his Father’s will (Matt. 18:1–5; Matt. 26:39, 42). His loud cries and tears were heard because of his reverent submission (Heb. 5:7–8). As a result, although he was the Son of God, he learned obedience by the things that he suffered. For Jesus was at all points in the hands of his Father and of the Holy Spirit, as is vividly illustrated by the fact that his temptation in the wilderness was the result of the leading of the Spirit (Matt. 4:1).

CONCLUSION

I did not promise to offer a theodicy, or even a defense against the charge that evil is at odds with the goodness of God. Rather, assuming that that charge is false, I attempted to spell out some of the consequences of believing that this evil world, with ourselves as parts of it, is at all points in the hands of God. I did this by trying to sketch a distinctive ethos that is characteristic of those who believe that the shape of their lives, and especially the evils in their lives, are part of God’s will for them. Such a view has a clear basis in scripture. The openness view, because of what it believes about God’s ignorance of the future, cannot offer an adequate interpretation of these data, nor can it participate fully in this distinctive ethos.

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At one point in his book God, Freedom, and Evil,21 Alvin Plantinga says that he is offering philosophical enlightenment in connection with the logical problem of evil and that he is leaving to others the pastoral problems arising from encountering evil. But we have seen that the issues of philosophy, theology, and the occurrence of personal evils in a life should not be so tidily boxed. Part of a fully Christian philosophical response to evil involves identifying and rejecting the unbiblical and consequently subChristian conceptions of God that are rife in so many “Christian” philosophical responses to it. For Christians, philosophy and theology should not be separated, nor should philosophy and pastoral care.

NOTES

I am very grateful to Oliver Crisp and Mark Talbot for their comments on earlier versions of this essay. 1. I have attempted to provide a fuller treatment of this view in my The Providence of God (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1993). 2. Peter van Inwagen, “The Place of Chance in a World Sustained by God,” in Divine and Human Action, ed. Thomas V. Morris (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988). Reprinted in Peter van Inwagen, God, Knowledge and Mystery (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995). References are to this reprint. 3. Van Inwagen, “The Place of Chance in a World Sustained by God,” 51. 4. For a further exploration of some of these issues, see Nelson Pike, “Overpower and God’s Responsibility for Sin,” in The Existence and Nature of God, ed. Alfred J. Freddoso (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983). 5. For the use of “meticulous” in this connection, see Michael Peterson, Evil and the Christian God (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 1982). 6. See the exchange between William Hasker and myself in Contemporary Debates in the Philosophy of Religion, ed. Michael L Peterson and Raymond J. VanArragon (Oxford: Blackwell, 2003). 7. Part of this section is adapted from my exchange with William Hasker, cited in the above note. 8. Enchiridion, trans. J. F. Shaw (Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1961), 117. “For if it were not a good that evil should exist, its existence would not be permitted by the omnipotent God, who without doubt can as easily refuse to permit what he does not wish, as bring about what he does wish” (Enchiridion, 110).

God’s Providence Takes No Risks 361 9. John Sanders, The God Who Risks: A Theology of Divine Providence (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1998), 256. 10. I assume that all cases of mundane causation are transitive. But they may not be. If so, my case will not be weakened. 11. Summa Theologiae I, q. 48, a. 2, reply 3. It is this point that makes it wrong to charge the Lord with doing evil that good may come. His permitting or ordaining of evil is not a strategy or tactic to maximize some good. It is an intrinsic part of the one world order that he ordains and over which he presides. 12. This issue is raised by Keith Ward, Religion and Creation (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1996), 219. I discuss it further in my “All Things Considered: Providence and Divine Purpose,” in Comparative Theology: Essays for Keith Ward, ed. T. W. Bartel (London: S.P.C.K., 2003). 13. Eleonore Stump, “Sanctification, Hardening of the Heart, and Frankfurt’s Concept of Free Will,” Journal of Philosophy 85, no. 8 (1988): 412. 14. Richard Gale, On the Nature and Existence of God (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 121. Sometimes the reference is not to puppets but to ventriloquists; see W. Alston, Divine Nature and Human Language (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1989), 148. 15. In his Divine Power: The Medieval Power Distinction Up to Its Adoption by Albert, Bonaventure, and Aquinas (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), Lawrence Moonan comments on the view of God as a despot as follows: “The main reason . . . for avoiding this picture as a guide to understanding how creatures stand in relation to God, is not that it is unpleasing to men and women of sensibility and honour . . . [but] that it misrepresents in a crucial respect the logic of the relationship between the being of God and that of things. For there to be despotism and subjection, in the concrete, there must be at least something (in despot and subject) which each is, and which the other is not. But there is strictly nothing in created things which God is not. Whatever there is in creatures, is in God, and without the restrictions under which it is found in creatures. So whereas a very powerful being, even an unimaginably powerful being, could be a despot, something literally infinite in its being simply cannot (logically cannot) be one” (360–61). 16. This is the obvious answer to John Sanders’s question, “If God knew all along, for instance, that King Hezekiah was not going to die, then what was God doing when he announced that Hezekiah would die shortly? Was God lying?” (The God Who Risks, 69). No, the Lord was not lying, he was testing. 17. This reminds us that, besides their importance in helping form a Christian attitude toward evil, instances of God relenting raise prima facie problems for the biblical teaching on divine immutability. I discuss some of these problems in my “Divine Timeless Eternity,” in God and Time: Four Views, ed. Gregory E. Ganssle (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 2001).

362  Openness Theodicy 18. As Sanders does in The God Who Risks, 71. 19. On the theme of our necessary ignorance of God’s ways, see Stephen J. Wykstra, “Rowe’s Noseeum Arguments from Evil,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). 20. Seventeenth-Century American Poetry, edited with an Introduction, Notes, and Comments by Harrison T. Meserole (New York: Doubleday, 1986), 35–36. For an enlightening modern response to evil exhibiting a similar attitude to Anne Bradstreet’s, see Mark R. Talbot, “True Freedom: The Liberty that Scripture Portrays as Worth Having,” in Beyond the Bounds: Open Theism and the Undermining of Biblical Christianity, ed. John Piper, Justin Taylor, and Paul Kjoss Helseth (Wheaton, IL: Crossway Books, 2003). 21. Alvin Plantinga, God, Freedom, and Evil (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1975), 63–64. I think it fair to say that on the evidence of his Warrant and Christian Belief (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), Plantinga is nowadays less inclined to make such a separation between philosophy, theology, and pastoral care.

C H A P T E R

2 1

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” A LV I N P L A N T I N G A

Among the tenets of a certain sort of Calvinism is supralapsarianism, a claim about the order of the decrees of God. God has decreed to permit hu­ manity to fall into sin; he has also decreed to save at least some of the fallen.1 Does the former decree precede or succeed the latter? According to supra­ lapsarianism the decree to save some of the fallen precedes the decree to per­ mit sin; according to infralapsarianism, it’s the other way around. The de­ bate between Supra and Infra has sometimes been held up as an example of Protestant scholasticism run amok. That is because, in part, it is extremely hard to see just what the debate is. The main problem here is the “precede” and “succeed.” As the disputants saw, the question isn’t about temporal pre­ cedence (it isn’t that God promulgated part of his decree at one time and part at a later); they therefore suggested that the precedence in question is logical. As Carl Henry says, “The terms supra and infra stipulate whether Alvin Plantinga, “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa,’” in Christian Faith and the Problem of Evil, ed. Peter van Inwagen (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 1–25. Used by permission.

363

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the divine decree to elect some to salvation comes logically before or after the decrees to create and to permit the fall.”2 But what would that mean? Would the idea be that one of the decrees entailed but was not entailed by the other? But then, apparently, the Infras would have to think the decree to permit the fall entails but is not entailed by the decree to save some of the fallen. The Infras may have been misguided, but they weren’t as obtuse as all that; surely they saw that the proposition God decrees to save some of the fallen entails but is not entailed by the proposition God decrees to permit some to fall; but then presumably that’s compatible with their infralapsari­ anism. So what does this dispute amount to? One understandable reaction is that it doesn’t much matter what the dispute amounts to; the question concerns wholly arcane matters where Scripture is for the most part silent; why waste time on something like that? Isn’t this something like arguing about how many angels can dance on the head, or maybe even the point, of a pin? I have some sympathy for this reac­ tion. Nevertheless, I think we can see which of these is right and what kind of priority is relevant. And we can see which is right by thinking about the problem of evil.

SUFFER ING A ND EV IL

The late and unlamented twentieth century displayed an absolutely appall­ ing amount and variety both of suffering and of evil; no previous century rivals it. As I’m thinking of the matter, suffering encompasses any kind of pain or discomfort: pain or discomfort that results from disease, injury, op­ pression, overwork, old age, sorrow for one’s sins, disappointment with one’s self or with one’s lot in life (or that of persons close to one), the pain of loneliness, isolation, betrayal, unrequited love, and awareness of the suffer­ ing of others. I’m thinking of evil, on the other hand, as, fundamentally, a matter of free creatures’ doing what is wrong and/or displaying vicious character traits. Often pain and suffering is a result of evil, as in some of the events for which our century will be remembered—the horrifying seventyyear-long Marxist experiments in eastern Europe and China with their many millions of victims, the Holocaust, genocide in late twentieth-century Europe and Africa, and the like. Of course much suffering and evil is banal, prosaic, commonplace, and is none the better for that.

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 365

It isn’t only the twentieth century that has featured suffering and evil. Christians and other believers in God have long been baffled and per­ plexed by its presence, or by the amount of it, or by certain especially hei­ nous displays of it, some of which are so horrifying that it seems callous and unfeeling to bring them up in the context of a scholarly discussion. Why does God permit evil, or why does he permit so much of it, or why does he permit those horrifying varieties of it? This bafflement and perplexity is widely represented in the Bible: perhaps especially in the Psalms and the book of Job, but elsewhere as well. And the perplexity is by no means merely theoretical: faced with an especially abhorrent example of suffering or evil in her own life, or the life of someone she loves, a believer can find herself tempted to take towards God an attitude she herself hates—an at­ titude of mistrust, or suspicion, or bitterness, or rebellion. A person in this condition may not be much tempted to doubt the existence or even the goodness of God; nevertheless she may resent God, fail to trust him, be wary of him, be unable to think of him as a loving father, think of him as distant and indifferent. Now many have urged that knowledge of the extent, variety, duration, and distribution of suffering and evil (“the facts of evil,” for short) confronts the believer with a problem of quite another sort.3 The facts of evil, they argue, can serve as the premise of a powerful argument against the very existence of God—against the existence, that is, of an all-powerful, allknowing and wholly good person who has created the world and loves the creatures he has created. Call such an argument “atheological”; atheological arguments go all the way back to the ancient world—at least to Epicurus, whose argument is repeated in the eighteenth century by Hume: Epicurus’ old questions are yet unanswered. Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then he is impotent. Is he able, but not willing? then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? whence then is evil?4

And the claim is that the facts of evil constitute a defeater for theistic belief for those theists who are fully aware of them—and if for theistic belief, then also for Christian belief. Christians may find this argument less than com­ pelling;5 nevertheless they may also find the facts of evil disturbing, both from a practical and from a theoretical point of view; understanding of evil

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and its place in God’s world is an important goal for Christians, one where philosophers can perhaps be of some help. Christian philosophers have for the most part concentrated on the apologetic effort of rebutting the various versions of the argument from evil. These rebuttals have taken several forms. One sort of response specifies some particular kind of good and suggests that God could not have created a world displaying that kind of good without permitting evil. Thus perhaps the world is a vale of soul-making, with evil and suffering permitting human beings to achieve certain desirable spiritual states they couldn’t otherwise attain. Alternatively, evil arises from creaturely free will: God wanted a world in which there are free creatures who freely obey his com­ mands and enter into personal relationship with him; but of course whether a creature freely obeys God’s commands is not up to God: it is up to the creature in question; and the counterfactuals of freedom are such that God couldn’t actualize a really good world with free creatures without permit­ ting evil. There is also the “no-see-um response”:6 God has his reasons for permitting evil, but the epistemic distance between him and us is such that we can’t really hope to know what those reasons are, or why they require him to permit the evil we see.7 Still another response: Donald Turner sug­ gests that (to put it roughly and inaccurately) perhaps God creates concrete worlds or cosmoi corresponding to all of the possible worlds that are on bal­ ance good.8 Some of these worlds, of course, will contain a great deal of evil (and even more good); our world is one of those worlds. These responses are useful and important. But in addition to rebutting these arguments, Christian philosophers should also turn to a different task: that of understanding the evil our world displays from a Christian perspective. Granted, the atheological arguments are unsuccessful; but how should Christians think about evil?9 I therefore want to suggest still another response, or rather I want to reinvent the wheel and propose for further consideration a response that has been with us for a long time. I don’t claim that this response answers all our questions or relieves all of our perplexity. It does make a contribution along these lines, however, and in what follows I want to explore it, to see what it has to offer us. Suppose initially we think about the matter as follows. God intends to create a world; to do so, he must weakly actualize a possible world.10 He considers all the uncountably many possible worlds, each with its own de­

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 367

gree of excellence or value. How shall we think of the value or goodness of a possible world? Well, what sorts of things are good or valuable or excel­ lent, on the one hand, or bad or unhappy or deplorable on the other? The answer is easy; states of affairs (perhaps among other things) are good or bad.11 John’s being in pain is a bad state of affairs, and John’s suffering pain magnificently, a good one; there being many people who treat each other in accord with the law of love is a good state of affairs; there being people who hate God and each other is a bad. Since possible worlds are states of affairs, they are precisely the sorts of things that are good or bad, valuable or dis­ valuable. Perhaps there is no best possible world (there is a tie, or for each world, no matter how good, there is another better yet) but in any event what God intended, in creating, was to actualize (weakly actualize) a really good possible world. Now many of these possible worlds, I take it, are such that it is not within God’s power to weakly actualize them. I’ve argued for this else­ where;12 here I’ll just sketch the argument. For a given possible world W, let T(W) be the largest state of affairs God strongly actualizes in W.13 Assuming that there are nontrivial true counterfactuals of freedom,14 God would be able to weakly actualize a given possible world W only if the counterfactual (1) If God were to strongly actualize T(W), then W would be actual were true. Now there are possible worlds W and W* such that God strongly actualizes the same states of affairs in W as in W*; that is, there are many possible worlds W and W* such that T(W) = T(W*). Where T(W) = T(W*), it is of course impossible that both (1) and (2) If God were to strongly actualize T(W*), then W* would be actual be true; that is because it is not possible that both W and W* be actual. Ac­ cordingly, either W or W* is a world God could not have actualized. Fol­ lowing Thomas Flint, we could say that the worlds God could have weakly actualized are the feasible worlds. God’s aim in creating, then, is to create an extremely good feasible world. So far so good; but what are good-making qualities among worlds— what sort of features will make one world better than another? Here one

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thinks, for example, of the amount of creaturely happiness; a world with a great deal of creaturely happiness (i.e., a world such that if it were actual, there would be a great deal of creaturely happiness) is so far a better world than one in which there is little such happiness. Other characteristics on which the goodness of a world depends would be the amount of beauty, justice, creaturely goodness, performance of duty, and the like. The exis­ tence of creatures who conform to the divine law to love God above all and their neighbor as themselves (which presumably holds not just for humans but for other rational creatures—angels, other rational species in our uni­ verse, if there are any others) would also be an important determinant of a world’s goodness or excellence. And of course there are also bad-making characteristics of a world: containing much suffering, pain, creaturely re­ jection of God, hatred, sin, and the like. Fundamentally, a world W is a better world than a world W* just if God would prefer the actuality of W to the actuality of W*. The above list of good-making characteristics, however, omits the two most important. First, any world in which God exists is enormously more valuable than any world in which he does not exist. According to the tradi­ tional doctrine of God’s necessary existence, of course, God is both con­ crete and necessarily existent, and the only being who displays both those characteristics. If this doctrine is correct, then there aren’t any worlds in which God does not exist. Still further, regardless of whether there are any such worlds, God will be able to choose only among those in which he ex­ ists; hence this great-making characteristic, trivially, will be present in any world he chooses for weak actualization. Given the truth of Christian belief, however, there is also a contingent good-making characteristic of our world—one that isn’t present in all worlds—that towers enormously above all the rest of the contingent states of affairs included in our world: the unthinkably great good of divine incar­ nation and atonement. Jesus Christ, the second person of the divine Trinity, incomparably good, holy, and sinless, was willing to empty himself, to take on our flesh and become incarnate, and to suffer and die so that we human beings can have life and be reconciled to the Father. In order to accomplish this, he was willing to undergo suffering of a depth and intensity we cannot so much as imagine, including even the shattering climax of being aban­ doned by God the Father himself: “My God, my God, why have you for­ saken me?” God the Father, the first being of the whole universe, perfectly

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 369

good and holy, all-powerful and all-knowing, was willing to permit his Son to undergo this suffering, and to undergo enormous suffering himself, in order to make it possible for us human beings to be reconciled to him. And this in face of the fact that we have turned our back upon God, have re­ jected him, are sunk in sin, indeed, are inclined to resent God and our neighbor. Could there be a display of love to rival this? More to the present purpose, could there be a good-making feature of a world to rival this? Suppose we think about these points a bit further. We are considering just the worlds in which God exists; for present purposes, let’s assume that traditional theism is true, and that these are all the worlds there are. The first thing to note, I think, is that all of these worlds—all possible worlds, then—are very good. For God is unlimited in goodness and holiness, as well as in power and knowledge; these properties, furthermore, are essential to him; and this means, I believe, that God not only has created a world that is very good, but that there aren’t any conditions under which he would have created a world that is less than very good. It isn’t possible that he create such a world; every possible world in which God creates is very good. For every possible world containing creatures is a world such that it is pos­ sible, in the broadly logical sense, that God weakly actualize it;15 none is such that God’s goodness or love or mercy would make it impossible for him to actualize it. There is therefore no level of value among possible worlds such that God couldn’t actualize possible worlds whose value falls below that level (and such that some possible worlds fall below that level). The class of possible worlds God’s love and goodness prevents him from ac­ tualizing is empty. All possible worlds, we might say, are eligible worlds: worlds that God’s goodness, mercy, and love would permit him to actualize. Now I don’t mean to suggest that every imaginable or in some sense conceivable world is a very good world. Perhaps we can imagine or in some sense conceive of worlds in which the only things that exist are persons al­ ways in excruciating pain. No such world is in fact possible, however, if God, as we are assuming, is a necessary being who has essentially such properties as unlimited goodness, love, knowledge, and power. For first, of course, every world includes the existence of God. But neither would any world contain just God and creatures always in excruciating pain: God wouldn’t create such worlds. So perhaps there are imaginable or even con­ ceivable worlds that are not very good; the fact is, however, no such world is possible. All possible worlds are very good.

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Of course it is also possible that God refrain from creating altogether. If he had done so, however, the world still would have been very good; for his own existence, of course, would have been actual. Indeed, any world in which God exists is in a good sense infinitely valuable. I don’t mean to sug­ gest that we can apply Cantorian infinitary mathematics to these topics. I don’t mean to suggest that there are proper units of goodness—felicifics, for example—such that any world containing God displays infinitely many of those units of goodness. Still, God himself, who is unlimited in goodness, love, knowledge, power, and the like, exists in any such world; it follows, I suggest, that the value of any state of affairs in which God alone exists is itself unlimited. But what is the force of “unlimited” here? I take it to mean that there are no nonlogical limits to God’s display of these great-making properties: no nonlogical limit to his goodness, love, knowledge, and power. From this it fol­ lows, I believe, that any state of affairs containing God alone—any state of af­ fairs that would have been actual had God not created anything at all—is also in a sensible sense infinite in value. It is not that any such world W is of maxi­ mal value, so that there are no possible worlds better than W. On the contrary: a world that also contains very good creatures—free creatures, perhaps, who always do what is right—would be a better world than W. No: it’s something else. To see what, consider a possible world W and then consider the state of affairs W– consisting just in the existence and properties of the free creatures W contains. Let us also suppose that we have a coherent sense of entailment in which W– does not entail the existence of God, even though the latter is a necessary state of affairs. (I believe there are such senses, but don’t have the space to pursue the matter here.) Now the way in which such a world W is un­ limited in value is that W–, no matter how good, and no matter how many wonderful creatures with splendid properties it displays, is not as good as the state of affairs consisting in the existence of God. We might say that in this way the good of God’s existence is incommensurable with creaturely goods. But it is also incommensurable with creaturely evils. No matter how much sin and suffering and evil W– contains, it is vastly outweighed by the goodness of God, so that W is a good world, and indeed a very good world. It follows, once more, that every possible world is a very good world. But that doesn’t mean that none are more valuable than others. The fact is: some possible worlds are much better than others. For there is a sec­

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 371

ond and enormously impressive good-making feature of our world, a fea­ ture to be found only in some and not in all possible worlds. This is the tow­ ering and magnificent good of divine incarnation and atonement. According to the traditional Christian way of looking at the matter, God was in no way obliged to provide a way of salvation for his erring creatures. It would have been consistent with his love, goodness, and mercy not to in­ stitute this marvelous plan by which we sinful creatures can have life and be reconciled with God. Hence there are possible worlds in which there are free creatures who go wrong, and in which there is no atonement; in these worlds all these free creatures suffer the consequences of their sin and are ul­ timately cut off from God. Such a world, I say, is not as good—perhaps not nearly as good—as a world in which sinful creatures are offered redemption and salvation from their sins. In fact I believe we can go further. I believe that any world with incar­ nation and atonement is a better world than any without it—or at any rate better than any world in which God does nothing comparable to incarna­ tion and atonement. It is hard to imagine what God could do that is in fact comparable to incarnation and atonement; but perhaps this is just a limita­ tion of our imagination. But since this is so hard to imagine, I propose that we ignore those possible worlds, if there are any, in which God does not ar­ range for incarnation and atonement, but does something else of compara­ ble excellence. So consider the splendid and gracious marvel of incarnation and atonement. I believe that the great goodness of this state of affairs, like that of the divine existence itself, makes its value incommensurable with the value of states of affairs involving creaturely good and bad. Thus the value of incarnation and atonement cannot be matched by any aggregate of crea­ turely goods. No matter how many excellent creatures there are in a world, no matter how rich and beautiful and sinless their lives, the aggregated value of their lives would not match that of incarnation and atonement; any world with incarnation and atonement would be better yet. And no matter how much evil, how much sin and suffering a world contains, the aggre­ gated badness would be outweighed by the goodness of incarnation and atonement, outweighed in such a way that the world in question is very good. In this sense, therefore, any world with incarnation and atonement is of infinite value by virtue of containing two goods of infinite value: the ex­ istence of God, and incarnation and atonement. Under this assumption,

372  Felix Culpa Theodicy

there will be a certain level L of excellence or goodness, among possible worlds, such that all the worlds at that level or above contain incarnation and atonement. Call this “the strong value assumption”, and say that any world whose value equals or exceeds it, is a highly eligible world. I am inclined to accept the strong value assumption, but I don’t need anything quite as powerful as all that for my argument. I can hold some­ thing weaker. Contrast two kinds of possible worlds. In the first kind, there are free creatures who always do only what is right, who live in love and har­ mony with God and each other, and do so, let’s add, through all eternity. Now, for each of these worlds W of this kind, there is a world W* of the sec­ ond kind. In W* God creates the very same creatures as in W; but in W* these free creatures rebel against him, fall into sin and wickedness, turn their backs upon God. In W*, however, God graciously provides a means of salva­ tion by way of incarnation and atonement. My claim is that for any such worlds W and W*, W* is a better world than W. Unlike the strong value as­ sumption, this claim does not entail that every world with incarnation and atonement is better than any world without them, and it does not entail that there is a level of value such that every world at or above that level contains incarnation and atonement. What it does imply, however, is that there is no level of value such that none of the worlds at or above that level contain in­ carnation and atonement. Call this the moderate value assumption. But my argument doesn’t require even the moderate value assump­ tion.16 All it really requires is that among the worlds of great value, there be some that include incarnation and atonement. Indeed, we can go further: given that all of the possible worlds including creatures are worlds suffi­ ciently good for God to actualize them, all that is really required, for my ar­ gument, is that incarnation and atonement be possible, i.e., that there be possible worlds that include them. Since, according to Christian thought, this state of affairs is actual, it is a fortiori possible. I shall conduct the argument under the strong value assumption, merely reminding the reader that the argument can also be conducted under the moderate or weak assumptions. Under the strong assumption, the value of any world which displays incarnation and atonement will exceed that of any world without those features. Perhaps, even, the value of incarnation and atonement (i.e., the complex event involving the actions of God the Father and God the Son) is so great that any world in which it occurs is as valuable

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 373

as any other world, so that the value of all the worlds in which atonement oc­ curs is equal. We needn’t go as far as all that, however; more modestly, we can say that the value of the worlds with atonement exceeds that of worlds without atonement, and the value of the former are clumped together in such a way that while some may be more valuable than others, none is very much more valuable than any other. More modestly still, we can say simply that all the worlds in which incarnation and atonement are present are worlds of very great goodness, achieving that level L of goodness such that no world without incarnation and atonement achieves that level. Accordingly, if God proposes to actualize a really good possible world, one whose value exceeds L, he will create a world containing incarnation and atonement. But of course all the worlds with incarnation and atone­ ment contain evil. For atonement is among other things a matter of crea­ tures’ being saved from the consequences of their sin; therefore if there were no evil, there would be no sin, no consequences of sin to be saved from, and hence no atonement. Therefore a necessary condition of atonement is sin and evil. But all the highly eligible worlds contain atonement; hence all the highly eligible worlds contain sin and evil, and the suffering consequent upon them. You can’t have a world whose value exceeds L without sin and evil; sin and evil is a necessary condition of the value of every really good possible world. O Felix Culpa indeed!17 But then this gives us a very straight­ forward and simple response to the question “Why is there evil in the world?” The response is that God wanted to create a highly eligible world, wanted to actualize one of the best of all the possible worlds; all those worlds contain atonement; hence they all contain sin and evil. I’ve claimed else­ where that theodicies are unsuccessful: “And here I must say that most at­ tempts to explain why God permits evil—theodicies, as we may call them—strike me as tepid, shallow, and ultimately frivolous.”18 But doesn’t the above furnish us with an answer to the question “Why does God permit evil?” The answer is: because he wanted to actualize a possible world whose value was greater than L; but all those possible worlds contain incarnation and atonement; hence all those worlds contain evil. So if a theodicy is an at­ tempt to explain why God permits evil, what we have here is a theodicy— and, if I’m right, a successful theodicy. And as a bonus, we get a clear resolution of the Supra/Infra debate: the Supras are right. God’s fundamental and first intention is to actualize an

374  Felix Culpa Theodicy

extremely good possible world, one whose value exceeds L; but all those worlds contain incarnation and atonement and hence also sin and evil; so the decree to provide incarnation and atonement and hence salvation is prior to the decree to permit the fall into sin. The priority in question isn’t temporal, and isn’t exactly logical either; it is a matter, rather, of ultimate aim as opposed to proximate aim. God’s ultimate aim, here, is to create a world of a certain level of value. That aim requires that he aim to create a world in which there is incarnation and atonement—which, in turn, requires that there be sin and evil. So there is a clear sense in which the decree to provide salvation precedes the decree to permit sin; but there is no comparable sense in which the decree to permit sin precedes the decree to permit evil. One final point before we turn to objections. In Salvifici Doloris, a re­ cent apostolic letter from Pope John Paul II on the Christian meaning of suffering, we read that Each one is also called to share in that suffering through which the Redemp­ tion was accomplished. He is called to share in that suffering through which all human suffering has also been redeemed. . . . Thus each man, in his suffering, can also become a sharer in the redemptive suffering of Christ. (no. 19)

Here the suggestion seems to be that we human beings, by virtue of suffer­ ing, can participate and take part in, can contribute to the divine suffering by which humankind is redeemed. Now this seems to suggest that Christ’s suffering and sacrifice was somehow incomplete: if my contribution is genu­ inely useful, must there not be something in some sense lacking in what Christ himself did in the Atonement? From a Christian perspective, this seems a bit suspect. But the same suggestion is made by the apostle Paul, whose credentials here are certainly beyond question: “Now I rejoice in what was suffered for you, and I fill up in my flesh what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s afflictions, for the sake of his body which is the church” (Col. 1:24).19 What is still lacking in regard to Christ’s affliction? What could still be lacking? What could this lack be? From the present perspective there is an answer: highly eligible possible worlds, those whose value exceeds level L, also contain creaturely suffering, suffering on the part of victims and perpetrators of sin. This suffering is a

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 375

necessary condition of the goodness of the world in question. In suffering, then, we creatures can be like Christ. We get to take part and participate in his redemptive activity. So, for a highly eligible world to be actualized, more is needed than just the suffering of Christ. All of these worlds contain atonement; so they all contain divine suffering; but they also all contain creaturely suffering. Creatures, therefore, can fill up what is lacking in re­ gard to Christ’s suffering in the following way: there is a necessary condi­ tion of the goodness of truly good (highly eligible) possible worlds that is not and cannot be satisfied by Christ’s suffering; it requires creaturely suf­ fering as well. It is in this sense that Paul as well as the rest of us can fill up what is still lacking in regard to Christ’s suffering.

OBJECTIONS

Accordingly, the Felix Culpa approach can perhaps provide us with a the­ odicy. But of course it does so properly only if it isn’t itself subject to fatal flaws. Is it? What might be objections to it? There are at least three principal objections to this line of thought, or perhaps three kinds of difficult ques­ tions to answer. First, why does God permit suffering as well as sin and evil? Second, why does God permit so much suffering and evil? And third, if God permitted human suffering and evil in order to achieve a world in which there is incarnation and atonement, wouldn’t he be manipulative, calculat­ ing, treating his creatures like means instead of ends? There is a sort of psy­ chological disorder called “Munchausen syndrome by proxy”20 in which par­ ents harm their children and then rush them to the hospital in order to look heroic and get attention; wouldn’t this be a bit like that? In the interests of decency and good order I will take these up one at a time and in order. Why Suffering?

I said above that the Felix Culpa line of thought offers a theodicy: an answer to the question “Why does God permit evil?” But perhaps a serious theodicy would have to answer other questions as well: for example, why does God permit so much evil, and why does God permit suffering? Concede that you can’t have atonement without evil; why do you also need suffering?

376  Felix Culpa Theodicy

Incarnation and atonement requires sin and evil: why think it also requires suffering? Wouldn’t the cosmos have been better if God had permitted sin and evil, so that there was occasion for incarnation and atonement, but no suffering? Maybe the Felix Culpa line of thought explains the existence of sin and evil; how does it help with respect to suffering? The answer is twofold: (a) significantly free creatures are free to do evil, and some of them in fact do evil, causing suffering; (b) suffering itself is in­ strumentally valuable. So first, one good-making feature of a world is the existence, in it, of free and rational creatures. But free creatures come in a variety of versions, and not all free creatures are equal with respect to value, i.e., to the value of the worlds in which they exist. In general, the more free creatures resemble God, the more valuable they are and the more valuable are the worlds in which they exist. In particular, creatures that have a great deal of power, including power to do both good and evil, are more valuable than creatures who are free but whose power is limited or meager. God therefore created a world in which there are creatures with at least two fea­ tures: (a) a great deal of power, including the power to work against God, and (b) the freedom to turn their backs upon God, to rebel against him, fight against what he values. Thus Milton’s Satan declares “Evil, be Thou my Good!”; in so doing he announces his intention to take up arms against God, to resist him, to try to destroy what God values, to do his best to wreck God’s world, to promote what God hates. Suffering is intrinsically a bad thing; accordingly God hates it; Satan therefore aims to promote suffer­ ing, to cause as much of it as he can. Much of the suffering in the world re­ sults in this way from the free actions of creatures who actively oppose God and what he values. But free creatures also cause suffering, sometimes, not because they intend in this way actively to oppose God, but just because they don’t have any objection to inflicting suffering on others in order to achieve their own selfish or foolish ends. Here one thinks of the enormous suffering inflicted, in the twentieth century, on the population of the former Soviet Union in order to attain that Marxist paradise; Stalin and his hench­ men recklessly ran roughshod over the rights and goods of others in order to achieve something they saw as valuable. At least some of the suffering the world displays results from the free actions of significantly free creatures. But what about so-called natural evil, evil that cannot be attributed to the free actions of human beings? What about the suffering due to disease,

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 377

earthquake, flood, famine, pestilence, and the like? What about animal suf­ fering and the savagery displayed in the natural world? What about the Ich­ neumon wasp Darwin found so upsetting, a wasp that lays its eggs in a live caterpillar, so that when the eggs hatch, the pupae eat the caterpillar alive from the inside? Well, perhaps, as Peter van Inwagen suggests, this is the price God had to pay for a regular world. But there is another and more tra­ ditional suggestion here. Perhaps the term “natural evil” is something of a misnomer, or perhaps, at any rate, the contrast between natural evil and moral evil is misleading in that the former is really an instance of the latter. It is plausible to think that there are deeper layers to the sin and evil the world displays than that exhibited by human beings and embodied in their actions. According to the apostle Paul, the whole creation is groaning, and groaning because of sin.21 Here a traditional suggestion is that suffering and evil of this sort is to be attributed to the actions of Satan and his cohorts; Satan is a mighty non-human free creature who rebelled against the Lord long before human beings were on the scene; and much of the natural evil the world displays is due to the actions of Satan and his cohorts.22 This suggestion is not at present widely popular in Western academia, and not widely endorsed by the contemporary intellectual elite. But it is less than clear that Western academia has much to say by way of evidence against the idea. That beings of these sorts should be involved in the history of our world seems to me (as to, e.g., C. S. Lewis and many others) not at all unlikely, in particular not unlikely with respect to Christian theism. The thought that much evil is due to Satan and his cohorts is of course entirely consistent with God’s being omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good; furthermore it isn’t nearly as improbable with respect to “what we now know” as most philosophers seem to assume. Objections to it consist much more in amused contempt or instinctive revulsion than in reasoned refuta­ tion. They are like those incredulous stares David Lewis complains of—not much by way of considered thought. But how much evidential value should be attached to a thing like that? So suffering results, at least in part, from the actions of free creatures; and perhaps it wasn’t within the power of God to create free creatures who are both capable of causing suffering and turning to evil, but never in fact do cause suffering. But further, perhaps even if God could create such crea­ tures, he wouldn’t want to, or wouldn’t want to create only them. Perhaps

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worlds with free powerful creatures who sin but do not cause suffering are not as good as worlds in which they create suffering; for suffering is also itself of instrumental value. First, some suffering has the effect of improving our character and preparing God’s people for life in his kingdom;23 this world is in part a vale of soul-making, as John Hick and many others (in­ cluding the apostle Paul) before him have suggested. Some suffering may also be the price of a regular world, as Peter van Inwagen suggests.24 But ac­ cording to the apostle Paul, there are other subtle ways in which suffering is of instrumental value. He suggests, for example, that our present suffering is a means to the eternal weight of glory prepared for those who follow him: We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. (2 Cor. 4:10–11, 14) We are . . . fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him. I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared . . . (Rom. 8:17–18) For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. (2 Cor. 4:17)

Our suffering can enable us to be glorified, and achieve for us an eternal glory; but we aren’t told how this works: how is it that our suffering is a means to this eternal glory? Elsewhere there are tantalizing suggestions: I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection, and the fellow­ ship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. (Phil. 3:10–11)

I believe three things are suggested. First, there is the suggestion that shar­ ing in the suffering of Christ is a means to attain “the resurrection from the dead,” i.e., salvation. Second, it is a good thing that the followers of Christ share in his sufferings because this is a means of fellowship with him at a very profound level and a way in which they achieve a certain kind of soli­

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 379

darity with him; and third, in thus sharing his suffering, his followers come to resemble Christ in an important respect, thus displaying more fully the image of God.25 Although these are deep waters, I’d like to say just a bit about the second and third suggestions. Consider the idea of fellowship with Christ in his suffering, then: what is valuable about fellowship in shar­ ing in the sufferings of Christ? The suggestion, I think, is just that our suf­ fering with Christ, thus joining him in the most profound expression of his love and enjoying solidarity with him in his central mission, is a good state of affairs; it is good that creatures, whose sins require this activity on his part, join him in it. Secondly, those who suffer resemble Christ in an impor­ tant respect, thus displaying more fully the image of God, i.e., displaying that image more fully than they could have without the suffering. An abso­ lutely central part of Christ’s mission is his suffering; it is through this suffer­ ing that he atones for human sin and enables human beings to achieve union with God. But then if it is a good thing that creatures resemble Christ, it is a good thing that they resemble him in this respect as well. According to Jona­ than Edwards, by virtue of our fall and subsequent redemption, we can achieve a level of intimacy with God that can’t be achieved in any other way; by virtue of suffering we are invited to join the charmed circle of the Trinity itself. And according to Abraham Kuyper, the angels see this and are envious.26 Perhaps another part of what is required for membership in this circle is solidarity with Christ and resemblance to him with respect to suffering. The really mature Christian, furthermore, one like St. Paul, will welcome this opportunity. Furthermore, perhaps all of us who suffer will welcome the opportunity in retrospect. Julian of Norwich suggests that those who suffer will receive God’s gratitude27 and will of course much rather have had the suffering and received the divine gratitude than to have had neither. That too is a good state of affairs. I say that our fellowship and solidarity in Christ’s suffering and our re­ sembling him in suffering are good states of affairs; I do not say that we can clearly see that they are indeed good states of affairs. My reason for saying that they are in fact good is not that it is simply obvious and apparent to us that they are good states of affairs, in the way in which it is simply ap­ parent that severe suffering is intrinsically a bad thing. Perhaps this is indeed apparent to some especially mature or especially favored human beings, but it isn’t to the rest of us. So I don’t say this because it is evident to us

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but rather because we learn from Scripture that these are good states of affairs—or, more modestly, we learn this from what seems to me to be the best understanding of the scriptural passages in question. Someone might object that in a theodicy, one cannot appeal to goods we can’t ourselves recognize to be goods; but why think a thing like that? A theodicy will of course make ref­ erence to states of affairs that are known to be good, or reasonably thought to be good. How this information is acquired is neither here nor there. So why is suffering present in the really good possible worlds; why is it that they contain not just sin, evil, and rebellion, but also suffering? Be­ cause, first, some of the free creatures God has created have turned their backs on God and behaved in such a way as to cause suffering; and second, because suffering is itself of instrumental value, and thus will be found in really good worlds. Suffering is of instrumental value, furthermore, in sev­ eral different ways. In addition to the ways suggested by Hick, Swinburne and van Inwagen, there is also the fact that the suffering of God’s children enables them to be in fellowship and solidarity with the Lord Jesus Christ; it also enhances the image of God in them. Why So Much Sin and Suffering?

But why is there so much sin and suffering? Concede that every really good world contains both evil and suffering; but why does there have to be as much of these dubious quantities as our world in fact manifests? Wouldn’t a world with much less sin and suffering than ours be a better world, even if it contains both incarnation and atonement and also some sin and suffer­ ing? Here there are two considerations. First, perhaps the counterfactuals of freedom come out in such a way that a world as good as ours will contain as much sin and suffering as ours. But secondly, there is the question how much sin and suffering a highly eligible world contains. This is not an easy question. As I’ve argued, the best worlds contain incarnation and atone­ ment. But for all we know, there isn’t any maximal amount of sin and suf­ fering contained in such worlds; that is, there isn’t an amount a of sin and suffering such that some world in this class contains a units (turps, perhaps) of sin and suffering and no world in this class contains more. Perhaps for every degree of sin and suffering contained in some highly eligible world, there is another highly eligible world with more. In the same way, for all we

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 381

know there is no minimum degree of suffering among these highly eligible worlds. Perhaps for every degree of sin and suffering contained in some highly eligible world, there is another highly eligible world with less. This is compatible with the degree of sin and suffering, in such worlds, being bounded both above and below: perhaps there is a degree of suffering and evil a such that every highly eligible world contains at least that much suffering and evil, and a degree a* such that no highly eligible world con­ tains more than that amount of suffering and evil. Then it could also be that for any given evil, God could have actualized a highly eligible world without permitting that evil; it doesn’t follow that he would be unjustified in permitting it. It could also be that God could have actualized a world that is better than alpha, the actual world; it doesn’t follow that he ought to have done so, since perhaps for every possible world there is a better he could have actualized. A second complication: how much sin is required to warrant incarna­ tion and atonement? Suppose the extent of sin were one small misstep on the part of an otherwise admirably disposed angel: would that be sufficient to warrant such drastic and dramatic action on the part of God? Wouldn’t such a response on the part of God be somehow inappropriate, something like overkill, perhaps? Probably, although one hardly knows what to say. It might be objected that God, given the unlimited extent of his love, would be willing to undergo the suffering involved in incarnation and atonement, even to save just one sinner. Perhaps so; but that is compatible with its being more appropriate that God’s magnificent action here save many, perhaps in­ definitely many. Christian doctrine includes, of course, the teaching that human beings are immortal, and can spend eternity with God; the more creatures who attain that state, presumably, the better. Jonathan Edwards and Abraham Kuyper believe, as we saw above, that fallen creatures who are redeemed can be admitted to a greater degree of intimacy with God (can join that charmed circle) than creatures who have not fallen. If so, the highly eligible worlds would no doubt contain a good deal of sin and evil— and, also, consequently, a good deal of suffering. How much sin and evil, then, will a highly eligible world contain? That is hard to say; and again, of course, there may be no answer. Considering all of these then—our lack of knowledge of the relevant counterfactuals of freedom, the fact that suffering is of instrumental value

382  Felix Culpa Theodicy

in a variety of ways—it seems to me that we have no way at all of estimating how much suffering the best worlds will contain, or where the amount of suffering and evil contained in alpha stands in comparison with those worlds. This objection, therefore, is inconclusive. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy?

Finally, an objection that has no doubt been clamoring for attention; this objection is powerful, but a little hard to state. The basic idea, however, goes something like this: wouldn’t God, in the scenario we’re thinking about, be using his creatures, treating them like means, not ends?28 God has this magnificent end of actualizing a highly eligible possible world (one in which he incidentally plays the stellar role); this requires suffering and evil on the part of his creatures, and apparently requires a good deal of innocent suffer­ ing and evil: is that fair, or right? More crucially, would this be consistent with God’s loving these creatures,29 as according to Christian belief he cer­ tainly does? If he loved them, would he compel them to suffer in this way so that he can achieve these fine ends? Or perhaps we could put it like this: isn’t there something unduly calculating about this procedure? Isn’t this a scenario for a sort of cosmic Munchausen syndrome by proxy?30 Isn’t it too much like a father who throws his children into the river so that he can then heroically rescue them, or a doctor who first spreads a horrifying disease so that he can then display enormous virtue in fighting it in heroic disregard of his own safety and fatigue? Could we really think God would behave in this way? How could it be in character for God to riffle through the whole range of possible creatures he could create and the circumstances in which he could create them, to find some who would freely sin, and then create them, so that he could display his great love by saving them? How could God be so manipulative? According to my dictionary, manipulation, in the currently relevant sense, is “management with the use of unfair, scheming, or underhanded methods, especially for one’s own advantage”; and calculating behavior is “marked by coldhearted calculation as to what will most promote selfinterest.” Manipulation thus involves seeking one’s own advantage by unfair means; and the problem with calculating behavior is that it is “coldhearted.” The idea, then, is that if God acted according to the Felix Culpa line of

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 383

thought, he would be unfair to his creatures and would be acting in a cold­ hearted, i.e., unloving way. This coldheartedness part of the present strand of the objection, therefore, reduces to the charge of unlovingness, the other strand in the objection. This leaves the charge of unfairness. But why would it be unfair of God to behave in this way towards his creatures? For two rea­ sons, perhaps: (a) this way of behaving on God’s part requires suffering on the part of his creatures; and it is unfair of God to act in such a way as to require suffering on the part of his creatures in order to attain or achieve his own ends as opposed to what is good for them; and (b) involving his creatures in this way is unfair because it fails to respect their autonomy. And both of these could be thought of as treating his creatures as means, not ends. Of course it isn’t always wrong for you to treat me as a means rather than an end. You hire me to weed your garden or repair your car or instruct your children: are you not then treating me as a means rather than an end? You are not thinking first, or perhaps at all, of my needs and interests, but of your own; and you get me to do something that serves your ends. Of course I am perhaps also treating you as means under those conditions: I take the job so that I can earn some money, enabling me to accomplish some of my own ends. So exactly why would it be out of character for God to treat his creatures as a means? Perhaps the problem is along the following lines: you offer to hire me to weed your garden, and of course I can refuse; similarly, I don’t force you to hire me. But with God, of course, it is quite different. He doesn’t ask our permission before creating us, before actualiz­ ing this world in which we are called upon to suffer. We don’t accept the suffering voluntarily; we don’t get a choice; God doesn’t consult us before actualizing this world, this world that requires our suffering. Obviously he couldn’t have consulted us about whether we wished to be created in a world such as this, but still he doesn’t; and isn’t that somehow unfair? So with respect to this strand of the objection, the charge is twofold: (a) God requires his creatures to suffer, not for their own good, but in order to ad­ vance some aims or ends of his own; and (b) God does this without asking their permission. The second strand of the objection—the strand according to which if God loved his creatures, he would not act in accord with the Felix Culpa scenario—reduces to the same charge: God’s love for his creatures is incom­ patible with his requiring them to suffer in order to advance divine aims or

384  Felix Culpa Theodicy

ends that do not advance the creatures’ good or welfare. The claim is that if God loves creatures the way he is said to, he would not treat them in that fashion. Marilyn Adams and Eleonore Stump, both extraordinarily thoughtful writers on evil and suffering, have both proposed what Adams calls “agent centered restrictions” on the way in which a holy, just, and lov­ ing God would treat us. Asking how Christian philosophers can now best contribute to the solution of the problem of evil, she replies that they “should focus on God’s agent centered goodness: the very dimension ren­ dered so baffling in the face of horrific individual sufferings.” And Stump says: The thought is that Christian philosophers should recognize that God is wholly good, but also perfectly loving, loves each of his creatures with a perfect love. If so, could it be that he would permit a person S to suffer for the good of someone else (or, more abstractly, permit S to suffer because S’s suffering is an element in the best world God can actualize)? If God per­ fectly loves his creatures, he would not require one of them to suffer in order to advance an end or aim that wasn’t directly connected with that agent’s own welfare. God wouldn’t require me to suffer in order to benefit someone else; he wouldn’t even require me to suffer in order to actualize an extremely good world; he wouldn’t require me to suffer, unless that suffering was nec­ essary for some good for me myself. Now as we have seen, some suffering is directly connected with the agent’s good. But it doesn’t appear that all suffering is. So suppose some suf­ fering is not. How shall we think about this? Here we must make some dis­ tinctions. First, of course, God might, in perfect consonance with his love, permit me to suffer in order to benefit someone else or to achieve a highly eligible good world if I freely consent to it and (like Christ) voluntarily ac­ cept the suffering. But suppose I don’t voluntarily accept it: perhaps I am unable, for one reason or another, to make the decision whether or not to accept the suffering in question. (Perhaps the suffering is childhood suffer­ ing.) Well, of course we sometimes quite properly make important decisions for someone (in a coma, say) who can’t make the decision for herself; we try to determine what the person in question would decide if she could make the decision herself. So suppose further that God knew that if I were able to make that decision, I would freely accept the suffering: then too, so far as I can see, his being perfectly loving wouldn’t at all preclude his permitting me to suffer for the benefit of others, or to enable him to achieve his end of

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 385

actualizing a highly eligible good world. But suppose still further, that I am able to make the decision and in fact would not accept the suffering; but suppose God knows that this unwillingness on my part would be due only to ignorance: if I knew the relevant facts, then I would accept the suffering. In that case too, God’s perfect love, as far as I can see, would not preclude his permitting me to suffer. Finally, suppose further yet that God knows that I would not accept the suffering in question, but only because of disor­ dered affections; if I had the right affections (and also knew enough), then I would accept the suffering: in this case too, as far as I can see, his being per­ fectly loving would not preclude his allowing me to suffer. In this case God would be like a mother who, say, insists that her eight-year-old child take piano lessons or go to church or school. There is another distinction that must be made. Perhaps God’s reason for permitting me to suffer is not that by undergoing this suffering I can thus achieve a greater good (the good of enjoying his gratitude, for example: see note 28) but because he can thus achieve a better world overall. Never­ theless, perhaps it is also true that he would not permit me to suffer for that end, an end outside my own good, unless he could also bring good for me out of the evil. Then his reason for permitting me to suffer would not be that this suffering contributes to my own improvement; nevertheless he would not permit me to suffer unless the suffering could somehow be turned to my own good.31 A constraint on God’s reasons (induced, perhaps, by his being perfectly loving) is one thing; a constraint on the conditions under which he would permit involuntary and innocent suffering is another. To return to an earlier example, perhaps God sees that the best worlds he can actualize are ones that include the unthinkably great good of divine incarnation and atonement. Suppose he therefore actualizes a highly eligible world that in­ cludes incarnation and atonement, and in which human beings fall into sin, evil, and consequent suffering. Suppose also that the final condition of human beings, in this world, is better than it is in the worlds in which there is no fall into sin but also no incarnation and redemption; they receive God’s thanks, enjoy a greater intimacy with him, are invited to join that charmed circle. Then God’s actualizing the world in question involves suf­ fering for many human beings; his reason for permitting that suffering is not that thereby the suffering individuals will be benefited (his reason is that he wishes to actualize a highly eligible world, one with the great goods

386  Felix Culpa Theodicy

of incarnation, atonement, and redemption). Nevertheless his perfect love perhaps mandates that he actualize a world in which those who suffer are benefited in such a way that their condition is better than it is in those worlds in which they do not suffer. By way of conclusion: the Felix Culpa approach does not dispel all the perplexity surrounding human suffering and evil; I suppose nothing can do that. But perhaps it reduces the perplexity, and perhaps it provides the means for a deeper grasp of the salvific meaning of suffering and evil.

NOTES

1. Many Supras also held that God’s first decree included that some should be damned as well as that some should be saved; perhaps this accounts for the association of supralapsarianism with the sterner sort of Calvinism. 2. Carl F. H. Henry, God Who Stands and Stays, vol. 6 of God, Revelation, and Authority (Waco, TX: Word Books, 1983), 88. 3. It is worth noting that there are many different problems, questions, and topics that fall under the rubric of the problem of evil. There are, for example, the problems of preventing suffering and evil, that of alleviating it (knowing how to com­ fort and help those that suffer from it), that of maintaining the right attitude towards those who suffer, the pastoral or spiritual problem I mentioned above, and more; and of course a proper response to one of these problems might be totally inappropriate as a response to another. 4. David Hume, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. Richard Popkin (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing, 1980), 63. Hume puts the argument in the mouth of Philo, widely thought to represent Hume’s own views. 5. See, e.g., chapter 14 of my book Warranted Christian Belief (New York: Ox­ ford University Press, 2000). 6. A no-see-um is a very small midge with a bite out of all proportion to its size. The reference is to the fact that your failing to see a no-see-um in your tent is no evidence that there aren’t any there; similarly, failing to see what God’s reason is for a given evil is no reason to think he doesn’t or couldn’t have a reason. 7. See, e.g., Steve Wykstra, “Difficulties in Rowe’s Argument for Atheism, and in One of Plantinga’s Fustigations against It,” read on the Queen Mary at the Pacific Division Meeting of the American Philosophical Association, 1983, and “The Hu­ mean Obstacle to Evidential Arguments from Suffering: On Avoiding the Evils of ‘Appearance,’” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16, no. 2 (1984): 73–93.

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 387 8. See Donald Turner’s 1994 Ph.D. dissertation “God and the Best of all Pos­ sible Worlds” (University of Pittsburgh). Here we must be careful: there is a good world W where you wear your blue shirt today, and another that differs from W only (substantially) in that you wear your yellow shirt today; a good world W where you have a coke for lunch and another just like it except that you have coffee. God does not, of course, create cosmoi corresponding to all of these. That is because you your­ self could not be in more than one cosmos; so while he creates cosmoi corresponding to each of the good possible worlds, the appropriate function is many-one. For details see Turner’s dissertation. 9. Here Marilyn Adams and Eleonore Stump have led the way: see, for ex­ ample, Stump’s “Aquinas on the Sufferings of Job,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), and “Second Person Accounts and the Problem of Evil,” in Faith and the Problem of Evil, Stob Lectures at Calvin College, January 1999 (Grand Rapids: Calvin College, 1999), and Adams’ “Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God,” in The Problem of Evil, ed. Marilyn McCord Adams and Robert Merrihew Adams (New York: Oxford University Press, 1990). 10. For the notion of possible worlds in play here, see my The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974), chap. 4, and “Actualism and Possible Worlds,” Theoria (1976): 139 ff., reprinted in Michael Loux, The Actual and the Possible (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1979). For the notions of strong and weak actualization, see my “Self-Profile” in the Profiles series volume Alvin Plantinga, ed. James Tomber­ lin and Peter van Inwagen (Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Co., 1985), 49ff. 11. I don’t mean to address here the question whether it is states of affairs or ob­ jects or events that are the primary locus of value; in either case states of affairs will be good or bad. 12. Plantinga, The Nature of Necessity, 180ff., and “Self-Profile,” 50ff. 13. God strongly actualizes a given state of affairs S just if he causes S to be actual. 14. I don’t have the space here to respond to objections to this assumption. Per­ haps the most important of these objections is the so-called “grounding” objection offered by Robert Adams in “Middle Knowledge and the Problem of Evil,” American Philosophical Quarterly 14, no. 2 (1977): 109–17, and William Hasker, “A Refutation of Middle Knowledge,” Nous 20, no. 4 (1986): 545–57. This objection goes all the way back to the Jesuit/Dominican controversy in the sixteenth century, a dispute whose increasing rancor finally induced the Pope to forbid the disputants to vilify one another in public (although he apparently didn’t object to vilification among consent­ ing adults in the privacy of their own quarters). The grounding and founding objec­ tion has been dealt with in magisterial fashion in my colleague Thomas Flint’s book Divine Providence: The Molinist Account (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1998).

388  Felix Culpa Theodicy 15. This is trivial; every possible world W containing creatures is such that there is some possible world in which God actualizes W: W itself. 16. As was pointed out to me by Tom Flint, for whose penetrating comments on this and other topics of this paper I am extremely grateful. 17. The Roman Catholic Easter Vigil liturgy contains the words, “O felix culpa, quae talem ac tantum meruit habere Redemptorem.” 18. Plantinga, “Self-Profile,” 35. 19. The same idea is to be found elsewhere in Paul’s writings: see, e.g., Rom. 1:17. 20. Here I am indebted for a correction to Tom Flint. 21. “For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time” (Rom. 1:18–22). 22. Thus, for example, Dom Bruno Webb: So the fallen angels which have power over the universe and over this planet in par­ ticular, being motivated by an intense angelic hatred of God and of all creatures, have acted upon the forces of matter, actuating them in false proportions so far as lay in their power, and this from the very outset of evolution, thus producing a deep-set disorder in the very heart of the universe which manifests itself today in the various physical evils which we find in nature, and among them the violence, the savagery and the suffering of animal life. This does not mean that, for instance, an earthquake or a thunderstorm is due directly to satanic action. It is due to purely natural causes, but these causes are what they now are owing to the deep-set disorder in the heart of nature resulting from this action of fallen spirits, most sub­ tly mingled with the action of good spirits, throughout the long ages of the world’s formation—‘an enemy came and sowed tares also amid the wheat’.

Bruno Webb, Why Does God Permit Evil? (London: Burns, Oates & Washbourne Ltd., l941), 49–50. Aquinas approvingly quotes Damascene to the same effect: “The devil was one of the angelic powers who presided over the terrestrial order” (ST I, Q. 110, a. 1, ad 3). 23. “God disciplines us for our good, that we may share in his holiness. No disci­ pline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it” (Heb. 12:10–11). 24. See, e.g., Peter van Inwagen, “The Magnitude, Duration, and Distribution of Evil,” in God, Knowledge, and Mystery (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 118. 25. Simone Weil: “. . . the distress of the abandoned Christ is a good. There can­ not be a greater good for us on earth than to share in it.” “The Love of God and Af­ fliction,” in Weil, On Science, Necessity, and the Love of God, ed. and trans. Richard Rees (London: Oxford University Press, 1968), 177.

Supralapsarianism, or “O Felix Culpa” 389 26. To be Near unto God, trans. John Hendrik de Vries (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1918), 307. 27. Revelations of Divine Love, chap. 14. 28. This way of putting the objection was suggested to me by Michael Schry­ namacher. 29. See Adams, “Horrendous Evils and the Goodness of God.” 30. “[Child abuse] includes not only children who have suffered physical abuse with fractures and bruises (“the battered child”) but also those who have experienced emotional abuse, sexual abuse, deliberate poisoning, and the infliction of fictitious ill­ ness on them by their parents (Munchausen syndrome . . .).” Encyclopedia Britannica, 11th ed., s.v. “child abuse.” 31. See, e.g., Rom. 8:28.

C H A P T E R

2 2

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? KEVIN DILLER

O Goodness infinite, Goodness immense! That all this good of evil shall produce, And evil turn to good; more wonderful Than that which by creation first brought forth Light out of darkness! Full of doubt I stand, Whether I should repent me now of sin By me done, and occasioned; or rejoice Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring; To God more glory, more good-will to Men From God, and over wrath grace shall abound. (Paradise Lost, xii.469–78)1

Kevin Diller, “Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? Questions for Alvin Plantinga’s Felix Culpa Theodicy,” Faith and Philosophy 25, no. 1 (2008): 87–101. Used by permission.

390

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 391

In the words of Adam, who has been given by the Archangel a view of God’s redemptive plans, this is the locus classicus of Milton’s expression of the Felix Culpa, the fortunate fall or happy sin, in response to which God brings about a greater paradise than the one lost—a . . . far happier place Than this of Eden, and far happier days.2

Its presence in Milton may serve to explain why there was discussion of Felix Culpa theodicies in the ELH (Journal of English Literary History) well before it drew the interest of twentieth-century philosophers of religion. The Latin expression, “O Felix Culpa,” has for centuries been found in an ancient hymn incorporated into the Roman Catholic Easter Vigil liturgy, which at length proclaims: O assuredly necessary sin of Adam, which has been blotted out by the death of Christ!

O fortunate fault, which has merited such and so great a Redeemer!3 In Leibnitz’s Theodicy he states, I have shown that the ancients called Adam’s fall Felix Culpa, a happy sin, because it had been retrieved with immense advantage by the incarnation of the Son of God, who has given to the universe something nobler than anything that ever would have been among creatures except for this.4

In his 1966 Evil and the God of Love, John Hick affirms the blessedness of the fall which makes possible our growth and moral transformation.5 In Paul Helm’s 1993 The Providence of God, he endorses the Felix Culpa approach, explaining that the fall is a “happy fault,” “because it, and it alone, makes possible the divine redemption from which the blessings of pardon and renewal follow.”6 Arguably, however, the most philosophically nuanced defense of a Felix Culpa theodicy, born out of serious theological reflection, is to be found in Alvin Plantinga’s recent article entitled “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa.’”7 It is this articulation of a Felix Culpa theodicy that I wish to analyze and question. Plantinga’s thoughts warrant close and

392  Felix Culpa Theodicy

receptive consideration as his contributions to this and other areas of interaction between philosophy and theology are in these fields “towering and magnificent goods.” In Plantinga’s presentation, he puts forward his main argument and then handles some anticipated objections. In this paper, I attempt to summarize the core of Plantinga’s argument and then raise some objections both for Plantinga’s formulation and for Felix Culpa theodicies in general.

PL A NTINGA’S V ER SION OF THE FELI X CU LPA THEODICY

Advocating any theodicy whatsoever is a new move for Plantinga. He has long argued for a free-will defense but has drawn a clear distinction between defense and theodicy. A defense merely undercuts the argument that the Christian view of God is inconsistent with the existence of evil. A theodicy gives an answer to the question, “what is the source of the evil we find, and why does God permit it?”8 In his 1983 “Self-Profile” right before his move to Notre Dame, Plantinga says he has never seen a convincing theodicy and that “a Christian must therefore admit that he doesn’t know why God permits the evils this world displays.”9 He appears to maintain this position right up through Warranted Christian Belief, which in fact contains in its closing chapter all of the elements of his Felix Culpa approach.10 His strategy here, nevertheless, is still only to defend against a potential defeater for Christian belief. He refrains from presenting it as a theodicy. In a note included in this final chapter of Warranted Christian Belief and referenced again in his Felix Culpa article, Plantinga offers a quotation from Abraham Kuyper which provides some confirmation that a Felix Culpa theodicy is (from a Dutch Reformed point of view anyway) a safe theological option. The excerpt from Kuyper is as follows: The angels of God have no knowledge of sin, hence also they have no knowledge of forgiveness, hence again they have no knowledge of that tender love that is formed from forgiveness. Nor have they that richer knowledge of God which springs from this tenderer affection. They stand as strangers in the face of it, and therefore says the Apostle that, with respect to this mystery, the angels are, as it were, jealously desirous “to look into it.”11

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 393

The key point in Kuyper, in Plantinga’s development of the argument, and in the Easter liturgy itself is the notion that sin is necessary to achieving God’s intended greater goods. The chaos caused by creaturely rebellion is the unavoidable collateral damage of a project to bring about good conditions that far outweigh the losses incurred. Plantinga’s argument progresses from a discussion of the comparative value of possible worlds. The value or disvalue of a possible world is a calculation based on an aggregate weighting of the relative values and disvalues of the good and bad states of affairs in that world (p. 5). Creaturely goods and creaturely evils are factored in the equation along with all other value-measurable states of affairs. There are, however, some states of affairs that are of exceedingly high value, such that the balance of the equation is irreversibly tipped towards the positive. No amount of creaturely evil could outweigh it. One of these states of affairs is the existence of God which single-handedly gives a world unlimited value (p. 9). And because God is a necessary being, thus existing in all possible worlds, there is no possible world that is not a world of unlimited value— and therefore, “every possible world is a very good world.” It might be interesting to think about the value of an argument that stopped there, but Plantinga is looking for more than just a defense of God’s goodness. “Christian philosophers should also turn to a different task: that of understanding the evil our world displays from a Christian perspective” (p. 5, emphasis mine). In Plantinga’s view, although all possible worlds are such that God exists and are therefore worlds of unlimited value, some are better than others (p. 9). There is in fact a second great-making feature of some possible worlds: the “towering and magnificent good of divine incarnation and atonement” (p. 9). God’s decision to become incarnate and redeem sinful creatures was an act of free grace. There are, therefore, possible worlds in which sinful creatures are not redeemed. Such worlds would still be very good worlds; since, in all possible worlds, God exists. But worlds containing incarnation12 and atonement would be far better still. In fact, “any world with incarnation and atonement is a better world than any without it” (p. 10).13 Once again, no amount of creaturely good or evil can compare with the value of this state of affairs. Plantinga seems to suggest that its unrivaled value has a two-fold derivation: first, and foremostly

394  Felix Culpa Theodicy

in his exposition, it is derived from its being an unsurpassable display of love (p. 7), and second, from the fact that it not only effects salvation, but enables a greater intimacy or fellowship with God than would have been possible without the sin and suffering (pp. 18–19). The conclusion of all of this is quite obvious. In order to have incarnation and atonement, there needs to be a state of affairs for which atonement is required. So, “a necessary condition of atonement is sin and evil” (p. 12). Therefore we can conclude, “sin and evil is a necessary condition of the value of every really good possible world. O Felix Culpa indeed!” (p. 12). This argument is a new species from Plantinga in the genus of responses to the problem of evil. This is a theodicy, not merely a defense, not merely a defeater defeater, but an explanation for why God allows evil—a reason for evil, that does not remove all the perplexity, but at a general level gives us an understanding for why it exists. In addition to the theodicy, Plantinga proposes that this explanation sheds light on other related matters. Most significantly, it shows that the Supralapsarians were right to argue that the decree to save precedes the decree to permit the fall. The fall was a regrettably necessary part of the broader, and in that sense logically prior, decision to enhance the world through incarnation and atonement.14 In the later part of his essay, Plantinga defends his proposed theodicy against a number of objections. Possibly the most significant clarification that comes out of his engagement is an argument for the instrumental value of suffering. Suffering is not just a necessary byproduct of the plan to effectuate incarnation and atonement, but it also allows us to have a kind of intimacy and solidarity with Christ that would not otherwise have been possible (pp. 18–19). Though Plantinga raises a number of other interesting issues in his exposition, this brief summary highlights the key features of his argument. The great-making value of incarnation and atonement has a dual aspect, providing both an unparalleled display of love and an enhancement to human intimacy with God. The benefits depend on incarnation and atonement, which in turn depend on the emergence of sin and evil in the world. Were it not for sin, therefore, this world would miss out on benefits that incalculably surpass the costs. This leads to the conclusion: “O happy sin.”

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 395 OBJECTIONS TO PL A NTINGA’S V ER SION OF THE FELIX CULPA THEODICY

1.  The Towering Good of Incarnation Requires No Fall

Plantinga reasons that a world with incarnation and atonement must contain evil, since atonement implies that there is sin that needs atoning for. But if we consider the incarnation alone, it is not clear that evil is a prerequisite. While it may be true that atonement requires incarnation, it is certainly not clear that a world that contains the incarnation must be a world that contains evil and atonement. It may be argued that incarnation is a necessary part of God’s taking human suffering on himself, but it is not clear that incarnation requires suffering,15 nor is it clear that God’s purposes in becoming human were exhausted by those which involve suffering. Thomas Aquinas, in response to the question “whether, if man had not sinned, God would have become incarnate?”, responds that “even had sin not existed, God could have become incarnate.”16 To what extent does this impact Plantinga’s argument? At no place does Plantinga seem to hang his argument on the incarnation alone. The incarnation is significant to the argument in that it makes more explicit one aspect of divine condescension that contributes to the whole magnificent enactment of sacrificial love, and Christ’s human suffering and death would have been impossible without it. Plantinga is surely right to single out the incarnation as a great-making feature of the world. But what makes the incarnation of great-making value to the world may also have to do with its significant value outside of the part that it plays strictly in our redemption from sin. In becoming human God creates an opportunity for human intimacy and fellowship with God that would not otherwise be possible. The New Testament seems to advance the notion that, because God became human, believers are grafted together in Christ, and enabled thereby to commune with God in a way that would otherwise have been humanly impossible. If something like this is the case, then it is by the incarnation that we are “invited to join the charmed circle of the Trinity itself” (p. 18). It may not be therefore, as Plantinga—citing Edwards—suggests, that it is primarily by virtue of our suffering that greater intimacy with God becomes possible.17 Neither is it certain—following Kuyper—that this intimacy can only be known by those once lost

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who experience forgiveness and rescue. It is extremely difficult to imagine what might have been, if sin and evil had never arisen. The fact is we are those once lost who now experience forgiveness and rescue. The story of the enactment of God’s sacrificial love is the one in which we find ourselves and at the heart of our worship is a reenactment and participation in the broken body and spilled blood of our Lord. Yes, the eucharist would not be a proclamation of Christ’s death if it had not been for sin and the atonement. But this proclamation of his death is only “until he comes,” after which intimacy with Christ will presumably continue and intensify. While it may be true that in our suffering we are able to participate in the sufferings of Christ, it does not follow that there is a unique quality and value to this kind of intimacy or avenue to intimacy that could not otherwise be achieved, perhaps by the incarnation alone, without suffering and evil.18 The body of Christ may have been given to us, without needing to be broken for us. I would propose that, with or without the fall, the incarnation might serve as God’s means of drawing us into the kind of closer communion with him that transforms us and our relationships. Additionally, incarnation alone is a towering and magnificent act of divine condescension and self-giving, incommensurate with creaturely goods and evils. If this is so, could a world with incarnation and no fall be just as good as a world with atonement that included suffering and evil?19 I mentioned that in Plantinga’s theodicy the unrivaled value of a world with incarnation and atonement has a two-fold derivation. The second of the two was the way in which sin and suffering enable a greater intimacy or fellowship with God than would otherwise have been possible. But this benefit of greater human intimacy with God may be won for us by the incarnation alone, which in no way requires sin and evil.20 2.  The Value Assumption of the Atonement and Relationship with God

If we remove from calculation any reference to the incarnation alone, we are still left with the central and singularly sufficient component of Plantinga’s theodicy. The atonement requires the fall, but the atonement is well worth the fall. The atoning work of God in Christ is an act of such profound and costly divine love that it stands above all other imaginable values (p. 10) and outweighs all other creaturely disvalues. At the heart of Plantinga’s argu-

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 397

ment is the assumption that the enactment or display of love that we see in the atonement21 is a great-making state of affairs. But just what is it that is of such great value in a world that contains so triumphant a display of sacrificial love? We could easily here become embroiled in a debate over the nature of love, essence and action. But the question is worth raising: would the depths of God’s love for creation have been any less if sin and evil had not entered the world? Surely not. In all possible worlds God is such that he would take suffering and sin onto himself if that were required for our redemption and for enabling the kind of communion with creatures that he desires. Even in worlds without sin—if such worlds are indeed possible—the counterfactuals of God’s love are the same.22 Perhaps Plantinga’s view is not that there would be anything lacking in God’s love for us without atonement, but that there would be something lacking in our perception of that love.23 It is reasonable to think that it is part of God’s loving purposes that the beloved would understand how loved they are. The argument, in this case, would be that the enactment of God’s love in redemption gives us a view of the nature of that love which we would not otherwise have had. But how could we know what God’s limitations are with respect to communicating to us a knowledge of the depth of his love?24 The weight of the theodicy rests on this assumption, but we are not given a good reason to accept it.25 Another assumption that is worth probing has to do with how value is derived in Plantinga’s calculations. In a footnote, he explains that he avoids taking a position on whether it is “states of affairs or objects or events that are the primary locus of value; in either case states of affairs will be good or bad” (p. 5n11). This is a helpful move, I find, but it may still be that underlying assumptions about the primary locus of value are operative in the comparative assessment of the values of states of affairs. For instance, in addition to objects and events, there are of course other candidates that might serve as the primary locus of value. Perhaps we could take a relational view. It could be that the evaluation of the states of affairs in a world W derives primarily from the kind of right relationships that are established by God in W. If this is the case, then with respect to the atonement, higher value will be placed on the state of affairs that God accomplishes through suffering, rather than on the extraordinary suffering itself that God endures. Assessing value in this way seems also to respect the apparent order of means and ends in the narrative of divine grace. That is to say, the traditional interpretation of the

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atonement is that it is the means to accomplish the end of our redemption. In a Felix Culpa theodicy, means and ends are changed.26 The fall now becomes the means to the ultimate end of the display of God’s love in the suffering of the atonement. What makes the world great on the Felix Culpa view is the towering good of the costliness of God’s loving action, not primarily what is accomplished by that action. If right relationship with God is the primary locus of value for the states of affairs that make a world great, then the Felix Culpa view, it seems to me, would have little to commend it. Relationship with God appears to be undervalued, such that it is worth severing the relationship so that God can act out in love to restore it. In response, the Felix Culpa defender could return to Plantinga’s suggestion, following Kuyper and Edwards, that there is a special excellence to the quality of relationship that can be known by those once lost who are redeemed.27 While this suggestion may resonate with some of our own experiences in an already fallen world, grounding this claim is fraught with difficulties. How would we establish the general principle without suggesting, for instance, that the strongest marriages are those that have involved a period of divorce, or that the deepest mother-daughter relationship is enabled once the daughter commits patricide or the like? One might propose that any world in which God establishes a means of right relationship between God and fellow creatures is a world that contains a great-making state of affairs that is incommensurable with creaturely goods and evils. Evaluating states of affairs in terms of their positive or negative contribution to right relationship with God seems to correspond better to the priorities of the gospel. The good news made known in Christ is that God loves us so much that becoming human he was willing to suffer and die to rescue us for relationship with him, not that he loves us so much that he was willing to let that relationship be broken in order to orchestrate an opportunity to demonstrate the depths of his love.28 Another way to form the objection is to consider how God himself might view the value of the atonement. If God’s purpose in atonement is to restore relationship with us, then it is proper to think that close relationship with creation is to God of greater value than the cost of the atonement. Restoring relationship is worth the sacrifice. The Felix Culpa approach swaps cost and value in the equation such that the value of the sacrifice of atonement is considered worth the cost of breaking relationship with creation. Furthermore, this ob-

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 399

jection, it seems to me, has application not only to Plantinga’s formulation but to all Felix Culpa theodicies. 3.  Agent Centered Restrictions on Suffering and the Question of Supralapsarianism

A Felix Culpa theodicy maintains that a fallen world is better than one where there is no fall. It could be asked, however, better for whom? Plantinga argues that even if it had been within God’s power to create a world where free people freely chose not to rebel, it would be better to create the world where the rebellion occurred. Now, unless universalism is in view, the benefit does not appear to accrue to each agent personally. We might grant that God would permit a person to suffer for the benefit of others and the world, but would God permit someone to suffer eternally because their suffering is an element in the best world God can actualize?29 This seems to violate the notion of “‘agent centered restrictions’ on the way in which a holy, just, and loving God would treat us” (p. 23). Plantinga is sympathetic to the theological conviction that God would ensure that in addition to whatever worldwide value is derived from the suffering of any particular individual there would also be some benefit for the individual him/herself. He says, “perhaps it is also true that he would not permit me to suffer for that end, an end outside my own good, unless he could also bring good for me out of the evil.” But if agent-specific restrictions are to be taken seriously, must they not at least stipulate that the good which is brought out of the evil for the individual be valuable enough to offset the personal toll? However, for Plantinga’s theodicy to be successful, he must hold that a world including all of the same people would be better off with a fall than without a fall, even though it could not be better for those who suffer eternally broken relationship with God. The good of having participated in making the world a better place would not individually offset the quite personal cost of entering hell or even being annihilated? Barring a commitment to universalism,30 it seems once again, from this angle, that on the Felix Culpa view the value of the extravagance of God’s sacrifice is made to be more valuable than the right relationship with God that the sacrifice is meant to restore. On a related note, Plantinga maintains that one positive byproduct of his Felix Culpa theodicy is that “we get a clear resolution of the Supra/Infra

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debate: the Supras are right” (p. 12). He casts the debate as a question about the order of God’s decree with respect to salvation and permitting the fall. As Louis Berkhof puts it, “the question is, whether the decrees to create and permit the fall were means to the decree of redemption.”31 If it is the case that God’s decree to permit sin is in fact motivated by his desire to provide salvation, then it is his decree to save which is the more basic or fundamental. It seems to me that theologically there is much to affirm in Plantinga’s position, particularly the priority of God’s self-giving love over God’s decision to permit evil in the world. I have argued against Plantinga’s notion that evil itself is necessary to fulfilling the dictates of God’s love. But this in no way detracts from the fact that we have, in the incarnation and the atonement, the revelation of God in the mind-blowing radicality of his love for creatures. Furthermore, it seems altogether correct to view all that God does, including his permitting evil and suffering, to be a part of and motivated by his love. But this may also give us a reason to step back from any traditional supra- or infralapsarianism. The supra/infra debate was not merely about the relative priority of salvation to the fall.32 This debate was focused squarely on the nature of the election and reprobation of individual people in God’s sovereign decree.33 Negatively, the question was about whether God actively reprobates some (Supralapsarianism) or passively chooses not to elect some of the fallen (Infralapsarianism). The Supras held that in the logical order of God’s decree his decision to elect some and reprobate others was primary. The Infras held that, in the logical order of God’s decree, permitting the fall came prior to election. God then decrees to elect some and leaves the rest in their sin. Plantinga’s gloss on Supralapsarianism seems superior to the traditional view because it moves the debate away from reprobation and focuses us on the priority and great-making quality of God’s redeeming love. We are left, however, with the unanswered agent-centered concerns. A traditional Supralapsarian holds that what is primary for God is his decree to “glorify Himself, and particularly to magnify His grace and justice in the salvation of some and the perdition of other rational creatures.”34 The question I would raise to Plantinga’s formulation in light of this is: given the nature of God’s personal self-sacrificing love, could the value of the world in general actually be advanced by means of the cost of an eternally broken relationship with God for some particular individuals?

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 401 IS THEODICY A GOOD IDE A?

These objections, I believe, have enough force to question seriously whether, from a Christian point of view, a Felix Culpa theodicy ought to be embraced. But does this mean that all attempts at theodicy are somehow mistaken? Who is right, the Plantinga of 1983 who says that Christians should admit that we don’t know why God permits evil, or the Plantinga of the new millennium, who recommends that Christian philosophers should turn to the task of understanding evil from a Christian perspective? It’s possible that both are correct. Seeing evil from a Christian perspective may bring us to the affirmation that we don’t know why God permits it. We are, it seems to me, bounded by two important convictions. First, the world actualized by God, taken not just in its present condition but including also its eschatological consummation, is good. It must be, it is the world actualized by the God made known to us in Jesus Christ. By his own incarnation, obedience and suffering, God reverses the death and undoes the suffering effected by sin, such that the eschatological end outweighs the pain and cost of permitting evil. Affirming this much stops short of making sense of evil, and for good reason. The second binding conviction for the Christian is that evil is thoroughly evil. It is not good in evil clothing. And, therefore, evil does not make sense—it is irrational. Understanding why God might permit evil is one thing; understanding how it is that evil emerges as something to permit is something else entirely. A free will theodicy and a Felix Culpa theodicy can be helpfully contrasted to illumine the point. In a theodicy that explains evil as something that arises as a result of the misuse of creaturely freedom, we are given an explanation as to why God might permit evil, but evil itself is not made a necessary component of achieving a higher good. Though evil might be inevitable, we do not know that it is, because we are given no explanation for why evil emerges in the exercise of creaturely freedom. If a good creature understands that an evil choice will distort relationship with God and lead to death, there is no explanation possible for why a creature might choose evil which does not already presuppose some prior evil that has degraded in some way the proper function of that free creature’s will.35 In Christian scripture, evil is not explained; instead we find that it is permitted, confounded, and finally eradicated.

402  Felix Culpa Theodicy

In a Felix Culpa theodicy, evil is made a necessary component of achieving a higher good.36 This imbues evil with purpose and makes evil finally reasonable. We now do have an explanation for evil, though we still have no immediate explanation for how evil might emerge in the exercise of creaturely freedom. A Molinist like Plantinga would still maintain that God does not directly cause or commit evil. The emergence of evil remains a mystery. But we do know that evil is intentionally and originally willed by God: he desires it to emerge. Unlike a free will theodicy, in a Felix Culpa theodicy God desires evil as a means to his good purposes. This move has a dangerously distorting moral and theological impact. We can no longer condemn evil and injustice as wholly antithetical to what is good. Evil is ultimately the will of God. So much so that we can say of the fall: “O happy sin.” Defenders of either theodicy may maintain that God’s hands remain clean, creatures carry the blame for evil, evil is ultimately destroyed, and creation is redeemed. The contrast between these two theodicies is a razor’s breadth but a chasm’s depth.37 In a free will theodicy it is the permission of evil that is essential to the greater good that God intends, but in the Felix Culpa theodicy it is the evil itself that is essential to the greater good. Evil is made reasonable as a functional good.38 While the goodness of God may not be thrown into question, it still creates for us moral vertigo of theological proportions. Evil that makes sense is no longer so bad—“O Felix Culpa” indeed. It seems, therefore, prudent from a Christian perspective to worry about theodicies that attempt to explain the emergence of evil in terms of the functional good of evil itself, rather than perhaps the functional good of the permitting of evil. Moreover, should we not resist a theodicy which would attempt to explain the source of the evil in a way that would make the emergence of evil rational or sensible?

CONCLUSION

If I have understood Plantinga correctly, there are two aspects to the greatmaking value that incarnation and atonement give a world which outweigh the required evil and suffering. The first aspect is the radically self-sacrificing display of God’s love for creatures that have rejected him. The second is the potential for deeper intimacy with God that comes through suffering or

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 403

through the experience of being rescued. Against the second aspect I advanced the argument that perhaps it is the incarnation alone which wins for us the great enhancements in the intimacy of our relationship with God. It is not primarily our participation in Christ’s suffering or experience of redemption that enables an unrivalled closeness with Christ; it is, instead, the fact that the Word became flesh which enables an unparalleled divinehuman communion. But the incarnation alone does not require suffering and evil, so neither then is evil required for enhancing the intimacy of human relationship with God. If it is not an enhancement in our relationship with God that necessitates evil, then Plantinga’s argument stands solely on the first claim: that the value of the atonement, which outweighs the required evil and suffering, is its being an otherwise impossible, towering display of God’s love. I have offered three challenges to this claim. First, I suggested that it is the nature of God’s immutable love, unchanging across all possible worlds that gives incomparable value to those worlds. Sin or no sin, all possible worlds are such that God would have suffered to procure the redemption of his creatures even in the face of their rejection of him. And, there is no reason to think that atonement is the only way God has to communicate to his creatures the depths of his love. Second, the Felix Culpa view seems to operate against the possibility that the locus of the value of states of affairs is derived from their contribution to right relationship with God and all that that entails. On the Felix Culpa view it is worth severing relationship so that God can act out in love to restore it. And third, the Felix Culpa view treats the cost of atonement as an end rather than a means, elevating the action of suffering love over God’s purpose and goal of right relationship between God and creatures. In addition to these objections, I raised the concern that, in Plantinga’s formulation, there appears to be an unmanageable tension between the good of a world for a particular individual and the good of the world as a whole. If we are to take agent-centered concerns seriously, it is difficult to imagine a personal gain for one who remains eternally alienated from God. And finally, I argued from a Christian perspective against any formulation of the Felix Culpa theodicy, because it attempts to defend God’s originally permitting evil by turning evil into a functional good, thereby giving evil a kind of ambiguous rational legitimacy. There is nothing ambiguous about the Christian position on evil, sin, suffering, injustice, and the fall. “Love does not delight in evil but rejoices

404  Felix Culpa Theodicy

with the truth” (1 Cor. 13:4, NIV). It seems to me that the Felix Culpa defender agrees with this. What is worth rejoicing about is not the fall itself, but what God does in response to it. What is happy is not sin but who God is, that he will do and has done everything that it takes to overcome evil and give us close, personal, life-giving communion with him. What is fortunate is that the God of all power, wisdom, and love has revealed himself to us in the incarnate Christ who suffered, died, and rose again to invalidate evil and suffering.

NOTES

My thanks to Alan Torrance, Luke Tallon, Dennis Laub, Ronald Feenstra, and the editors for their critical comments on an earlier draft of this paper. 1. John Milton, Paradise Lost, ed. with introduction by John Leonard (London: Penguin, 2000), xii.469–78. 2. Ibid., xii.464–65. 3. O certe necessarium Adae peccatum: quod Christi morte deletum est. / O Felix Culpa: quae talem ac tantum meruit habere redemptorem. Translation taken from Victor Yelverton Haines, “Drawing Evil with a Happy Face: The Iconography of the Felix Culpa,” in The Problem of Evil: An Intercultural Exploration, ed. Sandra Ann Wawrytko (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000), 77. For a discussion of the Gallican origins of the hymn and its incorporation into the Roman vigil see L. Duchesne, Christian Worship: Its Origin and Evolution; A Study of the Latin Liturgy up to the Time of Charlemagne, 5th ed. (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1923), 254; and Arthur O. Lovejoy, “Milton and the Paradox of the Fortunate Fall,” ELH: The Journal of English Literary History 4, no. 3 (1937): 169–71. For further inspirational reading on the topic, see the treatment of Winnie-the-Pooh’s fall from a tree into a gorse-bush, in C. L. J. Culpepper, “‘O Felix Culpa!’ The Sacramental Meaning of Winnie-the-Pooh,” in The Pooh Perplex, a Student Casebook: In Which It Is Discovered That the True Meaning of the Pooh Stories Is Not as Simple as Is Usually Believed, but for Proper Elucidation Requires the Combined Efforts of Several Academicians of Varying Critical Persuasions, ed. Frederick C. Crews (London: Robin Clark, 1963). 4. Gottfried W. Leibnitz, The Philosophical Works of Leibnitz, trans. George M. Duncan (New Haven: Tuttle, Morehouse & Taylor, 1890), 194–95. 5. John Hick, Evil and the God of Love (New York: Harper & Row, 1966), 400. 6. Paul Helm, The Providence of God (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1993), 214.

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 405 7. Alvin Plantinga, “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa,’” in Christian Faith and the Problem of Evil, ed. Peter Van Inwagen (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2004), 1–25. 8. Alvin Plantinga, “Self-Profile,” in Alvin Plantinga, ed. James E. Tomberlin and Peter Van Inwagen, Profiles (Dordrecht: D. Reidel Publishing Co., 1985), 42. 9. Ibid., 35. When Plantinga first delivered his Felix Culpa paper at a conference at Calvin College in May of 2000, he mentioned his earlier disparagements of theodicies and then quipped: “and so once more I’m obliged to eat my words.” In Alvin Plantinga, “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa,’” version delivered in Grand Rapids, MI, Calvin College, May 23, 2000, DVD Video, 38:42. 10. Alvin Plantinga, Warranted Christian Belief (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 489. 11. Kuyper as quoted by Plantinga, ibid. Plantinga draws on Kuyper and Edwards for a theological endorsement of his position. See Plantinga, “Supralapsarianism, or ‘O Felix Culpa,’” 18. 12. All references to “incarnation” refer to divine incarnation—the incarnation of Jesus Christ. 13. Plantinga calls this affirmation the strong value assumption. While Plantinga is inclined to accept this affirmation, he also tells us that his argument would still work on a more modest assumption (pp. 10–11). It seems that the bare minimum Plantinga needs is the assumption that incarnation and atonement make “a world of great value,” one that outweighs its costs of implementation. 14. According to Plantinga, light is also shed on the proper interpretation of the perplexing notion in Colossians 1:24 that seems to suggest there might be something lacking in Christ’s afflictions. On Plantinga’s view we could interpret this lack to be that “necessary condition of the goodness of truly good (highly eligible) possible worlds that is not and cannot be satisfied by Christ’s suffering” (p. 13). Perhaps more could be done to strengthen this exegesis, but it seems unlikely to me that Paul’s readers would have understood him to be referring to his sharing in the regrettably necessary repercussions of fulfilling the pre-conditions of atonement. Aaron Kuecker has proposed to me what is to my mind a much more satisfactory interpretation that reads this verse in line with Paul’s ministry of suffering for the churches. Along with a reading of the verse in its original word order, this recommends that we understand the lack to refer to something lacking in Paul’s flesh as he shares in the sufferings of Christ for his church. There is no indication whatsoever in the verse that something is lacking in Christ’s atoning work. 15. If we assume that being physically embodied inevitably involves suffering, then the Christian eschatological hope for the eradication of suffering is in conflict with the notion of ongoing human embodied existence. 16. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica, trans. Fathers of the English Dominican Province (New York: Benziger Bros., 1947), 3.1.3 (emphasis mine). See also Duns Scotus, Opus Oxoniense, 3.19.1.

406  Felix Culpa Theodicy 17. Plantinga follows Kuyper and Edwards with the conviction that having fallen then being redeemed gives us enhanced intimacy with God. In the previous quote from Kuyper, he suggests from 1 Peter 1:12 that unfallen angels miss out on the depth of fellowship with God only possible for fallen and then redeemed creatures. But are there any strong reasons to take this view? It seems more sensible to maintain that God’s becoming human and not an angel is the key discriminator and sufficient to account for the special depth of relationship God has with humanity. Moreover, there is no indication in 1 Peter 1:12 that the longing of the angels is a “jealously desirous” longing that must go unfulfilled. The exegetical grounds for Kuyper’s position are extremely thin. Karl Barth understands 1 Peter 1:12 not to indicate either an epistemological or relational disadvantage for angels, but simply that angels are interested in what God is revealing, “their knowledge being obviously dependent upon events” (CD 3.3, 499–500). I am also indebted to Kelly Liebengood for pointing out that while angels usually announce good news, 1 Peter 1:10–12 indicates that the revelation of Jesus Christ was given to the church directly while angels eagerly listen in. 18. While of course we gain greatly through suffering and the experience of redemption as God turns evil for our good, we should guard against the notion that it is our suffering or our experience of being lost then found that achieves for us something on its own that enhances our relationship with God. And it is important to notice that the question of theodicy has to do with the emergence of evil whatsoever into the world. In a world that has already fallen, it is clear that God uses evil functionally to overcome evil. God uses evil against itself. But when it comes to the question of why there is any evil at all, it is a non-sequitur to leverage an explanation that already presumes the existence of evil. There is a circularity to the suggestion that the reason for God’s actualizing a world where evil emerges is so that evil can serve the functional good of overcoming the evil that has emerged. Plantinga’s argument is different from this. He argues that it must be the overcoming of evil which not only supplies the good of overcoming evil but supplies an incomparably greater good of intimacy with God that could not be achieved by a means that did not involve evil. My point here is that perhaps the incarnation alone, regardless of evil, provides the ontological basis for the closest possible human fellowship with God. 19. When speculating about the relative value of possible worlds it is important to remember that while we can purposefully entertain the theoretical notion of possible worlds and their gradations in value, we may not be in the right position to render an evaluative judgement. It seems highly likely that we are not aware of the full range of constraints that limit the scope of possible worlds. Plantinga himself seems to observe the distinction between logically possible worlds (those in which we perceive no logical contradiction) and the smaller subset of these worlds which are in fact possible (the kinds of worlds God could create given all of the relevant constraints, of which we may be mostly unaware). If it is the case that, given who God is, God would only create a

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 407 world that is in the set of the best of all possible worlds, then it would be right to say that, on the one hand, while many worlds are possible, in that, free from any external or logical necessity, God could have chosen to actualize them, on the other hand, only the best worlds are possible, given who God is. It is logically possible that this set of the best of all possible worlds is a set with only one member. It could be that there is in fact only one possible world—the actual world. Therefore, queries into the comparative value of logically possible worlds may in fact be irrelevant questions. When it comes to comparing an unfallen world with incarnation to the actual world, one could argue that there is prima facie evidence that a world with sin and suffering may be unbeatable by any sensible standard of measurement; it is after all the world that the God of all wisdom and goodness chose out of all possible worlds. The goal of a theodicy is to tell us why—a goal that is frustrated by the same human epistemic limits encountered when attempting to compare and identify possible worlds. 20. Affirming the priority and sufficiency of the incarnation also keeps us from the somewhat masochistic notion that suffering is the place of deepest relationship with God. 21. There is an ambiguity about the term “atonement” that must be carefully navigated in this discussion. Atonement may refer to the sacrificial and costly act whereby God effects our redemption. But atonement may also refer to the condition attained by means of that costly act (“at-one-ment”). Or, atonement may be taken broadly to refer to both the costly act and its consequence. A Felix Culpa theodicy seems to say that it is the sacrificial act of atonement which, as a demonstration of God’s love, is the great-making feature of the world. Of course the sacrifice would not be a demonstration of love if it were not aimed at the condition that is attained by means of that costly act. It is not, however, the condition attained by the act, but the act itself that is held to be most valuable in the Felix Culpa view. Effecting the condition of “at-one-ment” does not in any obvious way entail sin, whereas the sacrificial act of atoning for sin certainly does. 22. This is a helpful way to think about the immutability of God. No matter how the activity of God might differ from one possible world to the next, in every possible world God is such that he would do what he freely does in any particular possible world. 23. My thanks to Alan Torrance for suggesting this interpretation of Plantinga’s argument. 24. Plantinga acknowledges this weakness in his argument and simply proposes ignoring it: “It is hard to imagine what God could do that is in fact comparable to incarnation and atonement; but perhaps this is just a limitation of our imagination. But since this is so hard to imagine, I propose that we ignore those possible worlds, if there are any, in which God does not arrange for incarnation and atonement, but does something else of comparable excellence” (p. 10).

408  Felix Culpa Theodicy 25. As Luke Tallon suggested to me, one could argue that by the incarnation alone God reveals that he has given himself to us. No greater gift of love than this could be perceived. 26. It may be noted that there is some pattern resemblance between this objection and one Plantinga credits to Michael Schrynamacher under the heading: “Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy?” (pp. 21–25). But the objection here is not that a Felix Culpa theodicy has God treating people as means instead of ends. My objection is that in a Felix Culpa theodicy the sacrifice involved in atonement is misconstrued as an end instead of a means. The sacrifice of the atonement is a means to the real great-making feature of the world, right relationship with God. In no obvious way does right relationship with God require sin and evil. 27. Perhaps, as one of the editors suggested in response to an earlier draft of this paper, the prodigal son can have a relationship of greater value than the son who never went astray. Of course this fails for all sorts of exegetical reasons, but most importantly the fact is that each son experiences estrangement from the father and both would have been better off never to have turned away from the love of the father. The fact that “he who is forgiven little, loves little” is merely an assessment of the darkness of our hearts in our already fallen condition. It is not grounds to assume that the fall was required to enable a depth of love otherwise unreachable. 28. There is something to the Munchausen objection—that the Felix Culpa view makes God out to be “like a father who throws his children into the river so that he can then heroically rescue them” (pp. 21–22). Greater value is placed on the heroism of the rescue as a demonstration of great love than is placed on the condition achieved by the rescue, secure and right relationship with God. 29. This language parallels Plantinga’s usage, p. 23. 30. Accepting universalism would have massive implications for both the problem of evil and the supra-infra debate, and for that reason it is assumed that if universalism were considered a live option Plantinga would make more of it. 31. Louis Berkhof, Systematic Theology, rev. ed. (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 1996), 119. 32. The reference Plantinga gives highlights the importance of election (p. 1). “The terms supra and infra stipulate whether the divine decree to elect some to salvation comes logically before or after the decrees to create and to permit the fall.” Carl F. H. Henry, God Who Stands and Stays (Waco, TX: Word Books, 1983), 88. Berkhof notes that in its early form the debate was over whether the fall was decreed or simply foreknown. It is more widely discussed in its later form where the debate focuses on the logical order of the decree, the nature of predestination, and its personal extent. Berkhof, Systematic Theology, 118–25. 33. In the first footnote of his essay Plantinga mentions the place of reprobation in the thought of Supralapsarians (p. 1).

Are Sin and Evil Necessary for a Really Good World? 409 34. Berkhof, Systematic Theology, 119. 35. The garden story involves the deception of an already fallen angel, and we are given no reasonable explanation for the fall of Satan. 36. Donald McKim’s definition is deficient in this regard. He explains Felix Culpa as “an expression of faith in God’s ultimate power to bring good out of evil.” Clearly Felix Culpa directs its attention to the allegedly good and necessary role that evil plays in God’s plans. Donald K. McKim, Westminster Dictionary of Theological Terms (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1996), 108. 37. An expression used by Karl Barth in another context, CD I/1, 213 (“Messers Breite, aber abgrundtief,” KD I/1, 223). 38. I am not suggesting that we deny that evil is in fact used for good. Once evil is permitted and then emerges in the world God confounds evil, bringing good results from it. The chief example is the atonement, the suffering and human death of God which God uses to undo evil permanently. But this is merely affirming the triumph of God’s goodness over senseless evil, it is not suggesting that God’s goodness needs evil in some ultimate way.

P A R T

I V

Issues in the Problem of Evil God and the Best Possible World Natural Evils and Natural Laws Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World Skeptical Theist Defense Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

C H A P T E R

2 3

Must God Create the Best? RO B E RT M . A D A M S

I

Many philosophers and theologians have accepted the following proposition: (P) If a perfectly good moral agent created any world at all, it would have to be the very best world that he could create. The best world that an omnipotent God could create is the best of all logi­ cally possible worlds. Accordingly, it has been supposed that if the actual world was created by an omnipotent, perfectly good God, it must be the best of all logically possible worlds. In this paper I shall argue that ethical views typical of the Judeo­ Christian religious tradition do not require the Judeo-Christian theist to accept (P). He must hold that the actual world is a good world. But he need not maintain that it is the best of all possible worlds, or the best world that God could have made.1 Robert M. Adams, “Must God Create the Best?,” The Philosophical Review 81, no. 3 (1972): 317–32. Public domain.

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The position which I am claiming that he can consistently hold is that even if there is a best among possible worlds, God could create another in­ stead of it, and still be perfectly good. I do not in fact see any good reason to believe that there is a best among possible worlds. Why can’t it be that for every possible world there is another that is better? And if there is no maxi­ mum degree of perfection among possible worlds, it would be unreasonable to blame God, or think less highly of His goodness, because He created a world less excellent than He could have created.2 But I do not claim to be able to prove that there is no best among possible worlds, and in this essay I shall assume for the sake of argument that there is one. Whether we accept proposition (P) will depend on what we believe are the requirements for perfect goodness. If we apply an act-utilitarian stan­ dard of moral goodness, we will have to accept (P). For by act­utilitarian standards it is a moral obligation to bring about the best state of affairs that one can. It is interesting to note that the ethics of Leibniz, the best-known advocate of (P), is basically utilitarian.3 In his Theodicy (Part I, Section 25) he maintains, in effect, that men, because of their ignorance of many of the consequences of their actions, ought to follow a rule-utilitarian code, but that God, being omniscient, must be a perfect act utilitarian in order to be perfectly good. I believe that utilitarian views are not typical of the Judeo-Christian ethical tradition, although Leibniz is by no means the only Christian utili­ tarian. In this essay I shall assume that we are working with standards of moral goodness which are not utilitarian. But I shall not try either to show that utilitarianism is wrong or to justify the standards that I take to be more typical of Judeo-Christian religious ethics. To attempt either of these tasks would unmanageably enlarge the scope of the paper. What I can hope to establish here is therefore limited to the claim that the rejection of (P) is consistent with Judeo-Christian religious ethics. Assuming that we are not using utilitarian standards of moral good­ ness, I see only two types of reason that could be given for (P). (1) It might be claimed that a creator would necessarily wrong someone (violate some­ one’s rights), or be less kind to someone than a perfectly good moral agent must be, if he knowingly created a less excellent world instead of the best that he could. Or (2) it might be claimed that even if no one would be wronged or treated unkindly by the creation of an inferior world, the cre­

Must God Create the Best? 415

ator’s choice of an interior world must manifest a defect of character. I will argue against the first of these claims in Section II. Then I will suggest, in Section III, that God’s choice of a less excellent world could be accounted for in terms of His grace, which is considered a virtue rather than a defect of character in Judeo-Christian ethics. A counterexample, which is the basis for the most persuasive objections to my position that I have encountered, will be considered in Sections IV and V.

II

Is there someone to whom a creator would have an obligation to create the best world he could? Is there someone whose rights would be violated, or who would be treated unkindly, if the creator created a less excellent world? Let us suppose that our creator is God and that there does not exist any being, other than Himself, which He has not created. It follows that if God has wronged anyone, or been unkind to anyone, in creating whatever world He has created, this must be one of His own creatures. To which of His creatures, then, might God have an obligation to create the best of all pos­ sible worlds? (For that is the best world He could create.) Might He have an obligation to the creatures in the best possible world, to create them? Have they been wronged, or even treated unkindly, if God has created a less excellent world, in which they do not exist, instead of cre­ ating them? I think not. The difference between actual beings and merely possible beings is of fundamental moral importance here. The moral com­ munity consists of actual beings. It is they who have actual rights, and it is to them that there are actual obligations. A merely possible being cannot be (actually) wronged or treated unkindly. A being who never exists is not wronged by not being created, and there is no obligation to any possible being to bring it into existence. Perhaps it will be objected that we believe we have obligations to fu­ ture generations, who are not yet actual and may never be actual. We do say such things, but I think what we mean is something like the following. There is not merely a logical possibility, but a probability greater than zero, that future generations will really exist; and if they will in fact exist, we will have wronged them if we act or fail to act in certain ways. On this

416  God and the Best Possible World

analysis we cannot have an obligation to future generations to bring them into existence. I argue, then, that God does not have an obligation to the creatures in the best of all possible worlds to create them. If God has chosen to create a world less excellent than the best possible, He has not thereby wronged any creatures whom He has chosen not to create. He has not even been unkind to them. If any creatures are wronged, or treated unkindly, by such a choice of the creator, they can only be creatures that exist in the world He has created. I think it is fairly plausible to suppose that God could create a world which would have the following characteristics: (1) None of the individual creatures in it would exist in the best of all possible worlds. (2) None of the creatures in it has a life which is so miserable on the whole that it would be better for that creature if it had never existed. (3) Every individual creature in the world is at least as happy on the whole as it would have been in any other possible world in which it could have existed. It seems obvious that if God creates such a world He does not thereby wrong any of the creatures in it and does not thereby treat any of them with less than perfect kindness. For none of them would have been benefited by His creating any other world instead.4 If there are doubts about the possibility of God’s creating such a world, they will probably have to do with the third characteristic. It may be worthwhile to consider two questions, on the supposition (which I am not endorsing) that no possible world less excellent than the best would have characteristic (3), and that God has created a world which has characteris­ tics (1) and (2) but not (3). In such a case must God have wronged one of His creatures? Must He have been less than perfectly kind to one of His creatures? I do not think it can reasonably be argued that in such a case God must have wronged one of His creatures. Suppose a creature in such a case were to complain that God had violated its rights by creating it in a world in which it was less happy on the whole than it would have been in some other world in which God could have created it. The complaint might express a

Must God Create the Best? 417

claim to special treatment: “God ought to have created me in more favor­ able circumstances (even though that would involve His creating some other creature in less favorable circumstances than He could have created it in).” Such a complaint would not be reasonable and would not establish that there had been any violation of the complaining creature’s rights. Alternatively, the creature might make the more principled complaint, “God has wronged me by not following the principle of refraining from cre­ ating any world in which there is a creature that would have been happier in another world He could have made.” This also is an unreasonable com­ plaint. For if God followed the stated principle, He would not create any world that lacked characteristic (3). And we are assuming that no world less excellent than the best possible would have characteristic (3). It follows that if God acted on the stated principle He would not create any world less ex­ cellent than the best possible. But the complaining creature would not exist in the best of all possible worlds; for we are assuming that this creature ex­ ists in a world which has characteristic (1). The complaining creature, there­ fore, would never have existed if God had followed the principle that is urged in the complaint. There could not possibly be any advantage to this creature from God’s having followed that principle; and the creature has not been wronged by God’s not following the principle. (It would not be better for the creature if it had never existed; for we are assuming that the world God created has characteristic [2].) The question of whether in the assumed case God must have been unkind to one of His creatures is more complicated than the question of whether He must have wronged one of them. In fact it is too complicated to be discussed adequately here. I will just make three observations about it. The first is that it is no clearer that the best of all possible worlds would possess characteristic (3) than that some less excellent world would pos­ sess it. In fact it has often been supposed that the best possible world might not possess it. The problem we are now discussing can therefore arise also for those who believe that God had created the best of all pos­ sible worlds. My second observation is that if kindness to a person is the same as a tendency to promote his happiness, God has been less than perfectly (com­ pletely, unqualifiedly) kind to any creature whom He could have made somewhat happier than He has made it. (I shall not discuss here whether

418  God and the Best Possible World

kindness to a person is indeed the same as a tendency to promote his happi­ ness; they are at least closely related.) But in the third place I would observe that such qualified kindness (if that is what it is) toward some creatures is consistent with God’s being per­ fectly good, and with His being very kind to all His creatures. It is consis­ tent with His being very kind to all His creatures because He may have pre­ pared for all of them a very satisfying existence even though some of them might have been slightly happier in some other possible world. It is consis­ tent with His being perfectly good because even a perfectly good moral agent may be led, by other considerations of sufficient weight, to qualify his kindness or beneficence toward some person. It has sometimes been held that a perfectly good God might cause or permit a person to have less hap­ piness than he might otherwise have had, in order to punish him, or to avoid interfering with the freedom of another person, or in order to create the best of all possible worlds. I would suggest that the desire to create and love all of a certain group of possible creatures (assuming that all of them would have satisfying lives on the whole) might be an adequate ground for a perfectly good God to create them, even if His creating all of them must have the result that some of them are less happy than they might otherwise have been. And they need not be the best of all possible creatures, or in­ cluded in the best of all possible worlds, in order for this qualification of His kindness to be consistent with His perfect goodness. The desire to create those creatures is as legitimate a ground for Him to qualify His kindness to­ ward some as the desire to create the best of all possible worlds. This sugges­ tion seems to me to be in keeping with the aspect of the Judeo-Christian moral ideal which will be discussed in Section III. These matters would doubtless have to be discussed more fully if we were considering whether the actual world can have been created by a per­ fectly good God. For our present purposes, however, enough may have been said—especially since, as I have noted, it seems a plausible assumption that God could make a world having characteristics (1), (2), and (3). In that case He could certainly make a less excellent world than the best of all possible worlds without wronging any of His creatures or failing in kindness to any of them. (I have, of course, not been arguing that there is no way in which God could wrong anyone or be less kind to anyone than a perfectly good moral agent must be.)

Must God Create the Best? 419 III

Plato is one of those who held that a perfectly good creator would make the very best world he could. He thought that if the creator chose to make a world less good than he could have made, that could be understood only in terms of some defect in the creator’s character. Envy is the defect that Plato suggests.5 It may be thought that the creation of a world inferior to the best that he could make would manifest a defect in the creator’s character even if no one were thereby wronged or treated unkindly. For the perfectly good moral agent must not only be kind and refrain from violating the rights of others but must also have other virtues. For instance, he must be noble, gen­ erous, high-minded, and free from envy. He must satisfy the moral ideal. There are differences of opinion, however, about what is to be included in the moral ideal. One important element in the Judeo-Christian moral ideal is grace. For present purposes, grace may be defined as a disposition to love which is not dependent on the merit of the person loved. The gracious person loves without worrying about whether the person he loves is worthy of his love. Or perhaps it would be better to say that the gracious person sees what is valuable in the person he loves and does not worry about whether it is more or less valuable than what could be found in someone else he might have loved. In the Judeo-Christian tradition it is typically believed that grace is a virtue which God does have and men ought to have. A God who is gracious with respect to creating might well choose to create and love less excellent creatures than He could have chosen. This is not to suggest that grace in creation consists in a preference for imperfec­ tion as such. God could have chosen to create the best of all possible crea­ tures and still have been gracious in choosing them. God’s graciousness in creation does not imply that the creatures He has chosen to create must be less excellent than the best possible. It implies, rather, that even if they are the best possible creatures, that is not the ground for His choosing them. And it implies that there is nothing in God’s nature or character which would require Him to act on the principle of choosing the best possible creatures to be the object of His creative powers. Grace, as I have described it, is not part of everyone’s moral ideal. For instance, it was not part of Plato’s moral ideal. The thought that it may be the expression of a virtue, rather than a defect of character, in a creator, not

420  God and the Best Possible World

to act on the principle of creating the best creatures he possibly could, is quite foreign to Plato’s ethical viewpoint. But I believe that thought is not at all foreign to a Judeo-Christian ethical viewpoint. This interpretation of the Judeo-Christian tradition is confirmed by the religious and devotional attitudes toward God’s creation which prevail in the tradition. The man who worships God does not normally praise Him for His moral rectitude and good judgment in creating us. He thanks God for his existence as for an undeserved personal favor. Religious writings fre­ quently deprecate the intrinsic worth of human beings, considered apart from God’s love for them, and express surprise that God should concern Himself with them at all. When I look at thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars which thou hast established; What is man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou dost care for him? Yet thou hast made him little less than God, and dost crown him with glory and honor. Thou hast given him dominion over the works of thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet. (Ps. 8:3–6)

Such utterances seem quite incongruous with the idea that God created us because if He had not He would have failed to bring about the best possible state of affairs. They suggest that God has created human beings and made them dominant on this planet although He could have created intrinsically better states of affairs instead. I believe that in the Judeo-Christian tradition the typical religious at­ titude (or at any rate the attitude typically encouraged) toward the fact of our existence is something like the following. “I am glad that I exist, and I thank God for the life He has given me. I am also glad that other people exist, and I thank God for them. Doubtless there could be more excellent creatures than we. But I believe that God, in His grace, created us and loves us; and I accept that gladly and gratefully.” (Such an attitude need not be complacent; for the task of struggling against certain evils may be seen as precisely a part of the life that the religious person is to accept and be glad in.) When people who have or endorse such an attitude say that God is per­

Must God Create the Best? 421

fectly good, we will not take them as committing themselves to the view that God is the kind of being who would not create any other world than the best possible. For they regard grace as an important part of perfect goodness.

IV

On more than one occasion when I have argued for the positions I have taken in Sections II and III above, a counterexample of the following sort has been proposed. It is the case of a person who, knowing that he intends to conceive a child and that a certain drug invariably causes severe mental retardation in children conceived by those who have taken it, takes the drug and conceives a severely retarded child. We all, I imagine, have a strong in­ clination to say that such a person has done something wrong. It is objected to me that our moral intuitions in this case (presumably including the moral intuitions of religious Jews and Christians) are inconsistent with the views I have advanced above. It is claimed that consistency requires me to abandon those views unless I am prepared to make moral judgments that none of us are in fact willing to make. I will try to meet these objections. I will begin by stating the case in some detail, in the most relevant form I can think of. Then I will discuss ob­ jections based on it. In this section I will discuss an objection against what I have said in Section II, and a more general objection against the rejection of proposition (P) will be discussed in Section V. Let us call this Case (A). A certain couple become so interested in re­ tarded children that they develop a strong desire to have a retarded child of their own—to love it, to help it realize its potentialities (such as they are) to the full, to see that it is as happy as it can be. (For some reason it is impos­ sible for them to adopt such a child.) They act on their desire. They take a drug which is known to cause damaged genes and abnormal chromosome structure in reproductive cells resulting in severe mental retardation of chil­ dren conceived by those who have taken it. A severely retarded child is con­ ceived and born. They lavish affection on the child. They have ample means, so that they are able to provide for special needs and to insure that others will never be called on to pay for the child’s support. They give themselves

422  God and the Best Possible World

unstintingly and do develop the child’s capacities as much as possible. The child is, on the whole, happy, though incapable of many of the higher intel­ lectual, aesthetic, and social joys. It suffers some pains and frustrations, of course, but does not feel miserable on the whole. The first objection founded on this case is based, not just on the claim that the parents have done something wrong (which I certainly grant), but on the more specific claim that they have wronged the child. I maintained, in effect, in Section II that a creature has not been wronged by its creator’s cre­ ating it if both of the following conditions are satisfied.6 (4) The creature is not, on the whole, so miserable that it would be better for him if he had never existed. (5) No being who came into existence in better or happier cir­ cumstances would have been the same individual as the creature in question. If we apply an analogous principle to the parent­-child relationship in Case (A), it would seem to follow that the retarded child has not been wronged by its parents. Condition (4) is satisfied: the child is happy rather than miserable on the whole. And condition (5) also seems to be satisfied. For the retarda­ tion in Case (A), as described, is not due to prenatal injury but to the genetic constitution of the child. Any normal child the parents might have con­ ceived (indeed any normal child at all) would have had a different genetic constitution, and would therefore have been a different person from the re­ tarded child they actually did conceive. But—it is objected to me—we do regard the parents in Case (A) as having wronged the child, and therefore we cannot consistently accept the principle that I maintained in Section II. My reply is that if conditions (4) and (5) are really satisfied, the child cannot have been wronged by its parents’ taking the drug and conceiving it. If we think otherwise, we are being led, perhaps by our emotions, into a confusion. If the child is not worse off than if it had never existed, and if its never existing would have been a sure consequence of its not having been brought into existence as retarded, I do not see how its interests can have been injured, or its rights violated, by the parents’ bringing it into existence as retarded. It is easy to understand how the parents might come to feel that they had wronged the child. They might come to feel guilty (and rightly so), and the child would provide a focus for the guilt. Moreover, it would be easy, psychologically, to assimilate Case (A) to cases of culpability for prenatal in­ jury, in which it is more reasonable to think of the child as having been

Must God Create the Best? 423

wronged.7 And we often think very carelessly about counterfactual personal identity, asking ourselves questions of doubtful intelligibility, such as, “What if I had been born in the Middle Ages?” It is very easy to fail to con­ sider the objection, “But that would not have been the same person.” It is also possible that an inclination to say that the child has been wronged may be based, at least in part, on a doubt that conditions (4) and (5) are really satisfied in Case (A). Perhaps one is not convinced that in real life the parents could ever have a reasonable confidence that the child would be happy rather than miserable. Maybe it will be doubted that a few changes in chromosome structure, and the difference between damaged and un­ damaged genes, are enough to establish that the retarded child is a different person from any normal child that the couple could have had. Of course, if conditions (4) and (5) are not satisfied, the case does not constitute a counter­example to my claims in Section II. But I would not rest any of the weight of my argument on doubts about the satisfaction of the conditions in Case (A), because I think it is plausible to suppose that they would be sat­ isfied in Case (A) or in some very similar case.

V

Even if the parents in Case (A) have not wronged the child, I assume that they have done something wrong. It may be asked what they have done wrong, or why their action is regarded as wrong. And these questions may give rise to an objection, not specifically to what I said in Section II, but more generally to my rejection of proposition (P). For it may be suggested that what is wrong about the action of the parents in Case (A) is that they have violated the following principle: (Q ) It is wrong to bring into existence, knowingly, a being less excellent than one could have brought into existence.8 If we accept this principle, we must surely agree that it would be wrong for a creator to make a world that was less excellent than the best he could make, and therefore that a perfectly good creator would not do such a thing. In other words, (Q ) implies (P).

424  God and the Best Possible World

I do not think (Q ) is a very plausible principle. It is not difficult to think of counterexamples to it. Case (B ): A man breeds goldfish, thereby bringing about their exis­ tence. We do not normally think it is wrong, or even prima facie wrong, for a man to do this, even though he could equally well have brought about the existence of more excellent beings, more intelligent and capable of higher satisfactions. (He could have bred dogs or pigs, for example.) The deliberate breeding of human beings of subnormal intelligence is morally offensive; the deliberate breeding of species far less intelligent than retarded human children is not morally offensive. Case (C ): Suppose it has been discovered that if intending parents take a certain drug before conceiving a child, they will have a child whose abnormal genetic constitution will give it vastly superhuman intelligence and superior prospects of happiness. Other things being equal, would it be wrong for intending parents to have normal children instead of taking the drug? There may be considerable disagreement of moral judgment about this. I do not think that parents who chose to have normal children rather than take the drug would be doing anything wrong, nor that they would necessarily be manifesting any weakness or defect of moral character. Par­ ents’ choosing to have a normal rather than a superhuman child would not, at any rate, elicit the strong and universal or almost universal disap­ proval that would be elicited by the action of the parents in Case (A). Even with respect to the offspring of human beings, the principle we all confi­ dently endorse is not that it is wrong to bring about, knowingly and volun­ tarily, the procreation of offspring less excellent than could have been pro­ created, but that it is wrong to bring about, knowingly and voluntarily, the procreation of a human offspring which is deficient by comparison with normal human beings. Such counterexamples as these suggest that our disapproval of the ac­ tion of the parents in Case (A) is not based on principle (Q ), but on a less general and more plausible principle such as the following: (R ) It is wrong for human beings to cause, knowingly and voluntarily, the procreation of an offspring of human parents which is notably deficient, by comparison with normal human beings, in mental or physical capacity.

Must God Create the Best? 425

One who rejects (Q ) while maintaining (R ) might be held to face a problem of explanation. It may seem arbitrary to maintain such a specific moral principle as (R ), unless one can explain it as based on a more general prin­ ciple, such as (Q ). I believe, however, that principle (R ) might well be ex­ plained in something like the following way in a theological ethics in the Judeo-Christian tradition, consistently with the rejection of (Q ) and (P).9 God, in His grace, has chosen to have human beings among His crea­ tures. In creating us He has certain intentions about the qualities and goals of human life. He has these intentions for us, not just as individuals, but as members of a community which in principle includes the whole human race. And His intentions for human beings as such extend to the offspring (if any) of human beings. Some of these intentions are to be realized by human voluntary action, and it is our duty to act in accordance with them. It seems increasingly possible for human voluntary action to influence the genetic constitution of human offspring. The religious believer in the Judeo-Christian tradition will want to be extremely cautious about this. For he is to be thankful that we exist as the beings we are and will be concerned lest he bring about the procreation of human offspring who would be defi­ cient in their capacity to enter fully into the purposes that God has for human beings as such. We are not God. We are His creatures, and we be­ long to Him. Any offspring we have will belong to Him in a much more fundamental way than they can belong to their human parents. We have not the right to try to have as our offspring just any kind of being whose ex­ istence might on the whole be pleasant and of some value (for instance, a being of very low intelligence but highly specialized for the enjoyment of aesthetic pleasures of smell and taste). If we do intervene to affect the genetic constitution of human offspring, it must be in ways which seem likely to make them more able to enter fully into what we believe to be the purposes of God for human beings as such. The deliberate procreation of children de­ ficient in mental or physical capacity would be an intervention which could hardly be expected to result in offspring more able to enter fully into God’s purposes for human life. It would therefore be sinful and inconsistent with a proper respect for the human life which God has given us. On this view of the matter, our obligation to refrain from bringing about the procreation of deficient human offspring is rooted in our obliga­ tion to God, as His creatures, to respect His purposes for human life. In

426  God and the Best Possible World

adopting this theological rationale for the acceptance of principle (R ), one in no way commits oneself to proposition (P). For one does not base (R ) on any principle to the effect that one must always try to bring into existence the most excellent things that one can. And the claim that, because of His intentions for human life, we have an obligation to God not to try to have as our offspring beings of certain sorts does not imply that it would be wrong for God to create such beings in other ways. Much less does it imply that it would be wrong for God to create a world less excellent than the best possible. In this essay I have argued that a creator would not necessarily wrong anyone, or be less kind to anyone than a perfectly good moral agent must be, if he created a world of creatures who would not exist in the best world he could make. I have also argued that from the standpoint of Judeo-Christian religious ethics, a creator’s choice of a less excellent world need not be re­ garded as manifesting a defect of character. It could be understood in terms of his grace, which (in that ethics) is considered an important part of perfect goodness. In this way I think the rejection of proposition (P) can be seen to be congruous with the attitude of gratitude and respect for human life as God’s gracious gift which is encouraged in the Judeo-Christian religious tradition. And that attitude (rather than any belief that one ought to bring into existence only the best beings one can) can be seen as a basis for the disapproval of the deliberate procreation of deficient human offspring.

NOTES

Among the many to whom I am indebted for help in working out the thoughts con­ tained in this paper, and for criticisms of earlier drafts of it, I must mention Marilyn McCord Adams, Richard Brandt, Eric Lerner, the members of my graduate class on theism and ethics in the fall term of 1970 at the University of Michigan, and the edi­ tors of the Philosophical Review. 1. What I am saying in this paper is obviously relevant to the problem of evil. But I make no claim to be offering a complete theodicy here. 2. Leibniz held (in his Theodicy, pt. I, sec. 8) that if there were no best among possible worlds, a perfectly good God would have created nothing at all. But Leibniz is mistaken if he supposes that in this way God could avoid choosing an alternative less excellent than others He could have chosen. For the existence of no created world

Must God Create the Best? 427 at all would surely be a less excellent state of affairs than the existence of some of the worlds that God could have created. 3. See Gaston Grua, Jurisprudence universelle et théodicée selon Leibniz (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1953), 210–18. 4. Perhaps I can have a right to something which would not benefit me (e.g., if it has been promised to me). But if there are such non-beneficial rights, I do not see any plausible reasons for supposing that a right not to be created could be among them. 5. Timaeus, 29E–30A. 6. I am not holding that these are necessary conditions, but only that they are jointly sufficient conditions, for a creature’s not being wronged by its creator’s creating it. I have numbered these conditions in such a way as to avoid confusion with the numbered characteristics of worlds in sec. II. 7. It may be questioned whether even the prenatally injured child is the same person as any unimpaired child that might have been born. I am inclined to think it is the same person. At any rate there is more basis for regarding it as the same person as a possible normal child than there is for so regarding a child with abnormal genetic constitution. 8. Anyone who was applying this principle to human actions would doubtless insert an “other things being equal” clause. But let us ignore that, since such a clause would presumably provide no excuse for an agent who was deciding an issue so im­ portant as what world to create. 9. I am able to give here, of course, only a very incomplete sketch of a theo­ logical position on the issue of “biological engineering.”

C H A P T E R

2 4

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds PHILIP L. QUINN

I

According to the theistic religions, human persons are called upon to worship God. Theists typically hold that reverence and adoration are the appropriate human responses to him. This view presupposes that God deserves or merits worship. If a being were not worthy of worship, then surely worship directed toward that being would be wildly inappropriate. But what features must a being have to be a fitting and proper object of worship? It seems clear that only a morally perfect being could be worthy of the unqualified devotion typical of theistic worship. Moral goodness falling short of perfection might earn a being admiration but never adoration. This is why it is essential to theistic orthodoxy that God be thought of as perfectly good. Philip L. Quinn, “God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds,” in God: The Contemporary Discussion, ed. Frederick Sontag and M. Darrol Bryant (New York: Rose of Sharon Press, 1982), 199–215. Public domain.

428

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 429

Theists also hold that God created the heavens and the earth. God is, therefore, responsible for at least some of the good and evil in the cosmos of contingent things. Theists cannot avoid grappling with the problem of evil. How could a perfectly good being create a cosmos containing as much evil as we find in the world? Possible answers to this question, ranging from a free-will defense to a soul-making theodicy, are common currency among philosophers and theologians. But it is less widely recognized that theists must also confront a problem of good. Evil apart, the created cosmos seems to contain less good than it might have contained. How could a perfectly good being create a cosmos containing less good than the very best he could have created? And if a being worthy of worship would create the best cosmos he could, is a theist committed to holding that this is the best of all possible worlds? We all know that Voltaire ridiculed the Leibnizian doctrine that this is indeed the best of all possible worlds. But is the doctrine really ridiculous, fit only for satire? And, ridiculous or not, is it a doctrine orthodox theists are stuck with, like it or not, in virtue of holding that the creator deserves their worship? In this paper, I propose to discuss these and related questions. In an ingenious paper called “Must God Create the Best?” Robert M. Adams tries to refute the doctrine according to which God, if he creates at all, must create the best of all logically possible worlds.1 Adams supposes that those who would defend such a view would do so because they accept something like the following principle: (1) If a perfectly good moral agent created any world at all, it would have to be the very best world that he could create.2 Adams claims that a theist, or at least a typical Judeo-Christian theist, need not accept this principle. He holds that it is plausible to suppose that God could create a world such that (i) none of the individual creatures in it would exist in the best of all possible worlds; (ii) none of the creatures in it has a life which is so miserable on the whole that it would be better for that creature if it had never existed; and (iii) every individual creature in it is at least as happy on the whole as it would have been in any other possible world in which it exists.3 If God were to create such a world, Adams says, he would not thereby wrong any of the creatures in it, nor would he thereby

430  God and the Best Possible World

treat any of them with less than perfect kindness, nor would he thereby, exhibit any flaw or defect of moral character. Hence, according to Adams, God’s creating such a world would not preclude his being a perfectly good moral agent. But because such a world could not be the best of all possible worlds, or even one of the best if there are several tied for first place, Adams concludes that there simply is no requirement, logical or moral, that God create the best of all possible worlds. It seems to me clear enough that a being who created a cosmos satisfying the three conditions Adams states would be a good moral agent. What needs further exploration, I think, is the question of whether such a being would be morally perfect in the sense necessary for being worthy of worship. But before beginning such an exploration, I need to give some attention to a fundamental conceptual issue. According to Alvin Plantinga, a possible world is a state of affairs of a certain sort, and states of affairs are not the kinds of things that can be either created or destroyed.4 On this view, even God could not, literally speaking, create a possible world. What he can do is bring it about that certain states of affairs obtain or are actual, and so we ought to speak of God actualizing rather than creating a possible world. Of course, we may suppose that God can create ordinary contingent individuals such as tables and chairs or even extraordinary individuals such as angels and demons. But such creatures are not a possible world; they are its inhabitants or denizens. In actualizing a possible world, God, we may suppose, creates its contingent denizens. Some possible worlds, however, have only necessary beings such as numbers and properties as their denizens, and if God were to actualize such a world, he would refrain from creating any contingent individual. Thus strict accuracy forbids us to speak of God creating possible worlds, because this way of talking suggests a power to alter modal status which most theists do not attribute even to God. Is it plausible to suppose that God could actualize a possible world satisfying conditions (i)–(iii)? It certainly appears to be. Because each of those conditions implicitly involves universal quantification over creatures, a world without creatures would vacuously satisfy them. Surely Judeo-Christian theists would not deny that God could have chosen to actualize a possible world without creatures, for to do so would be to imply that God as a matter of logical necessity had to create something or other. Moreover, if each creature

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 431

is a denizen of only one possible world, as modern counterpart theorists believe and as Leibniz seems to have held, then any possible world that is less than maximally good in which no creature has a life so miserable that it would have been better for it if it had never existed will satisfy these conditions. A problem arises, however, if we do not accept counterpart theory and consider possible worlds containing creatures. For all I know, every possible world which contains creatures at all contains at least one which could be happier than it is in that world. Or perhaps there is no possible world in which any creature is as happy at it could be; maybe for every possible world w and each creature capable of being happy that exists in w, there is some possible world w′ such that w′ is diverse from w and that creature also exists in w′ and is happier in w′ than it is in w. This is not to suggest that any creature could be unboundedly happy, so to speak; it could happen if creatures approached, asymptotically as it were, without ever reaching their upper limits of happiness as possible worlds varied. So it might be, for all I know, that condition (iii) cannot be satisfied except vacuously; but, then again, perhaps condition (iii) can be nonvacuously satisfied. The trouble is that I do not know enough about possible worlds and their creaturely denizens to be able to tell for sure whether what Adams assumes is really plausible. In this situation, the reasonable thing to do seems to be to allow, for the sake of argument, that there are possible worlds with creatures that satisfy (i)–(iii) but to reserve judgment on just how plausible this assumption really is. But even if this concession is made, some problems remain. A possible world with creatures that satisfies conditions (i)–(iii) is such that every creature in it is as happy as that creature could be, but perhaps another possible world containing the very same creatures is morally better though less replete with felicity. Why should we rule out of court the possibility that a possible world which fails to satisfy condition (iii) but includes compensating exercises of moral virtue in the face of adversity on the part of some of its creatures is a morally better world than another which contains the very same creatures and satisfies condition (iii) but lacks such exercises of virtue? If this is possible, should we not admit that a perfectly good moral agent would prefer a possible world with more moral goodness and less happiness to a possible world with more happiness and less moral goodness? Adams makes use of intuitive notions of the goodness of possible worlds and of the moral goodness of agents without exploring in much detail the philosophical

432  God and the Best Possible World

questions such notions give rise to. What are we to understand by the relational predicate “—— is a better world than . . .” applied to pairs of possible worlds? How are we to interpret the expression “—— is a better moral agent than . . .” applied to pairs of persons or personlike entities? And what connections are there between the moral goodness of a creator and the goodness of the individuals he creates? Does morality ask for no more from a perfectly good creator than that he wrong none of his creatures, treat none of them with less than perfect kindness and manifest no defect of moral character? I next turn to an exploration of some of these issues.

II

When we assume that possible worlds can be compared with respect to their goodness, we suppose that there are features of possible worlds on which such comparisons are based. But which features are these? Should we say that the goodness of a possible world is a monotonically increasing function of the total amount of moral goodness contained in it? On this view, one possible world would be better than another just in case the first contained more moral goodness than the second. Or should we claim that the goodness of a possible world is a function of some of its apparently nonmoral features? For example, one possible world might be judged better than another just in case the first ranked higher on a scale combining considerations of simplicity and variety, appropriately weighted, than did the second.5 Of course, it is by no means evident that possible worlds which are very simple and chock full of variety are also particularly morally edifying. Perhaps simplicity and variety constitute an appropriate basis for comparative judgments of aesthetic goodness and yet are utterly irrelevant to moral goodness. So we need to make some assumptions about which varieties of goodness a morally perfect creator would be concerned about in comparing possible worlds with an eye to actualizing one. I shall assume that the sort of goodness which would be important from the point of view of a perfectly good moral agent envisaging actualizing a possible world is moral goodness, and so I shall suppose that there is a relation expressed by the phrase “—— is a morally better world than . . .” which does relate pairs of possible worlds. But I shall not give an account of what moral goodness is.

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 433

In particular, I shall not assume that a possible world in which every creature is as happy as it could be but no pity for suffering is ever felt is morally better than one in which some suffering evokes pity but some creature could be happier than it is. Nor shall I assume that a possible world of the second kind is morally better than one of the first kind. Similarly, I shall remain neutral about whether justice contributes more, or less, than creaturely happiness to the moral goodness of a possible world. All I shall suppose is that, however the moral goodness of possible worlds is determined, some are morally better than others. What formal properties should we attribute to the relation expressed by the phrase “—— is a morally better world than . . .”? Doubtless there would be widespread agreement that such a relation must be asymmetric and transitive. From this it follows that it must also be irreflexive and, hence, that it induces a strict partial ordering on the set of all possible worlds.6 This much seems obvious, but beyond this point things quickly become murky. Is it the case that for any possible worlds w and w′, if w is distinct from w′, then either w is a morally better world than w′ or w′ is a morally better world than w? Not obviously so, for perhaps there are two distinct possible worlds exactly equal in moral goodness. Is it even the case that every pair of possible worlds is commensurable with respect to moral goodness? Again the answer is not obvious; maybe there are distinct possible worlds w and w′ such that w is not a morally better world than w′, w′ is not a morally better world than w, and yet neither are w and w′ equal in moral goodness. And even if any two possible worlds are morally commensurable, must we suppose that one possible world is the best of all? Once more it is not clear what the answer is. Perhaps for each possible world there is another which is morally better, or, if there is a possible world than which no other is morally better, maybe there are many such possible worlds of maximal moral goodness. Since I can see no way to provide uncontroversial answers to questions such as these, I propose to leave them open in this discussion. Thus I intend to see how far I can get in exploring the topic of this paper with nothing stronger than the assumption that the set of possible worlds is strictly partially ordered. A simple observation will serve to motivate a definition linking possible worlds with the power needed to actualize them. It may, for all I know, be the case that even an omnipotent being is not able to actualize just any world which is logically possible.7 Suppose, for instance, there were an inhabitant

434  God and the Best Possible World

of some but not all possible worlds such that in every possible world where it exists it is uncreated. Such a thing would be contingent but essentially uncreated. Let us also assume that actualizing a possible world involves at least creating all its denizens which do not exist necessarily. Any possible world which has among its inhabitants a contingent but essentially uncreated being would then be unactualizable. But maybe the best of all possible worlds, if there is a unique one, is for this reason, or for some other, unactualizable. Or perhaps every possible world better than some particular world is unactualizable. In order not to beg any questions about such matters, I suggest that the notion of an actualizable world be defined as follows: (2) w is an actualizable world = df w is such that it is possible that there is an x such that x is omnipotent and x actualizes it. Less formally, an actualizable world is one which an omnipotent being could actualize. It may or may not be the case that every logically possible world is also actualizable. I take no stand on this issue. I shall not assume that there is a best actualizable world or that, if there is one, it is unique. But even without such strong assumptions several definitions of kinds of moral goodness that pertain to actualizable worlds can be formulated. First, there is a notion analogous to the idea of being a best possible world; it is the concept of an actualizable world whose moral goodness cannot be surpassed. This notion is defined as follows: (3) w is an actualizable world of unsurpassable moral goodness = df w is an actualizable world, and, for all w′, if w′ is an actualizable world, then w′ is not a morally better world than w. An actualizable world of unsurpassable moral goodness is an actualizable world such that no actualizable world is morally better than it is. Obviously this definition does not entail that there are any such worlds, and it is consistent with there being several if there are any. For all that I have said, two actualizable worlds of unsurpassable moral goodness might either be equally morally good or be incommensurable with respect to moral goodness. A Leibnizian of the strict persuasion would, I suppose, be as unhappy with the suggestion that there are many actualizable worlds of unsur-

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 435

passable moral goodness as with the suggestion that there are none. In either case it would seem that God could have no Sufficient Reason for actualizing exactly one possible world, and this, after all, is the most he can do. However, if there are several such worlds, God can at least appeal to the principle of Insufficient Reason and decide which among them to actualize by some divine analogue of the process of rolling fair dice. Or nonmoral considerations might serve in such a case to break ties for first place. Next we need to frame some definitions having to do with possible worlds of the sort Adams holds God could actualize without moral fault. I begin by defining those possible worlds, if any, whose denizens are happy in the appropriate ways. They are to be thought of as possible worlds whose creaturely inhabitants enjoy a felicity as complete as is possible for them. The definition of such completely felicitous actualizable worlds goes as follows: (4) w is a completely felicitous actualizable world = df w is an actualizable world, and w is such that (i) none of the creatures in w has a life in w so miserable on the whole that it would be better for that creature if it did not exist in w, and (ii) every creature in w is at least as happy on the whole in w as it is in any w′ distinct from w in which it exists. As I mentioned above, for all I know, there are no completely felicitous actualizable worlds other than those vacuously so in virtue of containing no creatures. Moreover, if there are some, some or all of them may, as far as I can tell, also be actualizable worlds of unsurpassable moral goodness. The definitions do not preclude this. Whether or not one thinks this is the case will depend at least in part, I imagine, on one’s views of the relations of felicity and moral goodness, and so I would expect opinions on this matter to differ as moral theories vary. Thus, in order to follow Adams in focusing attention on possible worlds less good than the best actualizable, we need to define the notion of a morally surpassable but completely felicitous actualizable world. This concept is defined as follows: (5) w is a morally surpassable completely felicitous actualizable world = df w is a completely felicitous actualizable world, and there is a w′

436  God and the Best Possible World

such that w′ is an actualizable world and w′ is a morally better world than w. For all I have said so far, it may be that no actualizable world is morally better than any completely felicitous actualizable world. So perhaps no possible worlds satisfy this definition. But maybe some actualizable worlds which are not completely felicitous are morally better than some which are. After all, there may be features other than felicity which contribute to the moral goodness of possible worlds, and some such features may be weightier than felicity by itself. A final idea that I will have occasion to use in subsequent arguments is the notion of a possible world which is, among completely felicitous actualizable worlds, morally unsurpassable. It is defined as follows: (6) w is a morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world = df w is a completely felicitous actualizable world, and, for all w′, if w′ is a completely felicitous actualizable world, then w′ is not a morally better world than w. It is evident that this definition does not entail that there are any morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable worlds, and it does not preclude there being several if there are any. Moreover, our definitions entail nothing about whether some morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable worlds, if there are any, are also actualizable worlds of unsurpassable moral goodness. The point of this somewhat cumbersome battery of definitions is to allow us to pose some rather precise questions about what a perfectly good and omnipotent moral agent would do if he were to actualize a possible world. Would such a being actualize a world of unsurpassable moral goodness even if no such world were completely felicitous? Might such a being actualize a morally surpassable yet completely felicitous world? Must such a being at least actualize a morally unsurpassable completely felicitous world? Adams seems to hold, in effect, that such a being might actualize a completely felicitous world that is morally surpassable. Is this correct? Before we can return any confident answer to this question, we must reflect a bit on what is involved in being a perfectly good moral agent.

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 437 III

Our discussion of the perfections of moral agents may begin with an observation about English grammar. There are many English expressions whose general form is “a perfectly A N,” where substituends for “A” are adjectival phrases which admit of the comparative and substituends for “N” are noun phrases which function as count nouns. Examples are such things as “a perfectly flat surface,” “a perfectly splendid dinner,” “a perfectly frictionless plane,” and “a perfectly respectable place to live.” Among expressions of this sort, there is one difference of logical functioning that has some importance in the present context. In some cases at least, a perfectly A N would be such that it is not possible that there be an N more A than it is. For example, a perfectly flat surface would be such that it is not possible that there be a surface flatter than it is. It is clear that this is one of the features of perfectly flat surfaces, perfectly frictionless planes, and perfectly rigid rods, which makes them such useful idealizations in physics. In other cases, however, a perfectly A N would be such that it is possible that there be an N more A than it is. Thus, a perfectly respectable place to live may nonetheless be such that it is possible that there be a place to live more respectable than it is. For example, though Rye is a perfectly respectable place to live, Scarsdale is a more respectable place to live than Rye is. When theists apply the phrase “a perfectly good moral agent” to God, it may not be obvious whether they intend their usage to be assimilated to cases of the first sort or to cases of the second sort. In order to circumvent any ambiguities, I shall define different locutions to express two interpretations which might be placed on that phrase. The weaker locution is defined as follows: (7) x is a thoroughly good moral agent = df x is a moral agent, x performs some actions, x does nothing morally wrong, and x exhibits no defects of moral character. A thoroughly good moral agent is, so to speak, morally good through and through. However, a thoroughly good moral agent may be such that it is possible that there be a moral agent better than he is, for of two moral agents both of whom exhibit sterling characters and neither of whom does

438  God and the Best Possible World

anything wrong, one may effectuate more widespread beneficence, perhaps of a supererogatory kind, than another. I believe my definition of a thoroughly good moral agent reflects all those features of moral agents to which Adams makes explicit reference in his statement of what God might properly do in creating, since I take kindness to be a moral character trait. There is, however, another degree of moral excellence. The stronger locution which expresses it may be defined as follows: (8) x is a superlatively good moral agent = df x is a thoroughly good moral agent, and x is such that there is no possible world in which there is some y such that y is a better moral agent in that world than he is in the actual world. There could be no moral agent better than a superlatively good moral agent actually is. Of course, comparing the goodness of moral agents is probably no easier than comparing the goodness of possible worlds. Many questions arise. What features of moral agents are to be considered in making such comparisons? What sort of ordering does this relation induce on sets of moral agents? Moral theories can be expected to disagree about the answers to such questions. However, it does seem clear enough that many theists are committed to holding that God is a superlatively good moral agent and, indeed, the only superlatively good moral agent. Such theists would not, I think, be satisfied to maintain that God is merely a thoroughly good moral agent, though he is at least that, or even essentially a thoroughly good moral agent; they would insist that God has to be a superlatively good moral agent, and perhaps essentially so, if he is to be worthy of the kind of worship they believe they owe him. The question such people need to ponder seems to me to be this: What sort of possible world would an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent actualize if he actualized any world at all? Or, at any rate, since this is a question I find puzzling, I shall next consider some answers to it.

IV

As a preliminary to our discussion of superlatively good moral agents, let us consider briefly what a thoroughly good moral agent would do in creating. A principle with some plausibility is the following:

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 439

(9) If an omnipotent and thoroughly good moral agent were to actualize a possible world, he would actualize some completely felicitous actualizable world. This principle strikes me as acceptable provided we assume, at least for the sake of argument, that the value properly most cherished by such an agent is the happiness of his creatures. An argument in support of the acceptability of this principle goes as follows. Suppose an omnipotent and thoroughly good moral agent actualizes a world. Since he is omnipotent, it can be any actualizable world. Because he is thoroughly good, he will do no wrong and exhibit no flaw of character in actualizing a world. Assuming that depriving a creature of happiness it might have enjoyed is the only way a creator might wrong that creature or exhibit a moral flaw in creating it, a thoroughly good moral agent might actualize any completely felicitous actualizable world. So if there are some such worlds with creatures in them, he will actualize one of them. I think this is the important positive insight Adams has got hold of, even though I remain somewhat skeptical about the exclusive emphasis on happiness in his treatment. However, it should be noted that it is consistent with (9) that the world actualized by an omnipotent and thoroughly good moral agent be neither a morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world nor an actualizable world of unsurpassable moral goodness. This is interesting but perhaps not very surprising. After all, it would seem that a thoroughly good moral agent could omit certain moral perfections from his creation without diminishing the happiness of any of its creatures. The difficulty is that (9), though it is at least arguably correct, is not really an answer to the question posed by a theist who wishes to know what sort of world a superlatively good moral agent would actualize if he actualized any world at all. So we should next consider some principles that do address that question. The first such principle may be stated in the following way: (10) If an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent were to actualize a possible world, he would actualize some completely felicitous actualizable world. It seems to me that this principle is at best misleading. There are some relations among possible worlds which may hold, consistent with everything I

440  God and the Best Possible World

have assumed so far, such that if they did hold there would be certain completely felicitous actualizable worlds that an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent would not actualize. Let me explain why. Suppose an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent actualizes a world, and assume the world he actualizes is a completely felicitous actualizable world but is also a morally surpassable completely felicitous actualizable world. On these assumptions, it is possible that something actualizes a morally better world than the one which, by hypothesis, he actualizes, since it is morally surpassable. But then it surely seems possible that there is a better moral agent than he actually is, namely, one who actualizes a morally better world than he, by hypothesis, has actualized. This, however, contradicts the assumption that he is a superlatively good moral agent. Hence, if there are completely felicitous actualizeable worlds that are also morally surpassable, and a world without creatures would indicate that there are, then an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent would actualize none of them. He would actualize instead some morally better world. This line of reasoning suggests that we examine next a somewhat stronger principle. It may be formulated as follows: (11) If an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent were to actualize a possible world, he would actualize some morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world. But even this principle seems not to capture the doctrine we are searching for. It is consistent with everything I have assumed so far to suppose that there are actualizable worlds morally better than any morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world. This would be the case, for example, if there is some actualizable world in which happiness is proportioned to virtue and some suffer on account of their sins which is morally better than any completely felicitous actualizable world. But perhaps there are some such worlds; certainly many theists have thought there are. If there are, and if an omnipotent being were nevertheless to actualize a morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world, then there would be actualizable worlds morally better than the one that he, by hypothesis, had actualized. But then it surely seems to be possible that there is a better moral agent than he, by hypothesis, actually is. Thus he would not be a su-

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 441

perlatively good moral agent. So if there are actualizable worlds morally better than any morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world, as there may well be, then an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent would actualize one of them and not some morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world. These considerations suggest that the correct principle about actualization by a superlatively good moral agent is the following: (12) If an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent were to actualize a possible world, he would actualize some actualizable world of unsurpassable moral goodness. The reasons that support this principle are easy to state. Suppose an omnipo­ tent and superlatively good moral agent actualizes a world. Assume for the sake of argument that the one he actualizes is not an actualizable world of unsurpassable moral goodness. Then either it is not an actualizable world at all, which contradicts the supposition that an omnipotent being actualizes it, or there is another possible world which is both actualizable and morally better than it is. But, in this case, it surely seems to be possible that there is a better moral agent than he who, by hypothesis, actualized a world of surpassable moral goodness, namely, one who actualizes a morally better actualizable world. And this contradicts the supposition that our creator is a superlatively good moral agent. So an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent would actualize an actualizable world of unsurpassable moral goodness. As was noted above, it is consistent with our definitions that such a world also be a morally unsurpassable completely felicitous actualizable world. What these arguments show, therefore, is only that, if an omnipotent and superlatively good moral agent had to choose between less than complete felicity and surpassable moral goodness when actualizing a possible world, he would choose less than complete felicity. It is obvious that (12) is a good deal like (1). Since (1) expresses a view Adams rejects, an argument in favor of (12) can reasonably be interpreted as an argument against a position of the general sort Adams defends. I intend the arguments I have given to be successful arguments of this kind. But are my arguments sound? An attentive reader will have observed that in several of them I infer from the premise that there are morally better actualizable

442  God and the Best Possible World

worlds than the one which, by hypothesis, has been actualized the conclusion that it is at least possible that there is a better moral agent than its hypothetical actualizer is. Are such inferences in any way dubious? Their validity, it would appear, can be guaranteed by assuming as an additional premise the following principle: (13) Necessarily, for all w, w′ and x, if w is an actualizable world and w′ is an actualizable world and w is a morally better world than w′, then if x is an omnipotent moral agent and x actualizes w′, then x is such that there is some possible world in which there is a y such that y is a better moral agent in that world than he is in w′. As far as I can tell, (13) expresses a fairly obvious truth. An omnipotent moral agent can actualize any actualizable world. If he actualizes one than which there is a morally better, he does not do the best he can, morally speaking, and so it is possible that there is an agent morally better than he is, namely, an omnipotent moral agent who actualizes one of those morally better worlds. Another nice feature (13) has is that it does not fall prey to certain counter-examples Adams cites in order to refute a principle he suggests as something which implies (1). The principle in question goes as follows: (14) It is wrong to bring into existence, knowingly, a being less excellent than one could have brought into existence.8 Examples involving animal breeding, e.g., breeding goldfish rather than golden retrievers, and human procreation, e.g., having normal children instead of chemically altered supergeniuses, seem to refute (14) if we allow that what people do in such cases is genuinely to bring something into existence. But clearly such examples do not serve also to refute (13). For one thing, since its scope is restricted to the actualization of possible worlds, no example which concerns bringing something into existence could be so much as relevant to refuting it. For another, (13) does not assert that it would be wrong to actualize a world than which there is a morally better one that could be actualized; instead it asserts that a being who acted in this way would not do the best that could be done, which in turn implies that such a being would not be a superlatively good moral agent.

God, Moral Perfection, and Possible Worlds 443

From all of this, I conclude that I have gone a long way towards meeting the challenge to the Leibnizian philosophical tradition raised by Adams. For I have formulated a principle, namely (12), which is akin to his principle (1), and I have argued in support of it from a premise, namely (13), which is not refuted by his counter-examples to (14) or by any other examples known to me. In addition, I have tried to indicate why theists are indeed committed to defending some position of this general sort in virtue of their view that God deserves or merits worship of the extreme kinds they typically believe it appropriate to direct toward him.

NOTES

I read earlier versions of this material at the University of Illinois at Chicago Circle and at the University of Rhode Island. I thank my audiences on those occasions for helpful discussion. 1. Robert M. Adams, “Must God Create the Best?”, The Philosophical Review 81, no. 3 (1972): 317–20. 2. Ibid., 317. 3. Ibid., 320. 4. Alvin Plantinga, The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Clarendon, 1974), 44–45. 5. Leibniz seems to have held a view of this sort. See Section V of Discourse on Metaphysics and Paragraph 58 of Monadology. 6. The technical terms from the theory of relations are defined in many set theory texts. See, for instance, Patrick Suppes, Axiomatic Set Theory (New York: Van Nostrand, 1960), 68–72. 7. The supposition that an omnipotent being could actualize any logically possible world has been baptized “Leibniz’ Lapse” by Alvin Plantinga. See Plantinga, The Nature of Necessity, 180–84. His examples involve the complexities of free actions. 8. Adams, “Must God Create the Best?”, 329.

C H A P T E R

2 5

Natural Evils and Moral Choice RICHARD SWINBURNE

I

The problem of evil is the difficulty raised for theism, the belief that there is a God, by the existence of evil. God is, by definition, omnipotent, omniscient, and perfectly good. He is omnipotent in the sense, roughly, that he can do whatever it is logically possible to do. He is omniscient in the sense that he knows all true propositions (or perhaps, we should say, all true propositions which it is logically possible to know). He is morally good in the sense that he does no morally bad action. Now, the atheist argues, an omniscient God would know when evil would occur, if he did not act to prevent it. Being omnipotent, he would be able to prevent the occurrence of evil, and, being perfectly good, would choose to do so. But in fact there is evil in the world. Hence there is no God. Richard Swinburne, “Natural Evil,” American Philosophical Quarterly 15, no. 4 (1978): 295–301. Used by permission of the editor.

444

Natural Evils and Moral Choice 445

Down the centuries theists have displayed various defenses against the atheist’s argument. The defense which has appealed most to modern man has been the free will defense. This claims that a good God might well permit men to have free will despite the danger that they will bring about evil rather than good, because of the goodness of their having freedom. The trouble with this defense is that although it may explain why a good God might permit evil, it only explains why he might permit evil of a certain kind—moral evil. I understand by moral evil that evil brought about intentionally by human agents, to be contrasted with natural evil which is that evil not brought about intentionally by human agents—primarily evil such as famine, disease, and earthquake, which are brought about by natural processes. Hence, because of the way the free will defense works, it immediately allows the construction of a slightly different argument against the existence of God—an argument not from evil as such but from the occurrence of natural evil, an argument which appears much more difficult to refute. The purpose of this paper is to argue that if the free will defense works in explaining why God might permit the existence of moral evil, then it also provides an explanation of why God might bring about the existence of much natural evil. Contrary to what might appear at first sight, if the free will defense works with respect to moral evil, it also has the force to defeat an argument from natural evil.

II

I begin by developing the free will defense in the way necessary if it is to give an explanation of why God permits the existence not merely of moral evil as such, but of moral evil of the kind and quantity which we do in fact find in the world. The free will defense claims that God might well give to men a kind of free will in which how an agent acts is not fully determined by preceding causes but depends, at least in part, on the agent’s uncaused choice at the instant of action. It has been argued convincingly1 that it is not logically possible that God should have given men free will of this kind and at the same time have predetermined what they would do. Rather, if men had free will of this kind, what they did must be truly up to them. God could of course have given men such free will without allowing them to

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make any significant difference to the world by their exercise of it. However it is plausible to suppose that a good God might well give to free agents the power through their free choices to make a significant difference to the world and to each other, including the power to influence the course of history for quite a considerable time ahead. In giving men such free will God would be giving men a share in his own creative work. Now God could have given men only the power to benefit their fellows or to withhold benefit from them, but not the power to inflict harm on each other or on themselves. He could have created a world in which men could give to their fellows chocolate, or help them to build a TV set, without creating a world in which men could risk their own lives, inflict pain on their fellows or deprive them of anything which they really valued. However it is plausible to suppose that a good God might well wish to give to men a real share in his work of planning the development of the world and mankind. To allow men a real choice in this respect, he must give them the choice of doing what is objectively harmful. Having himself the powers to benefit and harm, he would give men a substantial share in his creative work, by giving to them both powers (although perhaps to a lesser degree). Thereby he would show real trust in men and they would have substantial responsibility for themselves and their fellows. If my responsibility to you is limited to whether or not I give you chocolate or a TV set, I hardly have much responsibility for you. Clearly too the greater the share in his creative work which a God chooses to give to men, the greater the powers to benefit and to harm each other he must give to them. He must for example not merely give men the power to bruise each other, but also give men the power to become heroin addicts, to persuade other men to become heroin addicts, and to drop atom bombs. A God who greatly limits the harm which men can do to each other greatly limits the control over their destiny which he gives to men—just as an over-protective parent who preserves his child from almost every possible physical or moral danger does not allow him to run his own life, and in his turn to make through his own choice a difference to the lives of others. The free will defense must be developed in the above way if it is to explain why God allows the existence of moral evil of the kind and quantity which we find in the world. It is, I have briefly suggested, a plausible defense—although I am not concerned to argue that. The claim is that God allowed man to cause evil because only by so doing would he give to man a

Natural Evils and Moral Choice 447

significant choice of destiny and share in his own creative work. God does not make men abuse the powers which he gives them, nor wish man to abuse them. But their having these powers allows them to bring about significant evil, and God cannot stop them doing so without depriving them of their powers. The free will defense does not claim that God has to create a world in which men may bring about evil, only that it would not be wrong for him to do so. The free will defense does not deny that there must be a limit to the amount of harm which a good God would allow man to do to others deliberately or through negligence. Clearly in our world there is such a limit because there is a limit to the amount of harm which men can suffer. Men only live for so long, and if you inflict too much pain on them during their life they become unconscious. It is in no way obvious that the limit to human suffering inflicted by other men is drawn in the wrong place—that if there is a God he has given to men too great a control of their own destiny. Now suppose that the free will defense does work in providing an explanation of why God permits the existence of the moral evil which we find in the world. My concern is to show that in that case there is also an explanation of why God brings about much natural evil. Superficially, the free will defense does not have much to do with natural evil, for by definition natural evil is evil not brought about through man’s choice. Many theists have of course claimed that natural evils are really brought about by free agents other than men, viz. fallen angels, and hence that a defense similar to the free will defense can be used to give the same kind of account of them as of moral evils. But this looks very much like an ad hoc hypothesis added to theism to save it from falsification by evidence which would otherwise falsify it. Although this hypothesis may save theism from formal falsification, it would seem that natural evil still greatly disconfirms theism, if the only way to save theism from falsification is by adding to it an ad hoc hypothesis. If the fallen-angel defense is to be taken more seriously, we need evidence of the existence of fallen angels, other than that provided by the existence of natural evil. My argument is a different one—that the free will defense already outlined could only work in providing an explanation of why God allows moral evil, if in fact there is also natural evil. This is because there must be natural evils if men are to have the knowledge which they need to have in order to bring about moral evils.

448  Natural Evils and Natural Laws III

To see this, let us ask how men acquire knowledge, in particular knowledge of what will follow in the future from a present state. There are two routes to such knowledge. The normal route is by induction from what is known to have happened in the past. The simplest such case is where I infer that a present state of affairs C will be followed by a future state E from the fact that in the past states of affairs like C on all occasions of which I have knowledge have been followed by states like E. Because on the many occasions of which I have knowledge, a piece of chalk being liberated from the hand has fallen to the floor, I can infer that the next time chalk is liberated it will fall. However induction may take a more complicated form. From a vast collection of data about the positions of planets, a scientist may infer a consequence of a different kind, e.g., that there will be a very high tide on Earth when the planets are in such and such positions. Here the data provide evidence for a complicated scientific theory of which the prediction about the high tide is a somewhat remote consequence. Whether the inference is simple or complicated, certain obvious points can be made about the claim to knowledge of the future which results from it. The first is that the more past data there are, the better established is a claim to such knowledge. This is because the data support a claim about the future by supporting a theory or a simple universal (or statistical) generali­ zation (e.g. “states like C are always followed by states like F ”) which in turn licenses the claim about the future. The more data there are, the more they show that the theory or generalization holds in many different circumstances and so is more likely to hold in the future instance in question. (However similar the circumstances under which the past data are observed are in many respects, they are almost bound to differ from each other in some observable or unobservable respects: if the generalization holds despite many differences, that gives it greater reliability.) Secondly, the surer my knowledge that the past data occurred as stated, the better grounded is my claim to knowledge of the future. If the data are mental experiences of mine or events which I myself have seen, or events which many independent observers have reported to me, then my knowledge of their occurrence is sure. If they are experiences of others or events about which only one or two observers have told me, then I have some

Natural Evils and Moral Choice 449

doubt whether they occurred. I have more doubt still if I need to make a complicated inference from other data to prove their occurrence. Clearly in so far as an inference is licensed by certain data, then to the extent to which it is doubtful whether the data are correct, it is doubtful whether the inference is justifiable. Thirdly, in so far as the data are qualitatively very dissimilar from what is predicted, and a complicated scientific theory is needed to generate the prediction, the claim to knowledge will be less surely based. Thus suppose that by a process of complex extrapolation from a number n of astronomical data I reach a very complex theory of mechanics, from which I conclude that in a very unusual set of circumstances (when the planets are in just such and such configurations relative to an observer) if I let go a bit of chalk it will rise into the air. And suppose that these circumstances are manifested on Earth uniquely in my study during this hour. Do I know that when shortly I let go of the chalk it will rise? Doubtfully so. Clearly I do know it and know it a lot better if I have already actually let go of the chalk in my study n times during the hour, and it has risen. Fourthly, if a complex inference is needed in order to reach a prediction, then in so far as the inference is of a kind which has proved successful before, or is made by persons with known predictive success from this kind of work in the past, that is grounds for believing the prediction. These four points about the strength of knowledge obtained by induction may be summarized by saying that our claims to knowledge are better justified the closer they are to our experience. Now if men are knowingly to bring about states of affairs, or to allow states of affairs to come about through neglecting to prevent them, they must know what consequences will follow from their actions. Inductive knowledge of consequences, it follows from what has just been said, is to be obtained as follows. Consider an action A which I am contemplating doing in circumstances X. Suppose that A consists in bringing about a state of affairs C. This we will call the result of A. (A result of an action is to be distinguished from a consequence or effect of the action. The consequence is an effect distinct from the action, caused by it. Thus the result of the action of pulling a trigger is that a trigger is pulled. The consequence may be that a bullet is fired, or a man killed.)2 How am I to know what its effects will be, what will follow from it? Most certainly, I know by having done such an action myself

450  Natural Evils and Natural Laws

many times before in similar circumstances and having observed the effects of its result. I come to know most surely what will result from pulling the trigger of a certain loaded gun when it is pointing at a man’s head by having done such an action often before. I know the effect less surely by having seen the effects of others doing the action, or by having seen the effects of the result of the action when this was brought about unintentionally, all in similar circumstances to those in which I am considering doing the action; or by others telling me what happened on different occasions when they pulled triggers of loaded guns. I know that pulling the trigger will kill the man less surely, because I suspect that maybe it does not work with me, or that others have a special way of pulling the trigger which I do not know, and so on. Less sure knowledge still is obtained by observing the result occur in somewhat different circumstances (e.g., when the gun was pointing at a man’s stomach instead of at his head). Still less sure knowledge is obtained by having observed goings-on only somewhat similar, and having to make allowance for the difference—e.g., I may only have seen guns fired at cardboard targets, or arrows fired at men. Or my knowledge may depend on reports given by a few others who depended in turn on other witnesses for their information; then it will be still less certain. The least certain knowledge of all is that which is reached by a process of more complicated inference from goings-on remotely similar to A. However it is difficult to see how a theory which predicted the occurrence of such evils as pain or death could have any justification unless the data on which the theory was built were cases of pain and death. If you had no knowledge of anything causing pain, how could other kinds of data substantiate predictions about pain? For pain is so different from other kinds of goings-on and has no natural connection with particular brain or nerve conditions rather than with others. (There is no reason for supposing that stimulation of this nerve will cause pain and of that one will cause pleasure, other than that provided by knowledge that that is what has happened in the past.) So proximity to experience gives more certain knowledge. It is notorious that people are much more inclined to take precautions against disaster if they have suffered before themselves or if a similar disaster has happened to those close to them than if they are warned of the need for precaution by some impersonal distant authority. A man is far more inclined to take precautions against fire or burglary if he or his neighbors have suffered than if

Natural Evils and Moral Choice 451

the police warn him that these things have happened in the next village. My point is that this is not just irrational perversity. It is the height of rationality to be influenced more by what is known better. People know better that it can happen to them if they know that it has happened to them or to others like them. With a mere police warning, they always have some reason for suspecting that police exaggerate or that things are different in the next village. What is irrational is not being influenced at all by the police warning; what is not irrational is being influenced more by goings-on closer to hand of which we have more intimate experience.

IV

One thing that follows from all this is that if we are to know the effects of our actions, things must behave in regular ways. Only if my action is going to have an effect similar to that of similar actions done by others on other occasions can I know what effect that action is going to have. Only if I know what effects my actions will have can I set about making a difference to things. It follows that if agents are to mold the world and themselves, the world has to be on the whole a pretty deterministic sort of place; deterministic laws of nature have to operate fairly universally. There would not need to be complete determinism—agents themselves could be exempt from the full rigors of determinism, and there might be violation of natural laws from time to time. But basically the world has to be governed by laws of nature if agents are to be able to control it. The main thing, however, for our purposes which follows from what has been said so far is that we can only come to know that certain of our actions will have harmful consequences through prior experience (in some degree) of such harmful consequences. I come to know that drinking alcohol will give me a hangover most surely by having had it happen to me before, less surely by my having seen it happen to others before, less surely by others telling me that it has happened to them before, and least surely still by its being a remote prediction of some complex scientific theory. With the case of the worst evils, it is not possible that my knowledge should be based on experience of what has happened to me before. I cannot know by experience that taking more and more heroin over a long period

452  Natural Evils and Natural Laws

will cause death by having had it happen to me before. In such cases the most sure knowledge will be given by seeing it happen to many friends; less sure knowledge by seeing it happen on television (as in the British TV docu­ mentary “Gale is Dead”); still less sure knowledge by reading in a book that this happened before. Loss of limbs too is a consequence about which I can learn only by seeing or hearing of the experiences of others. But here too actually seeing a friend have to have his arm amputated as a result of walking too close to the edge of a cliff and falling over it is rightly going to deter me from walking close to the edge of the cliff much better than is a notice which says “Dangerous” (for the former gives me surer knowledge of a possible consequence of my action). It follows generally that my actions or negligence can only to my knowledge have really bad consequences if others have suffered such really bad consequences before. Among such really bad consequences are prolonged incurable suffering or death. These can only be among the evils which I can knowingly inflict on others, or through my negligence allow others to suffer, if others have suffered before. Further, for any evil which men knowingly inflict on each other, there must have been a first time in human history at which this was done. There must have been a first murder, a first murder by cyanide poisoning, a first deliberate humiliation, and so on. The malevolent agent in each case knows the consequences of the result of his action (e.g., that imbibing cyanide will lead to death). Ex hypothesi, he cannot know this through having seen an agent give another cyanide for this purpose. His knowledge that cyanide poisoning causes death must come from his having seen or others having told him that on other occasions taking cyanide accidentally led to death. (If in my example, you think that knowledge of the effects of imbibing cyanide might be gained by seeing the effects of taking similar chemicals, the argument can be put more generally. Some man must have taken previously a similar poison by accident.) What applies to the malevolent agent also applies to the man who knowingly refrains from inflicting evil on another or stops evil occurring to another. There must be natural evils (whether caused by natural processes or brought about accidentally by men) if men are to know how to cause evils themselves or are to prevent evil occurring. And there have to be many such evils, if men are to have sure knowledge, for as we saw, sure knowledge of what will happen in future comes only by induction from many past instances. A solitary instance of a man

Natural Evils and Moral Choice 453

dying after taking cyanide will not give to others very sure knowledge that in general cyanide causes death—maybe the death on the occasion studied had a different cause, and the cyanide had nothing to do with it. And unless men have been bringing about evils of a certain kind deliberately recently, there have to be many recent naturally occurring evils if men are currently to have sure knowledge of how to bring about or prevent such evils. Thus we know that rabies causes a terrible death. With this knowledge we have the possibility of preventing such death (e.g. by controlling the entry of pet animals into Britain), or of negligently allowing it to occur or even of deliberately causing it. Only with the knowledge of the effects of rabies are such possibilities ours. But for us to gain knowledge of the effect of rabies it is necessary that others die of rabies (when the rabies was not preventable by man), and be seen to have done so. Generally, we can only have the opportunity to prevent disease affecting ourselves or others or to neglect to do so, or the opportunity to spread disease deliberately (e.g., by indulging in biological warfare), if there are naturally occurring diseases. And men can only have the opportunity to prevent incurable diseases or to allow them to occur, if there are naturally occurring incurable diseases.

V

What applies to individuals in the short term applies also in the longer term and to races. If men are to have the opportunity by their actions or negligence to bring about evil consequences in the distant future, or to avoid doing so, they must know the long-term consequences of their actions, and the most sure inductive knowledge of those consequences can only come from past human history. How are men to have the opportunity to stop future generations catching asbestosis, except through knowledge of what causes asbestosis and how is that to be obtained except through records which show that persons in contact with blue asbestos many years ago have died from asbestosis thirty years later? Or suppose that men are to have the choice of building cities along earthquake belts, and so risking destruction of whole cities and their populations hundreds of years later, or of avoiding doing so. How can such a choice be available to them unless they know where earthquakes are likely to occur and what their probable consequences are? And how are they to come

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to know this unless earthquakes have happened due to natural and unpredicted causes, like the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. The scope for long-term choice available to future generations must not be underestimated. They may have the choice not merely of whether to build cities so as to avoid earthquakes, but of whether to drive the earth nearer to the sun or further from it, to take air and water to Mars and live there instead, to extend the life span, to produce new man-like organisms in laboratories, and so on. But rational choices on these matters can only be made in the light of knowledge of the consequences of alternative actions. The most sure knowledge can come only from the records of the effects on men of natural disasters and of naturally caused changes of environment and constitution. If men are knowingly to determine the fate of future generations through making such choices, they can do so most surely by having knowledge of the disasters which have befallen past generations. I argued that what has happened to men very different from ourselves gives less sure knowledge than what has happened to ourselves. It does nevertheless give knowledge. And what has happened to sentient creatures other than men also gives knowledge, though very much less sure knowledge. Indeed a great deal of our knowledge of the disasters for man which would follow some action come from study of the actual disasters which have befallen animals. For millennia it has been normal to discover the effects of drugs or surgery or unusual circumstances on man by deliberately subjecting animals to those drugs or surgery or circumstances. Before putting men into space, men put animals into space and saw what happened to them. Such experiments do not give very sure knowledge of what would happen to men—because from the nature of the case, there are very considerable differences between animals and men—but they do give considerable knowledge. The evils which have naturally befallen animals provide a huge reservoir of information for men to acquire knowledge of the choices open to them, a reservoir which men have often tapped—seeing the fate of sheep, men have learnt of the presence of dangerous tigers; seeing the cows sink into a bog, they have learnt not to cross that bog, and so on. As regards very long-term consequences of changes of circumstances, environment or climate, the story of animal evolution provides our main information. Human history so far is too short to provide knowledge of the very long-term consequences of our actions (including the knowledge needed to make some of the choices to which I referred two paragraphs

Natural Evils and Moral Choice 455

back). To take another example—future biologists will have the power to produce much good or ill by inducing various genetic mutations. Human history does not provide the data which will give them any knowledge of the consequences of their actions. Their surest knowledge of those consequences will come from a study of the evolutionary history of the consequences in animals of various naturally occurring mutations. Apart from such detailed results, the story of pre-human nature “red in tooth and claw” provides some very general information crucially relevant to our possible choices. For suppose that animals had come into existence at the same time as man (e.g., b.c. 4004) always in situations where men could save them from any suffering. Naturally it would then seem a well-confirmed theory that (either through acts of God or nature) suffering never happens to animals except such as men can prevent. So men would seem not to have the opportunity to do actions which would cause suffering to later generations of animals of a subsequently unpreventable kind, or the opportunity to prevent such suffering. The story of evolution tells us that that is not so— the causation or prevention of long-­term suffering is indeed within our power; such suffering can happen because it has happened. The story of pre-human evolution reveals to man just how much the subsequent fate of animals is in his hands—for it will depend on the environment which he causes for them and their genes which he may cause to mutate. In any case it is not only men who learn from animal suffering. Animals learn themselves. They do of course avoid many situations and do many actions instinctively; but in those cases they cannot be said to be doing the action or avoiding the situation through knowledge of its consequences. If it is good (as it might well appear) that they too should save their lives and those of their offspring through knowledge of consequences, this is only to be had by experience thereof. Other animals must suffer if some animals are to learn to avoid suffering for themselves and their offspring. In connection with animal suffering, it is appropriate to make the obvious point that presumably this is far less intense than human suffering. For if man suffers and inanimate matter and plants do not, then suffering presumably increases with mental and nervous complexity. Animals in general are far less intelligent and have a far less developed nervous organization than men; one would expect their suffering to be correspondingly much less. This is presumably why men do not interfere very much to stop animals hurting and killing each other.

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My main argument so far has been that if men are to have the opportunity to bring about serious evils for themselves or others by actions or negligence, or to prevent their occurrence, and if all knowledge of the future is obtained by induction, then there must be serious natural evils occurring to man or animals. We saw earlier that a developed free will defense must claim that a good God might give to men the opportunity to do to each other serious harm for the sake of the freedom and responsibility which he would thereby be giving them and which they cannot otherwise have. It follows that if they are to have this opportunity, there must be serious naturally occurring evils too—unless God were to give to men non-inductive knowledge of the consequences of their actions. I turn briefly to consider this latter alternative. Inductive inference from the past is not our only route to knowledge of the future. In so far as what will happen lies within the power of an agent, we can learn what will happen, not merely by studying the agent’s past behavior and so inferring by induction how he will behave in future, but by his telling us what he intends to do. I can learn that you will be in London tomorrow by your telling me so. I can learn that if I omit to pay your bills, you will prosecute me, by your telling me so. Such knowledge of the future I will call verbal knowledge. If there is a God, ought he not to convey to men knowledge of the consequences of their actions verbally, in order to avoid having to bring about natural evils? His giving us verbal knowledge of the consequences of our actions would involve his saying out loud such things as “if you walk near the cliff, you will fall over,” or “if you want to kill your neighbor, cyanide is very effective.” Such a procedure would make men know for certain that there was a God, with all that that involves.3 Then not merely would many men reasonably believe that there was a God; all men without exception would know for certain that all that happened (except for human actions) was due to the immediate action of God. Whether morally good or bad, whether they would otherwise concern themselves with matters religious or not; the existence of God would be for them an item of evident common knowledge. Knowing that there was a God, men would know that their most secret thoughts and actions were known to God; and knowing that he was just, they would expect for their bad actions and thoughts whatever punishment

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was just. Even if a good God would not punish bad men further, still they would have the punishment of knowing that their bad actions were known to God. They could no longer pose as respectable citizens; God would be too evident a member of the community. Further, in seeing God, as it were, face to face, men would see him to be good and worshipful, and hence would have every reason for conforming to his will. In such a world men would have little temptation to do wrong—it would be the mark of both prudence and reason to do what was virtuous. Yet a man only has a genuine choice of destiny if he has reasons for pursuing alternative courses of action, for a man can only perform an action which he has some reason to do. Further too, in such a world, men could not choose whether to acquire knowledge or what kinds of knowledge to seek, but knowledge would surround them. In this way too men would have no choice of destiny. I conclude that a world in which God gave to men verbal knowledge of the consequences of their actions would not be a world in which men had a significant choice of destiny, of what to make of themselves and of the world. God would be too close for them to be able to work things out for themselves. But the whole point of the free will defense is that a good God might give to man a choice of destiny; if he gave to men verbal knowledge of the consequences of their actions, he would not be able to give that choice. Proximity to God is no doubt a good thing; but a God has reason to ensure that we only get to that state as a result of our own choice (e.g., in another world as a result of our conduct in this one). But if you do not have verbal knowledge of the consequences of your actions, your knowledge must be obtained by inference from what has happened in the past, and the only justified inference from what has happened in the past is that things will continue to behave as they have behaved, and the supposition that this is so is what characterizes inductive inference. It follows that only by giving to men inductive knowledge of the bad consequences of some of their possible actions can a God give to men substantial responsibility for their destiny and that of their fellows. But the giving of such knowledge involves a God in producing natural evils. There must be natural evils if men are to have a significant choice of destiny; which is why a good God might well bring them about. Contrary to what might at first sight appear, if the free will defense can cope with evils produced by man, it can cope with natural evils as well.

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1. See, for example, Alvin Plantinga, God and Other Minds (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967), chaps. 5 and 6. 2. For this distinction see G. H. Von Wright, Norm and Action (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963), 39ff. 3. I assume that in discovering that there was an omnipotent omniscient and perfectly free creator (which is what God’s successful predictions would suggest) men would have discovered the existence of a being of a kind such that he is also necessarily perfectly good. See R. G. Swinburne, “Duty and the Will of God,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 4, no. 2 (1974): 213–27, especially 219–22.

C H A P T E R

2 6

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil ELEONORE STUMP

INTRODUCTION

In his book The Existence of God,1 Richard Swinburne offers a sophisticated, promising solution to the problem of evil. Why is there evil in the world if there is an omniscient, omnipotent, perfectly good God? If God is perfectly good, he wants to prevent all the evil he knows about and is able to prevent; if he is omnipotent, he is able to prevent any evil he knows about; and if he is omniscient, he knows about all instances of evil. So if God exists, he will know about all evil, be able to prevent it, and want to do so; hence there will be no evil in the world. Philosophers have sometimes thought this argument implied that the existence of evil is logically incompatible with the existence of God; 2 and since there is undeniably evil in the world, such philosophers have taken the existence of evil to be conclusive proof that God does Eleonore Stump, “Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 14, no. 1 (1983): 49–58. With kind permission from Springer Science+Business Media.

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not exist. This argument has been countered by what has come to be called the free-will defense. Argued recently by Alvin Plantinga3 among others, it maintains that a perfectly good, omniscient, omnipotent God will not necessarily prevent all evil. God might give some of his creatures free will, and allowing free will is not compatible with preventing all evil if that free will is exercised for evil. The free-will defense successfully rebuts the claim that the presence of evil in the world is logically incompatible with God’s existence. But many people, theists as well as atheists, feel that the free-will defense leaves some of the most important questions about evil unanswered. If there is a God, the nature and quantity of evil in the world still remain a puzzle; and even if they do not support a conclusive argument, they still seem to provide strong evidence against the probability of God’s existence. In particular, natural evils such as diseases, congenital defects, earthquakes, and droughts, need to be given some plausible explanation which shows their existence to be compatible with God’s goodness. It is the problem of evil in this sense which Swinburne addresses in chapter 11 of The Existence of God. In what follows, I will describe Swinburne’s solution and give reasons for thinking it unacceptable.

SW INBUR NE’S SOLU TION

Swinburne begins his solution4 to the problem of evil with two assumptions (which he gives some arguments for earlier in the book), namely, that men have free will, and that free will is very valuable. His thesis is this: the existence of many natural evils . . . is logically necessary for the existence of a world of the type which I have already described. For they are necessary if agents are to have the knowledge of how to bring about evil or prevent its occurrence, knowledge which they must have if they are to have a genuine choice between bringing about evil and bringing about good. (202–3)

It is clear that knowledge is necessary for significant choices between good and evil, but why should Swinburne think natural evil is necessary for such knowledge? His reasons for thinking so have to do with his views of the acquisition of the knowledge in question.

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil 461 Now if agents are knowingly to bring about states of affairs, or to allow states of affairs to come about through neglecting to prevent them, they must know what consequences will follow from their actions. Normal inductive knowledge of consequences . . . is to be obtained as follows. Consider an action A which I am contemplating doing in circumstances X. . . . How am I to know what its effects will be, what will follow from it? Most certainly, by having done such an action myself many times before in similar circumstances, and having observed the effects of its results. . . . I know the effect less surely by having seen the effects of others doing the action. . . . Less sure knowledge still is obtained by observing the result occur in somewhat different circumstances. . . . Still less sure knowledge is obtained by having observed goings on only somewhat similar, and having to make allowance for the difference. . . . Or my knowledge may depend on reports given by others; then it will be still less certain. . . . The least certain knowledge of all is that which is reached by a process of more complicated inference from goings on only remotely similar. . . . So proximity to experience gives more certain knowledge. It is notorious that people are much more inclined to take precautions against disaster if they have suffered before themselves or if a similar disaster has happened to those close to them. . . . It follows from all this that we can only come to know that certain of our actions will have harmful consequences through prior experience (in some degree) of such harmful consequences. . . . It follows generally that my actions or negligence can only to my knowledge have really bad consequences if others have suffered such really bad consequences before. . . . And unless men have been bringing about evils of a certain kind deliberately recently, there have to be many recent naturally occurring evils if men are currently to have sure knowledge of how to bring about or prevent such evils. (204–7)

Swinburne’s argument, then, comes to this. Men cannot make serious and effective choices between good and evil unless they know which of their actions will result in good and which in evil. But they can know the consequences of their actions only by more or less direct induction from past experience; and the closer to their own experience their actions are, the surer their knowledge about the consequences will be. Now men can have experience of the evil consequences of actions in two ways. Either they can

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see such evil consequences resulting from other human actions (including their own past actions) or they can learn of the evil consequences by seeing them occur naturally, as a result of accident or natural disaster, for example. According to Swinburne, however, there must be a first occasion for any given kind of deliberately committed human evil. And the agent committing the evil on that first occasion can learn about the evil consequences of his intended action only by observing some natural evil, not by observing other men deliberately doing the same sort of action. So, in the last analysis, “there must be naturally occurring evils . . . if men are to know how to cause evils themselves or are to prevent evil occurring” (207). To illustrate his point, Swinburne gives several examples, of which these are representative: (1) Thus we know that rabies causes a terrible death. With this knowledge we have the possibility of preventing such death . . . , or of negligently allowing it to occur or even of deliberately causing it. . . . But for us to gain knowledge of the effects of rabies it is necessary that others die of rabies (when the rabies was not preventable by man), and be seen to have done so. (207) (2) How are men to have the opportunity to stop future generations catching asbestosis, except through knowledge of what causes asbestosis, and how is that to be obtained except through records which show that persons in contact with blue asbestos many years ago have died from asbestosis thirty years later? (208) (3) Or suppose that men are to have the choice of building cities along earthquake belts, and so risking the destruction of whole cities and their populations hundreds of years later, or of avoiding doing so. How can such a choice be available to them unless they know where earthquakes are likely to occur and what their probable consequences are? And how are they to come to know this, unless earthquakes have happened due to natural and unpredicted causes, like the Lisbon Earthquake of 1755? (208)

The account I have presented here constitutes the core of Swinburne’s justification of natural evil. It can be extended easily to cover cases of deliberately caused human evil as well. Swinburne’s summarizing remarks, in

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil 463

fact, cover not only cases of natural evil but also cases of intentionally produced evil; and so his solution, if it succeeds, is a solution to the entire problem of evil. He summarizes his position in this way: the fewer natural evils a God provides, the less opportunity he provides for man to exercise responsibility. For the less natural evil, the less knowledge he gives to man of how to produce or avoid suffering and disaster, the less opportunity for his exercise of the higher virtues, and the less experience of the harsh possibilities of existence; and the less he allows to men the opportunity to bring about large scale horrors, the less the freedom and responsibility which he gives to them. What in effect the objection [to God’s allowing evil in the world] is asking is that a God should make a toy world, a world where things matter, but not very much; where we can choose and our choices can make a small difference, but the real choices remain God’s. For he simply would not allow us the choice of doing real harm, or through our negligence allowing real harm to occur. (219–20)

In this way, Swinburne thinks he has shown that God is justified in allowing “Hiroshima, Belsen, the Lisbon Earthquake, or the Black Death” (219).

THE ACCEPTA BILIT Y OF SW INBUR NE’S SOLU TION

For a number of reasons, it seems to me that Swinburne’s solution to the problem of evil is not acceptable. To begin with, one of the crucial premises of Swinburne’s argument is, I think, not true. It is false that men can have knowledge of the consequences of their actions only by induction on the basis of past experience. To start with the most obvious counter-example, God himself might provide his creatures with this knowledge; and if God himself provided knowledge about the consequences of men’s actions, instances of natural evil would no longer be necessary for educational purposes. Swinburne recognizes this is an objection to his account, but he dismisses it because he thinks of God’s providing such knowledge as incompatible with a higher-order good involving man’s freedom. Swinburne conceives of God’s providing the knowledge in question as God’s “saying out loud” what the consequences of certain actions will be: “if you walk

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near the cliff, you will fall over, or if you want to kill your neighbor, cyanide is very effective” (211). The drawback in this route to knowledge, Swinburne argues, is that it would entail that all men know of the existence of God. Furthermore, men would know God directly and so would know him also to be good and worthy of worship. Thus, according to Swinburne, self-interest and reason both would dictate conformity to God’s will; consequently, men would have little temptation to do evil, and hence little choice of destiny. Therefore, in order to protect the higher­ order good of men’s choice of destiny, God cannot provide men with knowledge of the consequences of their actions. I think Swinburne’s argument would be cogent if the only way in which God could provide knowledge were by talking out loud and meeting man face-to-face. But surely talking face-to-face with man is not the only way an omniscient, omnipotent deity can provide knowledge. To take just one possibility, God could provide information in dreams. He could, for instance, give the president of the relevant labor union a violently vivid dream in which he appears to see in grisly detail workers exposed to asbestos subsequently suffering with the symptoms of asbestosis, being all the while convinced in his dream that the use of protective masks would have prevented his men’s suffering. If the emotional force of such a dream were not enough to prompt precautions with asbestos, the veracity of the dream’s message could be tested—by animal experiments, for example.5 If men regularly had such vivid, message-laden dreams and if their dreams were regularly shown true (by subsequent scientific testing, for example), men would be inclined to accept the dreams’ messages as true, or at least to conduct the tests necessary to discover whether or not a dream’s message was true. But such dreams, even if regularly shown true, would no more compel belief in God than would cases of precognition if they could be shown to occur regularly. In this way, then, God could provide information to men without the enormous quantity of terrible suffering brought about by natural evils and yet without incurring any of the infelicitous results of speaking with men face to face. And this is by no means the only way for God to provide information without speaking to men face-to-face. The Old Testament abounds in examples: certain individuals (the prophets) have special, divinely bestowed insight into the consequences of men’s actions and serve as a source of knowledge for the rest of the community;6 men have veridical, message-laden visions;7 inanimate objects accurately predict the future;8 and animals speak.9

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil 465

So it seems to me that a crucial premise of Swinburne’s argument is false. We do not need induction from experience of natural evils to have knowledge about the consequences of our actions. God could provide such knowledge, and he could do so without infringing on our freedom. For at least some natural evils, we do not even need to postulate supernatural cases to provide counter-examples to Swinburne’s claim that natural evil is necessary for the knowledge in question. Take the case of asbestosis again. Surely neither many cases of death and disease from asbestos nor supernaturally induced knowledge is necessary for men to know that exposure to asbestos is dangerous to human health. We can learn about the effects of exposure to asbestos in altogether natural ways, without relying on evidence from natural evils, by conducting scientific tests. Swinburne might argue here that we would realize the need to conduct tests of the effects of chemicals on human health only after a number of men had suffered from exposure to them. Such a contention seems to me in fact false. Scientific understanding of biology, which has advanced in tandem with the technology that makes such diseases as asbestosis a real problem, is sufficient to warrant caution about any significant alteration of an animal’s biological or chemical environment. We do not need naturally produced deaths from microwave sickness in order to realize the possible dangers of exposure to microwaves, for example; and we can test the results of such exposure and take precautions against its effects before anyone dies of it. But even if Swinburne were right that we need natural evils to call our attention to the dangerous effects of biological and chemical pollution, such a claim justifies natural evil only until the time men recognize the danger and the need to test in advance for harmful effects. Once that recognition has been achieved, and we know we need to be cautious about altering an individual’s biological or chemical environment, there is no need for knowledge which hinders God from preventing, for example, all cases of accidental lead poisoning (that is, cases in which the victim’s suffering is not a result of his choice or negligence regarding exposure to lead). In addressing this sort of objection, Swinburne tends to talk about “victims of the system.” For men to have knowledge of the consequences of their actions, the laws of nature must operate regularly; and if they do, there will be victims of the system (210). That is, the pain caused by fire, which is good on Swinburne’s account because it causes men to try to escape from fire, must still occur even if it is not possible for the victim to attempt to escape (because the victim is an infant or completely paralyzed). Otherwise

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natural laws will not operate regularly. But, we might feel, God is neither a system nor a machine; he is a very powerful person. And the need for the regular operation of natural laws no more prevents his rescuing the helpless victims of fire than it prevents any human person from doing so. Swinburne, however, seems to think that if God regularly rescued the helpless from disaster, humans would fall into the habit of leaving rescue to God (210–11). It is not clear to me that an inclination on the part of humans to try to rescue victims of natural evils is worth the sufferings of all the victims who are not rescued; but I will assume for the sake of argument that it is. We have then simply restricted the cases in which it is good for God himself to do the rescuing to those in which humans cannot effect a rescue, either because they are not present or because although present they lack the necessary means or for some other reason. Hence, even if we give Swinburne everything he wants, countless injuries and deaths are still unjustified on his account, namely, all those which men could not have prevented and whose occurrence is not necessary to produce or stimulate new knowledge. So it seems to me that natural evil is not justified by the value of knowledge necessary for serious exercise of free will, as Swinburne claims. God could provide men with such knowledge himself, thus obviating the need for natural evils. Or, at least in some cases, men can acquire knowledge of the consequences of their actions by scientific means, without either supernaturally induced knowledge or naturally occurring evils, or at any rate without anything like as many natural evils as do presently occur. Against this attack on his crucial claim that men need inductive evidence from natural evils for the knowledge necessary for freedom, Swinburne has one last defense: When men are contemplating any serious action, we feel that they should be fully alert to the consequences of their action. However well they think that they can imagine it, their imagination needs to be pulled into line by seeing how things really are. Reports given in language will necessarily fail to capture the detail and bring home the feel of those consequences, even if they were reports given by God. . . . That full alertness to consequences can be gained only from the experience of similar consequences. . . . Even if God could give verbal knowledge of the consequences of our actions without impairing our choice of destiny, that knowledge would be less adequate

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil 467 than the knowledge obtained by induction from experience. It is a very deep philosophical truth that by and large all knowledge comes from experience, and that proximity to experience gives surer knowledge. (213–14) So proximity to experience gives more certain knowledge. It is notorious that people are much more inclined to take precautions against disaster if they have suffered before themselves or if a similar disaster has happened to those close to them than if they are warned of the need for precaution by some impersonal distant authority. (205–6)

Swinburne’s line, then, is that even if it were not necessary for men to acquire the knowledge at issue from naturally occurring evils, it is nonetheless better if they do so, because the knowledge so acquired is surer knowledge than knowledge acquired in some other way, such as knowledge obtained from verbal warnings issued by God. He believes that knowledge gained from natural evils is surer knowledge at least in part because he thinks that people are inclined to take precautions against disaster in direct proportion to their nearness to experience of such disasters. But this is, I think, to confuse knowledge with the inclination to act on that knowledge. It is also notorious that students are more inclined to take precautions against academic disaster as the term is drawing to a close, but this does not mean that they gain increasingly surer knowledge about the consequences of their actions as the term progresses. It means only that as the end of the term approaches, students are more inclined to act on the knowledge they have had from the beginning of the term, namely, that they will be tested on their term’s work at the end of the term. Similarly, we may be much more inclined to give up smoking after seeing a friend who is a heavy smoker develop lung cancer; but it is not the case that our knowledge has become surer, only that we are motivated by our friend’s disaster to act on knowledge we already have, namely, that there is a strong link between smoking and cancer. And, in general, what is produced by proximity to experience of natural evils which cannot be produced by verbal warnings even from God seems to me increased motivation to act, not increased certainty of knowledge. Swinburne might reply that even if this objection is correct, it does not have much force against his argument, because whether we describe what proximity to natural evil produces as surer knowledge or as increased

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motivation to act on knowledge, either way the end product of such proximity is a good thing, something important for man to have, which justifies the occurrence of natural evils. But here it must be remembered that in effect the point of Swinburne’s arguments is to justify God’s actions. Now suppose I know that the rocks at the edge of the river where you are intending to walk probably cannot support a person of your weight. I can warn you of that fact and point out to you the unpleasantness of a bruising, chilly, wet fall into the river, and I know that you will not doubt the truth of what I say. But I also know that you are a happy-go-lucky sort of person and that you will probably walk at the edge of the river anyway, in spite of my warning—until, that is, you do tumble into the river; after that, I know, you will be more careful about where you walk. Should I in these circumstances warn you? After all, I know that the knowledge you gain from my warning will be considerably less efficacious (either because the knowledge is less sure or because it produces less motivation) in altering your behavior than knowledge gained from proximity to the experience of a fall would be. But if I warn you and you walk at the river’s edge anyway and do fall in, your falling in is your fault. I did what I could; I warned you. On the other hand, if I do not warn you and you fall in, your falling in is partly my responsibility. I knew, as you did not, that you were in danger of falling in, and I said nothing. Furthermore, even though the knowledge gained from my warning is less sure or less efficacious than the knowledge gained from experience of a fall, nonetheless that less efficacious knowledge is more advantageous to you. If I warn you, you may heed my warning and so avoid a fall; but without my warning, you are far less likely to avoid this first fall. On the other hand, if you do not heed my warning, you simply incur the same risk of a tumble that you would have incurred without my warning. Nothing is lost, then, and something is gained by my warning you. Hence the less sure or less efficacious knowledge gained from my warning is in fact better for you, more in your interest, than the more efficacious knowledge gained from a fall. Both morality and prudence, then, dictate that I warn you, even if the knowledge gained by my warning is less efficacious than that gained by your experience; and the same sort of reasoning applies to God with regard to natural evils. The knowledge which a warning from God could supply might be less effective in getting men to take precautions than knowledge

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil 469

gained from experience of natural evils would be. But if men suffer because they do not heed God’s warning, that is their fault. If they suffer because God failed to warn them (and when they could not have known unless God had warned them), then their suffering is God’s fault. Similarly, it is in man’s interests for God to warn men; with his warning there is a chance of avoiding some suffering which would otherwise be unavoidable. Hence, I think, Swinburne’s claim—that even if it is not necessary that knowledge of the consequences of our actions be gained only from natural evils, it is nonetheless better if it is gained that way—is false. One further point remains to be made about Swinburne’s solution to the problem of evil. Suppose for the sake of argument that Swinburne is right after all, that experience of natural evils is either necessary or better for producing knowledge of the consequences of our actions. The value of this knowledge is what is supposed to justify God’s causing or permitting natural evils to occur. But why should we value this knowledge? Swinburne’s examples of natural evils and what he says about them suggest two plausible answers. In the first place, knowledge about the consequences of our actions in building cities on earthquake fault lines, for example, is valuable because it enables us to avoid building cities there. Knowledge of the death caused by rabies is valuable because it enables us to attempt to prevent or avoid the disease. And, in general, knowledge of this sort is valuable because it enables us to avoid or escape suffering. But there is something frustratingly circular in such an explanation. God is good to allow natural evils, because they are good in virtue of the fact that they produce knowledge of a certain sort; and this knowledge is good because it enables us to avoid natural evils. But the knowledge of how to avoid rabies is useless unless there is rabies in the world. If God had not allowed rabies in the world—or earthquakes or hurricanes or congenital malformations of infants, and so on—there would be no point in having knowledge of such things. If you conceal traps in my front yard, then my repeated attempts to get from my front door to my car parked at the curb will produce in me knowledge about the consequences of my movements. And this knowledge will be useful to me, if I live long enough to acquire it, because it will enable me to avoid traps in the future. So this knowledge is good, it is gained from experience of the evil which you have introduced into my yard, and without this knowledge I could not avoid the evils of the traps. But you are

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not morally justified in setting traps in my front yard—no matter how good and useful the knowledge about the consequences of my actions may be and no matter how dependent that knowledge is on my experiencing the jaws of the trap. The other plausible reason for valuing the knowledge in question has to do with the value of man’s free will. Swinburne sometimes writes as if he thinks the knowledge gained from natural evils is to be valued not so much because it allows us to escape or prevent suffering but because it presents us with serious choices—to try to prevent rabies, to allow rabies to occur through negligence, or even to cause rabies deliberately (cf. 207). And he suggests that if God were to prevent major evils such as the Lisbon earthquake, men would no longer have a serious choice of destiny; men’s choices would matter “but not very much” (219), because God could be counted on to prevent the worst of disasters. It is not clear whether Swinburne with this argument intends to address the problem of natural evils only or of all evils, including those deliberately caused by men. Either way, his argument seems to me to leave natural evils unjustified. As an argument defending only God’s failure to prevent natural evils, it seems to me clearly unacceptable. Belsen was entirely the work of man’s hand, and evils of that magnitude with the serious choices they entail are still possible even if God were to prevent all hurricanes, earthquakes, mental retardation, birth defects, and so on. As an argument defending God’s failure to prevent all major evils, it seems to me to have some force. But God could fail to prevent all major evils, thus leaving man serious choices and a serious choice of destiny, simply by failing to prevent all major man-made evils, those for which man rather than God is responsible. And so it is not necessary for God to allow natural evils to occur in order to give man serious choices. Consequently, I think the value of the knowledge gained from natural evils cannot be used as a justification of God’s actions in allowing natural evils to occur. Such knowledge is not necessary for serious choices, and its value as a means of escaping suffering would vanish if God had not allowed natural evils in the first place. Hence it seems to me that Swinburne’s solution to the problem of evil fails. Neither the need for knowledge or the value of it, on the one hand, nor the importance of serious choice on the other, justifies God’s allowing all of the evil he does allow.

Knowledge, Freedom, and the Problem of Evil 471 NOTES

1. Richard Swinburne, The Existence of God (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979). Further references to this book will be given by page number in the text. 2. In recent literature, most notably H. J. McCloskey, “God and Evil,” Philosophical Quarterly 10 (1960): 97–114; and J. L. Mackie, “Evil and Omnipotence,” Mind 64 (1955): 200–212. 3. Cf. chapter 5 in Alvin Plantinga, God and Other Minds (lthaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1967), and chapter 9 of his The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1974). 4. Before he turns to his own solution, Swinburne considers and sets aside certain other traditional attempts at a solution. For example, he considers the view that the evil which God allows man to suffer is simply punishment for his sins. This he rejects out of hand because it cannot account for the suffering of infants and animals. He also discusses the suggestion that natural evil is the result of free choices by fallen angels. This suggestion he also rejects, on the grounds that the hypothesis of the existence and evil actions of fallen angels is blatantly ad hoc; there is no independent evidence for the hypothesis, and it seems to have been brought in just to handle this otherwise intractable problem. Many, perhaps most, theists would agree with Swinburne’s rejection of the first solution, and with his reasons for it. (Moses Maimonides seems to be a notable exception; cf., e.g., The Guide of the Perplexed, trans. Shlomo Pines [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1963], 469–70, and his discussion of the story of Job in Bk. III, chaps. 22 and 23.) It is perhaps worth noticing in this connection that taking human suffering as just punishment for sins also has some consequences which are incompatible both with ordinary moral sense and with some of the ethical exhortations of the major monotheisms. If suffering is punishment for sins, then if Smith can safely help his neighbor Jones escape from a burning house and does not try to help him, Jones’s subsequent suffering will be just punishment for his sins. So Smith has done no wrong in leaving Jones to burn. An account of suffering with such implications is clearly morally repugnant and is incompatible with such religious exhortations to altruism as the Golden Rule. Many theists might feel more hesitation about agreeing with Swinburne’s attitude towards the hypothesis of fallen angels. But regardless of one’s view of that hypothesis, it seems clear that it does not so much solve the problem of evil (even of natural evil) as transfer it. If earthquakes in densely populated areas, for example, are the result of free choices by fallen angels, the problem of why God allows such earthquakes is not solved. It is simply shifted to the problem of why God allows fallen angels to be successful in bringing about the evil they have willed. 5. Such tests might necessarily involve pain or death for laboratory animals. I am not considering the problem of the suffering of animals in my discussion of Swinburne on evil; but for present purposes perhaps it is enough to suggest that if such tests

472  Natural Evils and Natural Laws do necessarily involve animal suffering, we can nonetheless argue with some force that a world in which some laboratory animals are deliberately made to suffer but there are no natural evils is a better world than one with natural evils and no animal suffering in scientific tests. 6. E.g., Jer. 42:1–16: “Then . . . all the people from the least even unto the greatest came near and said unto Jeremiah the prophet . . . pray for us unto the Lord thy God . . . that the Lord thy God may show us the way wherein we may walk and the thing that we may do. . . . And it came to pass after ten days that the word of the Lord came unto Jeremiah. Then he called . . . all the people . . . , and said unto them, Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel . . . If ye will still abide in this land, then will I build you, and not pull you down. . . . But if ye say, We will go into the land of Egypt, . . . then it shall come to pass that the sword, which ye feared; shall overtake you there in the land of Egypt; and the famine, of which ye were afraid, shall follow close after you there in Egypt; and there ye shall die.” 7. E.g., the visions of the prophet Daniel, esp. Dan. 8–10. 8. E.g., David’s use of the ephod, 1 Sam. 23:9–11 and 30:7–8. 9. See the well-known example of Balaam’s donkey alerting him to the presence of an angel with a warning from God about what Balaam must say to the princes of Balak; Num. 22:22–35.

C H A P T E R

2 7

God and Gratuitous Evil WILLIAM HASKER

If a good God allowed evil in a world he had created, how much evil would he allow? A little? A lot? As much as exists in our actual world? How could we tell? A widely accepted answer to this question is as follows: God would allow just those evils which are conducive to a “greater good,” some good state of affairs which outweighs the evil in question and justifies its being permitted. More precisely, God would allow only those evils which he could not prevent without also preventing some greater good, or permitting some other equal or greater evil.1 Evils not so related to a greater good (or to the prevention of some equal or greater evil)—“gratuitous evils,” as they have come to be called—would not, indeed could not, be allowed by a good God. If nevertheless such evils do exist, God does not exist; evils of this sort are a conclusive proof of atheism. Given these assumptions, the stage is set for a debate about the problem of evil. There is no real disagreement that there exist in our world evils which, so far as we can tell, could be prevented by God (if there is a God) without forfeiting any good that is comparable in value to the evil in question, Original essay used by permission of the author.

473

474  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

and without incurring some other evil as bad or worse. Atheists will take this situation at face value as supporting their position. Theistic believers, on the other hand, must find some reason not to take the apparent facts about evil at face value. One common move is to assert that, since God exists and is good and loving, the evils that appear to us to be pointless and gratuitous cannot really be so; rather, God must have a good and sufficient reason for permitting these evils. God’s existence, we might say, is the “trump card” that overcomes the appearance of pointless evil. Such an answer may be satisfactory for persons who already have a strong belief in God, but it is of little help to those who do not believe, or who are genuinely in doubt about God’s existence. On this approach, the appearance of pointless evil is acknowledged to be evidence against the existence of God—evidence which, however, is outweighed by (what is taken to be) positive evidence favoring God’s existence. Even for the believer, then, the problem of evil reduces the evidential support for belief in God below what it would otherwise be, though how much it reduces it will vary from person to person depending on the specifics of the situation. A more aggressive strategy, and one currently favored by many philosophers, is to deny that the existence of evils for which we can see no justifying reason provides any evidence at all that gratuitous evil actually exists. The reason behind this denial is that we are simply in no position to know whether there are outweighing goods that are made possible by serious instances of evil; thus, our failure to recognize such outweighing goods does not constitute any sort of evidence that they do not exist. If this strategy succeeds, then the problem of apparently gratuitous evil has been neutralized and is no longer an obstacle to theistic belief.2 This “skeptical theist” strategy (as it has come to be called) undoubtedly has merit in calling attention to the fact that our grasp of the facts about evil, and of the connections that may exist between instances of evil and their possible good consequences, is really quite limited. Nevertheless, it seems to some of us that the likelihood that we are mistaken in every case where it seems to us that some serious evil leads to no greater good must be very small. I have argued elsewhere that William Rowe’s example of a fawn trapped and burned in a forest fire, suffering agonizing pain for several days until it finally expires, poses an especially difficult problem for the skeptical theist strategy.3 There is, I believe, a growing impression among many

God and Gratuitous Evil 475

philosophers that this strategy can succeed only if supported by a deep and wide-ranging skepticism about our ability to recognize instances of good and evil and the causal connections between them.4 But such skepticism, if taken seriously, would be quite damaging to our moral life as a whole; it is hardly something that should be welcomed by believers in God. It is my contention that this whole discussion is off on the wrong foot, because the assumption on which it is founded—that God would not, and could not, permit the existence of pointless evil—is a mistake. On the contrary: God may very well permit the existence of instances of evil which he could prevent without losing any greater good—and his doing so in no way impugns his goodness and moral perfection. On the face of it, this claim may seem paradoxical, even absurd, but I ask the reader to carefully consider my reasoning before dismissing it. We begin with some general considerations about divine intervention. Theists believe that God is able to intervene in the world in order to prevent evil as well as for other purposes and that he sometimes does so. A little thought shows, however, that the total amount and frequency of such interventions may have to be rather limited if God is to fulfill his other purposes. If God wishes for us to learn about the natural world, coming in some degree to understand its processes and gaining the capacity to control them, then God had best not intervene every time some natural process comes in conflict with human needs and desires. If God wishes for us to establish societies that will regulate behavior and curb harmful tendencies, he had best not serve as the “universal policeman,” stepping in whenever someone starts acting destructively. The general point is well understood by human parents: if children are never permitted to become frustrated and to make mistakes, they won’t learn very much. And if the children insist on making really big mistakes (the biblical story of the Prodigal Son may serve as an example), the parents may have no choice but to stand back, in spite of their own pain and foreboding, and let the child experience the consequences of the course he has chosen. The point so far has been stated in general terms, but it has application to the specific topic of pointless or gratuitous evil. What, we may ask, would be the consequences if God were to prevent all such evil? As you may anticipate, I am going to argue that the consequences of God’s doing so would in certain ways be most unfavorable—in fact, that were God to do this he would be frustrating some of his most cherished objectives for humankind.

476  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

In order to show this, we will conduct a thought experiment in which God is governing the world in accordance with the following principle of No Gratuitous Evil (NGE): NGE: An omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being (i.e., God) would of necessity prevent the occurrence of any evil state of affairs it could, unless it could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. A second important assumption of our thought experiment, in addition to NGE, is the principle of Divine Moral Intention (DMI). This has to do not merely with God’s intention to govern the world in a morally acceptable way, but with God’s purpose with regard to the place of morality in human life. The principle is as follows: DMI: It is an extremely important part of God’s intention for human persons that they should place a high priority on fulfilling moral obligations, and should assume major responsibility for the welfare of their fellow human beings. DMI is clearly implicit in the biblical picture of God and God’s relationship to the world; this is apparent in the giving of the Ten Commandments, in the instructions of the Sermon on the Mount, and in a thousand other places in scripture. It is also a characteristic emphasis of all the major theistic religions. Those who are not theists, of course, cannot be expected to accept DMI as true, since it entails the existence of God. Rather, they should regard it as an integral component of the belief in God that is characteristic of all the major theistic religions, one that must be respected in any attempt to argue either for or against God’s existence. Another principle that will be assumed concerns the way in which we human beings come to attribute great significance to moral obligation. The principle of Harm and the Significance of Morality (HSM) is as follows: HSM: An important part of what leads human beings to attribute great significance to morality is the perception that pointless harm and suffering very often result from morally objectionable behavior.

God and Gratuitous Evil 477

This principle is a plausible generalization about human motivation and behavior. It seems, in fact, to be a fairly obvious truism about the moral lives of people. An indispensable part of the moral education of children is for them to come to see that bad behavior can inflict pain and suffering on others. Those who are attempting to arouse moral indignation and release moral energy among adults invariably place great emphasis on the harm and suffering that results from the behavior that is being condemned. The other side of the picture is illustrated by the “no harm, no foul” principle, a principle that originated in athletics but is often applied elsewhere. If someone commits what is technically a violation but no actual harm to anyone results, the tendency is to treat the violation rather lightly or even to ignore it entirely. It is necessary, however, to say something about the word “pointless” as it occurs in HSM. If we were concerned only with children, the word could be omitted, since for them the notion that there might be some benefit from pain and suffering is usually remote. As a person matures, however, the awareness gradually develops that in some instances pain and suffering serve an important purpose of some kind; in some instances, the infliction of pain and suffering tends to be regarded as excusable or even praiseworthy. It is characteristic of morally bad behavior, however, that any benefits that might accrue are accidental and not intended by the agent. In very many cases, in fact, one can look long and hard and still find no redeeming feature of the situation; the harm and suffering seem pointless indeed. And it is, I am claiming, just this feature of morally bad actions that most strongly reinforces for us the importance of living our lives in a morally acceptable fashion. At this point we are ready to conduct our thought experiment, based on the supposition that God is governing the world in accordance with NGE and DMI. Consider, then, the situation of a moral agent who is contemplating some morally objectionable but nevertheless tempting course of action. The agent in question, we will assume, is astute enough to realize that God is governing the world in accord with NGE. The agent, perhaps, reflects that if she takes the morally reprehensible course, others may suffer as a result. But then it occurs to her that the consequences of her action will not be “all bad” by any means. She recognizes, in fact, that the following principle of Offsetting Good (OG) is true:

478  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

OG: Any harm resulting from a morally wrong action will be offset by a “greater good” that God could not have obtained without permitting the evil in question. In the present context, OG really is not debatable, since it is a straightforward consequence of the assumptions of our thought experiment, including NGE. Does this mean that the world overall will be no worse off (and possibly better off ) if the agent commits the wrong action, than if she refrains from it? This is not quite correct, for a reason originally pointed out by William Rowe. If we hold (as do most theists) that the existence of free moral choice is a good thing, then it is plausible that there is some intrinsic value in each instance of a person’s being free to make such a choice, regardless of how the choice is actually made. And so it might be that the good results that flow from a particular decision are not equal to the evil results, but that the evil still is nongratuitous because God could not have prevented those evil results without taking away the person’s freedom to make that decision. So the world would not be better overall if God had prevented the evil decision, but it would have been better if the agent had freely decided to choose good instead of evil. According to Rowe, however, “this is a somewhat minor point.”5 I would agree with this: the intrinsic good involved in a person’s being free to choose on a particu­lar occasion cannot reasonably be supposed to be so great that it outweighs severe evils that result from a morally wrong decision. We cannot for a moment suppose, for example, that the evil of a murder is outweighed by the intrinsic value of the freedom that enabled the agent to commit it. I believe it best fits our moral intuitions to hold that, in the case of an evil action leading to severe harm, at most a small proportion of the evil is offset by the good involved in the agent’s freedom to choose to act in that way. We have, then, the following situation: our agent, contemplating a tempting but morally objectionable action, knows that the results of her performing the action will be at least as good as the results God could obtain by prohibiting it. In other words, God’s permission of this action is a necessary means to a greater good that God could not obtain in any other way. Now, some of this “greater good” may consist simply in the fact of the agent’s being free to choose in that situation. But the intrinsic value of the agent’s freedom to choose is in fact rather small, and in the case of a

God and Gratuitous Evil 479

seriously harmful action, can account for only a small fraction of the “greater good” that is needed to compensate for the evil in the situation. In other words, if we accept the assumptions of our thought experiment, the following principle of Limited Harm (LH) seems to be true: LH: Whatever evil may result from a seriously harmful moral offense, the greater part of this evil (and perhaps all of it) is compensated by good results which could not have been obtained had the agent chosen a morally acceptable course of action instead. At this point, however, trouble looms for the picture of divine action we have been developing. If LH is true, and an agent knows it is true, then it follows (by HSM) that the agent’s inclination to take moral requirements seriously is likely to be very significantly lessened. But this result is contrary to God’s intention (as specified by DMI) that human beings “should place a high priority on fulfilling moral obligations, and should assume major responsibility for the welfare of their fellow human beings.” Put more briefly: If we know that God will permit a morally wrong action only if it results in a compensating good, then our motivation to take morality seriously as a guide to life is likely to be seriously impaired. Let us describe a situation in which this occurs as one in which morality is undermined. The conception of divine providence that requires God to act in such a way that morality is undermined is incoherent, because it requires God to act contrary to one of his most important objectives for his creation. In view of this result, we may reasonably conclude that NGE, the key premise that underwrites such a conception, is false. David O’Connor, however, objects to this reasoning, and supports his disagreement with an example. He imagines that a certain person named Socrates is suffering from a disease, and we are deciding whether to provide treatment and alleviate his distress, at some expense and possible danger to ourselves, or to allow him to go on suffering. What is the likely effect on our decision, if we know that LH is true in this situation? According to O’Connor, the truth of LH “is neutral between the two options.” He explains: On the one hand there is the idea that, because we know no genuinely gratuitous natural evil will result from our not helping him, we are not

480  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World obligated to help him, that we may, in good conscience, ignore his plight. . . . But, on the other hand, there is the idea that because we know that, if we help him, we run no risk of inadvertently causing him (or anybody else) gratuitous harm, a possible inhibitor of our helping him is removed, namely, the fear that we might unintentionally cause him needless suffering. In my view the latter idea is at least as plausible as the former.6

It is true, in this thought experiment, that neither course we might take would cause Socrates, or anyone else, any gratuitous harm. (This does not, however, guarantee that Socrates himself will not be harmed by our efforts—a harm that would, by hypothesis, be offset by a greater good bene­ fitting someone else.) The important point, however, is this: If LH is true, then neither our helping him nor our refraining from so doing will make things either significantly better or significantly worse overall. Our normal assumption, on the other hand, is that by helping Socrates, we have the likelihood of doing a great deal of good, with no reasonable expectation of some comparable good occurring should we refrain from helping him. The difference between these two suppositions is by no means neutral in its effect on our motivation to help Socrates.7 Indeed, O’Connor has in effect conceded this point (though apparently without recognizing that he has done so) by admitting that, given the assumption NGE, “we may, in good conscience, ignore [Socrates’] plight”! Aiding Socrates and others in similar distress becomes an option, not a moral obligation. I have argued that if God were known to govern the world in such a way that all gratuitous evil is prevented, then one of his most important objectives for human beings, namely, his objective that they should take moral obligations with great seriousness, would be frustrated. But it is unreasonable to suppose that God, in order to be perfectly good, must act counter to such an important and morally significant objective. It follows from this that NGE should be rejected. This principle should not be accepted by theists as part of their own worldview, and arguments against theism based on it are misguided. In the remainder of this essay, I shall address several additional objections to this reasoning. One fairly obvious objection is that God’s so governing the world has this adverse consequence only if it is known to the agent that God is doing so. But why couldn’t God follow this policy without letting us know that he

God and Gratuitous Evil 481

follows it? In this case, gratuitous evil could be prevented by God without undermining our motivation to act morally. In fact, however, it is already too late in the day for this objection. Theists believe that God is supremely morally good, and, if God exists, it is surely part of God’s intention that they should believe this. (God greatly desires that we come to know him, which includes knowing, to the limit of our capacity, what sort of being he is.) Now, the proponent of the argument from gratuitous evil claims that it follows logically from God’s perfect goodness that NGE is true. Either this claim is correct, or it is not. If it is correct, then God could not keep us from knowing that he is operating according to NGE unless he also kept us from knowing that he is perfectly good—but that, surely, is something he does very much want us to know.8 If, on the other hand, NGE does not follow logically from God’s perfect goodness (as I believe to be the case), then there is no reason to accept NGE. A second objection arises because of the apparently paradoxical nature of our thesis. We are talking about evil that is pointless or gratuitous, but it turns out, if the argument given is correct, that evil of this sort serves a very important purpose—namely, to convince human beings of the importance of fulfilling our moral obligations. But if that is so, the apparently “gratu­ itous” evil is not gratuitous after all, and my argument self-destructs. This objection, however, moves too quickly. To see why, consider an illustration. Suppose an excellent musical performance is being rewarded with sustained and enthusiastic applause. Each member of the audience who is applauding is contributing to the enthusiastic reception of the performance. But it is certainly not the case that, had one member of the audience been prevented from applauding, the performance would not have been enthusiastically received. In the same way, any single instance of gratuitous evil is such that God could have prevented that particular instance without thereby undermining morality. If on the other hand God prevented all such instances, morality would indeed be undermined. William Rowe nicely summarizes the point by stating that, on this view, “the class of gratuitous evils is not gratuitous,” in that God could not have prevented that class from having any members at all without losing a greater good. Nevertheless, Rowe is not satisfied with this answer. In response, he develops a line of argument whose objective is not only to restore NGE but also to reinstate the evidential argument from gratuitous evil. He argues as follows:

482  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World Consider E, a particular instance of Hasker’s class of gratuitous evils. . . . Now if Hasker is right, a perfect being cannot prevent every evil like E, for then it would lose the greater good of significant morality. But could this being have obtained the greater good of significant morality without permitting E? As we’ve seen, Hasker’s answer is yes. For E could be deleted from the class without in any way undermining morality, so long as the rest of the class is left intact. How far could the class of gratuitous evils be depleted without undermining significant morality? I would think a great deal.

To be sure, Rowe admits, a point would eventually be reached where no further evils could be eliminated, without undermining morality. But at that point, none of the remaining evils would be gratuitous, since if any of them were eliminated, God would lose the greater good of significant morality. Rowe concludes: And what this means, I’m afraid, is that Hasker’s argument contains the seeds of its own destruction. A world suitable for significant morality would not require an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being to permit any gratuitous evil at all.

On the contrary, however, if NGE is retained, it is Rowe’s own position that self-destructs. For consider the situation of an agent who is contemplating the commission of a serious moral fault, given the state of affairs described by Rowe. That is to say, all of the evil that exists is nongratuitous; all of it is evil that God must permit if he is to obtain some greater good. Some of this good, we now know, will consist in the good of preserving the significance of morality, and some of it will be of other kinds. But these details need not concern our agent. What is important is that LH is still true; it is still true that whatever harm and suffering may result from a serious moral offense someone might commit, the greater part of this evil (and perhaps all of it) is compensated by good results which could not have been obtained had the person chosen a morally acceptable course of action instead. So, contrary to Rowe’s assertion, morality is undermined for this person after all. There is a dialectical pattern here that is worth reflecting on. Rowe, like many others, takes NGE as axiomatic and constructs an argument from evil based on it. I pointed out that, if we assume NGE to be true, then an

God and Gratuitous Evil 483

important goal of the divine governance of the world would be frustrated— namely, the maintenance of significant morality. Rowe replies that, if this is so, God would allow “just enough” additional evil to ensure that significant morality is maintained after all. And since all of this additional evil is necessary in order to obtain the great good of significant morality, none of it is gratuitous, and NGE can be reinstated. What I am now pointing out is that as soon as NGE returns, so does the undermining of morality. The lesson to be drawn is that NGE and the maintenance of significant morality are incompatible; any conception of divine providence that incorporates one of these must end by sacrificing the other. I have already asserted that DMI, the principle of divine moral intention, is much more firmly entrenched in the theistic world picture than is NGE, and so it is the latter that must be abandoned. And with it goes the argument from gratuitous evil that is based on it. A final objection was raised by a correspondent who observed that “the number of Christians who accept something in the neighborhood of NGE but also feel it really doesn’t matter whether they act morally or immorally is infinitesimally small.” This may be true, but it is not a problem for my argument, because the argument does not imply that there will be such persons. For people to think that “it doesn’t really matter whether they act morally or immorally,” it must be the case that the sense of moral obligation has almost entirely lost its grip on them—they have become, in effect, amoral beings. It is hardly to be expected that the acceptance of a theory of providence would have so drastic an effect. Christians (as well as adherents of other theistic faiths) have, after all, normally been subjected to some fairly serious moral instruction, and one would hope that the results of this could not be so easily wiped away. The question is whether one’s motivation to act morally can, in certain circumstances, be significantly weakened by the belief that whether one does right or wrong will in the end make little difference. I believe the answer to that question is in the affirmative. Daniel Howard-Snyder, however, has doubts about this: Most of us, I dare say, would be far less affected by the abstract knowledge that our choices will not make things better or worse overall than by the concrete reality that our choices will make things better or worse for ourselves, for our loved ones, and for our friends and acquaintances.9

484  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

There is certainly some point to this. It seems likely that our motivation to benefit and protect ourselves, or persons about whom we care greatly, will not be greatly affected by our beliefs about the overall effect of our actions on the world in general. One wonders about the effect on our actions toward those to whom we are indifferent or antagonistic: given that someone has to suffer, why shouldn’t they be the ones? But finally, consider those instances where we need to take responsibility for the welfare of persons far removed and unknown to us personally. What possible reason could there be to relieve the victims of natural disasters or disease epidemics in remote parts of the world—individuals who are not, and never will be, known to us personally—if we know that whatever harm and suffering we thus prevent will simply show up somewhere else? And the very thought of an obligation to provide for the needs of future generations—say, by not despoiling the planet of its resources—becomes completely vacuous on this view. God, we may rightly say, has all that in hand, and nothing we can do about it will make any difference. I believe, however, that the effects of the belief that “it is all for the best” often show up closer to home. Indeed, I suspect that many readers are not unaware of a strain of passivity and fatalism that manifests itself at times within the Christian community. Worthwhile plans are abandoned prematurely in the face of supposedly “providential” obstacles that could be overcome by persistent effort, and grave illnesses are accepted as “God’s will” when there are still promising treatment options available. A more momentous example can be found in the civil rights struggle in the American South. In his “Letter from Birmingham Jail,” Martin Luther King, Jr., spoke movingly of the moral failure of white Christians: We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. . . . I have been so greatly disappointed with the white church and its leadership. . . . So often it is an arch-defender of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the Church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the Church’s silent—and often vocal— sanction of things as they are.10

Additional light is thrown on the situation by considering the mentality of Douglas Hudgins, segregationist pastor of the First Baptist Church of

God and Gratuitous Evil 485

Jackson, Mississippi. In the wake of the bombing of a black church and the disappearance of three civil rights leaders (later found to have been murdered), Hudgins was challenged by a fellow minister with the question, “How can it be, Doug, that you are here in this town preaching the Gospel and there’s all this hatred and violence?” Hudgins was momentarily silent. Then he said, “You simply don’t understand. You know Baptists have no business tinkering in political matters.” Hudgins invoked the familiar claim that civil rights for blacks has nothing to do with the Gospel.11

Later on, when he was forced to respond to a bomb attack on the home of a local Jewish rabbi, Hudgins contented himself with a weak statement couched in generalities and concluded, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”12 Hudgins was not endorsing the bombing as a righteous act. But a proper faith in providence requires us to acknowledge that “the Lord is working” even in such a happening—and if the Lord is working, for Hudgins, it behooves us his servants to keep out of the way. Such passivity in the face of terrible evil is, I am claiming, a natural consequence of the doctrine that, in the providence of God, “all is for the best.” Our discussion so far has been focused on gratuitous moral evil, but what about natural evil—evil which does not result from creaturely wrongdoing? The answer is that the same pattern of argument already developed applies at least equally well to natural evil. Indeed, the argument is simpler and more direct in the case of natural evil, in that we do not have to take account of the intrinsic value of free choice as constituting part of the good for the sake of which God permits the evil to occur. Hence it is straightforwardly true, given NGE, that every natural evil is a necessary condition of some greater good. But if we really believed this—if we really believed that all of the harm and suffering that results from natural causes is compensated, or more than compensated, by good results that flow from that harm and suffering—our motivation to prevent such harm and suffering, to gain knowledge of the workings of nature, and to use forethought to avoid harmful consequences would be seriously affected.13 To be sure, given the realities of human nature, we would still be inclined to avoid short-term harm to ourselves and to persons we care about. But once again, the notion that we should relieve the victims of natural disasters or disease epidemics in

486  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

remote parts of the world, as well as the thought that we have an obligation to provide for the needs of future generations, becomes completely pointless. These consequences, however, are ethically unacceptable, and likewise unacceptable is the principle that generates them, namely, NGE. I have argued that the assumption that God necessarily prevents all gratuitous evil, whether moral or natural, conflicts with what are reasonably taken to be major objectives in God’s governance of the world and of human lives—namely, the objective that human beings should take moral obligations with great seriousness, and the objective that we should come to understand nature’s workings and take thought to avoid harmful outcomes stemming from natural processes. This being so, the No Gratuitous Evil assumption should not be accepted as part of a theistic worldview. Arguments against theism based on this assumption may confer a temporary tactical advantage but cannot prevail once believers come to recognize that the assumption should be rejected. The evils that seem gratuitous to us may really be so; there may be no greater good resulting from them that could not be achieved otherwise. That this is so gives us reason to battle against these evils and their consequences; it does not give us reason to give up our faith in the God who fights the battle along with us.

NOTES

1. This formulation is adapted from William L. Rowe’s argument in his essay “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 2. 2. This strategy is the main theme of the articles in Howard-Snyder, ed., The Evidential Argument from Evil. 3. See “The Sceptical Solution to the Problem of Evil,” in William Hasker, Providence, Evil, and the Openness of God (London: Routledge, 2004), 43–57. 4. See, for example, Michael J. Almeida and Graham Oppy, “Skeptical Theism and Evidential Arguments from Evil,” Australasian Journal of Philosophy 81, no. 4 (December 2003): 496–516. 5. This and subsequent quotations from Rowe are taken from his “Response to Hasker’s ‘The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil’” (unpublished paper), presented at the Central Division of the American Philosophical Association in April 1988.

God and Gratuitous Evil 487 6. David O’Connor, “Hasker on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 12, no. 3 (July 1995): 380–92; quotations from 384–85. Similar material is found in O’Connor’s God and Inscrutable Evil: In Defense of Theism and Atheism (London: Rowman and Littlefield, 1998), 53–70. 7. For a more extensive reply to O’Connor, see my “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 14, no. 3 (July 1997): 388–94. 8. It is not a satisfactory answer to my argument to point out that some humans, due to immaturity or negligence, would not yet have understood that NGE is true. 9. From “Hasker’s New Argument,” unpublished comments on an earlier version of this material. 10. The Autobiography of Martin Luther King, Jr., ed. Clayborne Carson (New York: Warner Books, 1998), 196, 199, 201. My thanks to Del Doughty for suggesting this example. 11. Charles Marsh, God’s Long Summer: Stories of Faith and Civil Rights (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997), 104. 12. Ibid., 105. 13. If it is supposed that we have a moral obligation to do some or all of these things, then the evil resulting from our failure to do them is moral, rather than “purely natural,” evil, and all the considerations discussed earlier will apply to it.

C H A P T E R

2 8

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil D AV I D O ’ C O N N O R

Gratuitous evil is incompatible with the existence of God. Until recently this idea was assumed to be too obvious to need justification. But William Hasker, Michael L. Peterson, George N. Schlesinger, and Peter van Inwagen have independently provided good reason to take a second look.1 Among these dissenting arguments are three by William Hasker for the mutual compatibility of God and gratuitous natural evil. I examine those arguments here.2 Hasker opens his challenge to the conventional wisdom as follows: “it seems to many to be almost self-evident that a good God would not allow gratuitous evil. But arguments for this contention are not easy to come by, and I think it may well be possible to show that theism requires nothing of the sort.”3 As developed, Hasker’s point is that not only is it not self-evident

Original essay used by permission of the author.

488

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 489

that God and gratuitous natural evil are mutually incompatible but indeed that they are not incompatible. Specifically, he presents three arguments to show that the incompatibility thesis gives rise to outcomes inconsistent either with God’s essential nature or with God’s goals in world making. Thus Hasker concludes that, given that nature or those goals, the incompatibility thesis is false. Hasker’s concept of God is that of a unique personal being, the essentially good, omnipotent, and omniscient creator of the universe. His concept of gratuitous or pointless evil is the concept of evil “such that an omnipotent being could have prevented it without thereby having prevented the occurrence of some greater good.”4 For ease of discussion, let us cast the issue before us in terms of possible worlds, and in doing so stipulate agreement to the two following propositions: that the same laws of nature obtain in them all as in the actual world, and that human beings and especially the moral nature of human beings are the same in all those worlds as in the actual world.5 With these stipulations in place, Hasker’s argument is that if God prevented all gratuitous natural evil, an outcome inconsistent with God’s essential nature or with his goals in world making would result; thus it follows that God could not (and so would not) prevent all such evil. The goals in world making that Hasker attributes to God include the following two in particular, namely, “the maintenance of significant morality”6 and “[bringing human beings] to a knowledge of himself.”7 Let us agree that these are among God’s goals in world making. Hasker’s arguments divide into two groups. The first comprises two arguments that examine implications of our not knowing that God prevents all gratuitous natural evil, while the second comprises a single argument examining implications of our knowing that God prevents all such evil. The object of the three arguments is the same, namely, to establish that the concepts “God” and “gratuitous natural evil” are not mutually exclusive. Let us begin an examination of Hasker’s case with the third of his arguments, the argument that God and gratuitous natural evil are not mutually exclusive in a world where both God prevents all such evil and we know it. This is the most important of his three arguments, for, as we will see, the other two presuppose it at crucial points. Accordingly, I discuss it most extensively.

490  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World W H AT IF GOD PR EV ENTS A LL GR ATUITOUS NATUR A L EV IL A ND W E K NOW IT?

Hasker thinks that if God prevented all gratuitous natural evil and we knew it, then, the consequences with regard to . . . [such] . . . goods . . . [as] . . . knowledge, prudence, courage, foresight, cooperation, and compassion . . . would be rather drastic. Surely the motivation to acquire and/or respond in accordance with any or all of these goods would be greatly reduced, if not eliminated entirely, if we really believed that God would prevent any natural evils which were not essential to the realization of still greater goods. To be sure, we might still have some inclination to avoid outcomes that seemed especially distasteful to us personally—but such an inclination would be of questionable rationality, inasmuch as by preventing those outcomes we would also be preventing the occurrence of goods which are at least equal and possibly greater.8

The reasoning here is that if God prevents all gratuitous natural evil and we know it, then our moral motivation is undermined, even though such natural evil is itself not necessary for morality or for the occurrence of any greater good. But maintaining morality is a principal goal of God’s in actualizing a world containing beings like us. So it could not be that God prevents all gratuitous natural evil and we know it. Let us distinguish between (i) God is known to prevent all gratuitous natural evil, inasmuch as God is known to prevent all natural evil and (ii) God is known to prevent all gratuitous natural evil, but there is still natural evil remaining, and thus what is known is that all the natural evil that remains is necessary to the occurrence of greater goods. It is (ii), not (i), that reflects Hasker’s understanding of what we know, if we know that in a world containing human persons God prevents all gratuitous natural evil. On (ii), then, Hasker thinks that in successfully counteracting the natural evil that still exists when all gratuitous natural evil is known to have been prevented, we would be preventing the occurrence of those possibly greater “goods of resistance against nature,”9 such as courage and compassion, for which the natural evil that remains is necessary.

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 491

Consider the following test case of Hasker’s point. Socrates is injured, and his injuries, pain, and suffering are nongratuitous natural evils. You are coming to treat him. But you will be delayed in arriving, and we know that. For various uncontroversial reasons, Socrates’ injuries will be more difficult to treat later rather than sooner. Accordingly, if his injuries are treated later rather than sooner, the goods of resistance that will be involved will be greater than now—greater bravery and fortitude from Socrates, greater sympathy and compassion from us, as well as greater prudence and resourcefulness from you. But Plato intervenes now and successfully treats Socrates, leaving no role for you later on. The goods of resistance that are realized now by Plato’s actions are less than those that would have been realized had he stood by waiting for you. Like the rest of us in this possible world, Plato knows that no natural evil is gratuitous. Thus he knows that Socrates’ pain and suffering (including the extra pain and suffering resulting from delayed treatment) are not gratuitous. Yet, due to the same “very general but contingent facts about what . . . human moral agents are like” that are true of all of us, certain feelings arose spontaneously and naturally in Plato upon witnessing Socrates’ suffering, for instance, pity, compassion, sympathy, as well as a strong desire to help. Both Plato’s desire to help and his acting on it are purely altruistic, or at least as altruistic as they would be in the actual world. In so acting (that is, preventing natural evil) for the reasons he did, Plato instantiated those very goods of resistance that are among God’s principal goals in world making. The point may be generalized: preventing natural evil in cases like this is precisely the occurrence of the greater moral goods for which we are stipulating that some natural evil is necessary. Thus, prevention of natural evil in a world where it is known that all natural evil is necessary for goods of resistance entails neither the prevention of moral motivation nor the prevention of such goods. True, if Plato today successfully treats Socrates, he prevents your treating him tomorrow when things would have been worse and more difficult to deal with. In that sense, he does prevent the occurrence of a greater good. And that is the pivot of Hasker’s argument. However, the point in question is always true, for there is always the possibility of a greater good, more courage, more patience, and so on. In exploring this fact, we will see that, even in a world known to contain no gratuitous natural evil, it is false to characterize Plato’s intervention as only avoiding “outcomes that seemed especially distasteful to us personally . . . [and] . . . of questionable rationality.”

492  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

Why? First, if Plato avoids treating Socrates today so that you can realize a greater good tomorrow by treating him then, he thereby knowingly condemns Socrates to extra suffering—not gratuitous, but real nonetheless—in the meantime. Second, Plato neither knows nor has reason to think that the subsequent greater good is a greater good to the victim, Socrates; quite the contrary, in fact. Third, there is the additional distress caused to the observers, next of kin, and so on. Fourth, there is the greater use of (possibly scarce) time and resources involved in treating him later rather than sooner, thus perhaps making them unavailable for use elsewhere. Fifth, the teaching of moral behavior would appear to be made more difficult by our doing nothing in such situations, inasmuch as, to an onlooker, the moral rule reflected in our inaction might plausibly be supposed to be “do not help the suffering.” Sixth, the teaching of moral behavior would appear to be made more difficult for another reason, too, namely, that another moral rule reflected in our doing nothing might plausibly be supposed to be “the ends justify the means,” even ends known only abstractly and that seem indifferent to preventable suffering here and now. And seventh, we do not know that the subsequent overall situation is better after nonintervention than after intervention. We know that neither situation contains any gratuitous evil and that, in the short run at least, nonintervention results in certain greater goods of resistance than does intervention— more courage, more fortitude, and so on. But it does not follow from this that we know nonintervention is better overall than intervention, for, among others, the first six reasons just listed. Thus it does not follow, either, that moral motivation would be undermined by knowing that no natural evil is gratuitous. Additional reasons for this point will emerge as we go on. The point is buttressed by the following distinction between two kinds of prevention: preemptive prevention and responsive prevention, respectively. If all the natural evil that is necessary for the occurrence of goods of resistance is preemptively prevented—that is, never exists at all—then let us agree with Hasker that no such goods will come to exist.10 Given his goals in world making, God could never actualize such a world. Now consider responsive prevention. Natural evils such as pain and suffering occur, and we respond by trying to alleviate them, that is, by trying to prevent their continuation and future occurrence. And this kind of response is precisely the realization of the greater moral goods at issue, and thus the realization of

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 493

the very goal of God’s in world making that is in question. But we know that pain and suffering are not diminishing resources, so our alleviation of any specific instance is not the preemption of all future pain and suffering; thus, responsive prevention leaves ample opportunity for future instances of courage, compassion, and so on. An objection to the argument I have been setting forth against Hasker’s position follows. Examining it will help to further clarify and advance the discussion. An Objection

It is true that Socrates will suffer more if we do not help him than if we do, but his extra suffering is not gratuitous, and we know it. So we know that “[i]f we allow his further suffering, some good will come about as a result of this which is at least sufficient to outweigh all of his sufferings . . . we would see that, all things considered, things would have been no better, but might very possibly have been worse, had we stepped in to relieve the suffering.”11 Thus we have no sufficient moral reason to help him. Nor, by extension, do we ever have a sufficient moral reason to help anybody in a world wherein it is known that no natural evil is gratuitous. And so, the objection concludes, Hasker is right that “the motivation to acquire and/or respond in accordance with any or all of these goods would be greatly reduced, if not eliminated entirely, if we really believed that God would prevent any natural evils which were not essential to the realization of still greater goods.” Let us examine this objection. Our choice is between helping and not helping Socrates who is suffering. (We might decline to choose at all, but that is just one way of not trying to help him.) The options before us bring two possible successor-worlds into prospect, world 1 and world 2, one alone of which is set in process by our choice and action, as these successor-worlds are mutually exclusive. Things develop into world 1 when we help (or try to help) Socrates, and into world 2 when we do not. The subsequent histories of these two possible worlds diverge, but, notwithstanding their differences, both world 1 and world 2 are known to contain no gratuitous natural evil. According to the objection, this means knowing that “things would have been no better, but might very possibly have been worse” in world 1 than in world 2, thus undermining moral motivation. But this claim is unjustified and implausible.

494  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

Why? Because our knowledge that no gratuitous natural evil results either way is not the decisive factor in the choice we must make, as the following considerations show. First, the pivot of the objection is that, because we know no gratuitous natural evil results from our not helping Socrates, we are not obligated to help him and may in good conscience ignore his plight, even though we know he will have to endure extra suffering that we could have prevented. And surely God would not wish to bring about a situation in which it would be morally permissible to not even try to be a minimally decent Samaritan. But over against that point there is the idea that, because we know that helping him runs no risk of inadvertently causing him (or anybody) gratu­ itous harm, a possible inhibitor of our helping him is removed, namely, the fear that we might unintentionally bring about gratuitous evil. At the least, the latter idea, a variation on the Hippocratic goal of first of all trying to do no harm, is as plausible as the former, perhaps more so. But I will not press the latter’s claim to greater plausibility. Let us say only that there is at least rough parity between them—the tendency of our knowing there will be no resulting gratuitous evil to discourage our helping Socrates, on the one hand, and, on the other, the tendency of that knowledge to encourage our helping him. This being so, that knowledge is not decisive insofar as moral motivation is concerned. Second, Hasker’s claim that we would know “things would have been no better, but might very possibly have been worse” had we helped is dubious, for it works at least equally well in reverse; we would know that “things would have been no [worse], but might very possibly have been [better]” had we helped. Why? Because, while knowing there will be no gratuitous natural evil, we do not know the overall outcomes of our choice either way. We do not know which situation overall is better. Nor do we know which way God, given his goals in world making, wants us to choose. For all we know, God wants us to help. Later on I will argue for a stronger version of this, but for the present this will do. By providing good reason to think Hasker’s point works equally well the other way around, these considerations block that point. Thus, again, knowledge that no gratuitous evil results either way is not the decisive factor in (or against) moral motivation that Hasker supposes and that his argument requires. But while the attempt to compare things overall leads to the stalemate just indicated, in the more

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 495

close-up view provided by day-to-day life, we frequently have good reason to think that prudent intervention makes things better rather than worse, in any time frame that matters to us. Third, what factors are decisive? The following ones are, surely, and they establish that, even knowing that no natural evil is gratuitous, our moral obligation is to try to help Socrates if we can: the knowledge that, despite the nonexistence of gratuitous natural evil, there can be, and prima facie is, more natural evil in the one possible world than the other; the knowledge that Socrates, like any sentient being, can be harmed more in one than the other; the knowledge that, prima facie, he is harmed more in world 2 than in world 1; the knowledge that, given God’s goals in world making, God’s will is that we practice, develop, and teach those moral virtues mentioned; the knowledge that if we practice some of those virtues in this case, Socrates will be harmed less than he would otherwise have been; and the knowledge that if we do not practice or develop those virtues, we are ill-positioned to teach them (for instance, by not setting a good example). Here it is worth noting Hasker’s quotation of the following lines from William Frankena’s Ethics: “moral reasons consist of facts about what actions, dispositions, and persons do to the lives of sentient beings, including beings other than the agent in question, and the moral point of view is one which is concerned with such facts.”12 Hasker continues in his own voice: This claim of Frankena’s is not uncontroversial, but it seems to me that it enjoys strong intuitive support. Frankena’s principle . . . say[s] that morally relevant reasons must in some way have to do with the tendency of the action in question, or the class of actions of that kind, to do good or harm to sentient beings. And it seems to me that this is correct—that if we become convinced that certain ostensibly moral requirements or prohibitions have no connection whatever with the weal or woe of any rational or sentient being, then we soon cease to regard such commands or prohibitions as morally serious. . . . If this principle of Frankena’s is correct, it establishes a very close connection between the notion of a morally wrong action and the idea of harm to some person or other sentient being. And this, in turn, suggests two requirements which must be met in the lives of persons who have significant obligations towards others. First of all, it must be possible

496  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World for these persons to act in ways that are significantly harmful to themselves and others. . . . Furthermore, they must be able to know that it is possible for them to act harmfully.13

I agree with Hasker about Frankena’s principle, and I emphasize that, in the case of Socrates, both of the Frankena-derived requirements for a morally wrong action are met, namely, the possibility of harming others and knowledge of that possibility. Thus if we fail to help Socrates, we are harming him, notwithstanding our knowing that there is still no gratuitous natural evil if we harm him. For the foregoing reasons, then, the objection fails, leaving it unwarranted and implausible to maintain that, given God’s goals in world making, “all things considered, things would have been no better” in world 1 (where we intervene) than in world 2 (where we do not). Another Argument against Hasker’s Thesis

I will now argue that, in a God-made world where we know there is no gratuitous natural evil, God’s world-making goal of maintaining significant morality would be frustrated unless we try to alleviate pain and suffering. The reason is that, while all the natural evil that exists in this possible world is necessary for the occurrence of the greater goods in question, none of it (individually or collectively) is sufficient for their occurrence.14 The better to see this, let us distinguish between feelings of resistance—feeling couragous, compassionate, sympathetic, tolerant, and so on—and goods of resistance—acting with courage, compassion, sympathy, tolerance, and so on. The former arise in us spontaneously upon being in certain situations, for instance, seeing Socrates suffer. Thus natural evil is necessary, and the experience of natural evil is sufficient, for feelings of resistance. But natural evil is not sufficient for the realization of any of the moral goods of resistance, that is, any goods beyond those feelings. That requires some input from us, some choice, some action, and so on. Thus God’s goal will be frustrated unless we act in certain ways. We, knowing what we know, know that goods of resistance come to exist only provided we act in certain ways. But goods of resistance are goods, and as such desirable. The conjunction of these two things suggests that, far

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 497

from being inhibited as Hasker thinks, our moral motivation would be strengthened. Furthermore, God would know that the natural evil in question is not sufficient for his desired goods of resistance. Thus, given the goal of making a world with significant morality, God would want us to respond in the ways described. Let us now consider a second objection on behalf of Hasker’s position. This objection cuts close to the first, but some different points arise in discussing it. Another Objection

It is true that, in the possible world we are conjecturing, nothing we do will cause anybody gratuitous pain or suffering. Yet there is “the very real possibility that, if we intervene, we will thereby prevent the occurrence of a greater good, one which more than outweighs the extra suffering Socrates will endure. . . . And this consideration . . . shows . . . that we have nothing (on balance) to gain by . . . helping Socrates, and very possibly something to lose.”15 Let us consider this objection. In regard to Socrates, we have to choose to act or not. Either way, we know that no gratuitous natural evil results. On the one hand, there is Hasker’s claim that by helping Socrates we may prevent a greater overall good. But on the other hand, perhaps our helping Socrates is the means, or a necessary part of the means, by which God intends to realize a greater overall good. As previously observed, for all we know, the latter is at least as real a possibility as the former. How do we choose? We could choose arbitrarily, for instance, let a coin toss decide for us. But surely that is not the moral-choice mechanism that it would be among God’s goals in world making to promote. So let us see if we can go beyond a tug of “real possibilities” between both sides. When we do, I think we will see that the combination of the following factors convincingly rebuts the second objection. As already noted, seeing a person (or animal) hurt and suffering typically moves us to compassion and sympathy. Such feelings arise spontaneously in us in those circumstances. Furthermore, when we are in the presence of suffering and capable of doing something to help, our feelings of sympathy naturally incline us to act. Both of these things are important,

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general, contingent facts about human beings as moral agents. They are among our moral instincts. Now ex hypothesi we are creatures of God. Thus it is plausible to think that in general our moral instincts dovetail with God’s intentions in world making. At the least, surely, it is more plausible to think that in general those instincts do dovetail with God’s intentions more than they do not. Furthermore, it seems plausible that God’s intentions in world making are not in general frustrated by our acting in accordance with our basic and spontaneously arising moral feelings. After all, ex hypothesi, our moral nature is also a product of God’s world making, thus of God’s intentions in world making. Furthermore, in general, in situations such as that of Socrates suffering, our acting to help the victim results in tangible good. And that, given certain other contingent but general facts about human nature, typically carries far more weight as a moral motivator than any abstract or theoretical knowledge that, for instance, no action or inaction of ours will result in gratuitous natural evil. Of course we could always be wrong; greater good could result from our doing nothing. And surely that is sometimes the case. But the key word in the foregoing sentence is “sometimes.” In general, though, outside the philosopher’s study, human nature seems too strong for the sort of reflective doubt or hesitation that Hasker’s position seems to require. Finding ourselves in the presence of a suffering person whose injuries come within our capacity to treat, or at a minimum to whom we can bring comfort, we do not in general act on the possibility that greater good may come from our doing nothing than from trying to help, including sending for help, calling 911, say. And if our moral nature is indeed God-made, it seems more plausible than not that one of the divine goals in making a world containing beings like us is that, insofar as moral living is concerned, we not let theoretical possibilities paralyze us into quietism. For the combination of the foregoing reasons, then, the second objection fails.

W H AT IF GOD PR EV ENTS A LL GR ATUITOUS NATUR A L EV IL BU T W E DO NOT K NOW IT?

Let us now take up Hasker’s two other arguments. As in the previous argument, no natural evil is gratuitous, but now we do not know this.

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 499

We saw Hasker claim that if we did know, we would lose our moral motivation. Thus, as Hasker sees it, God would have an important stake in our not knowing that no natural evil is gratuitous. To ensure our ignorance, he maintains that God would have to engage in a “disinformation campaign” involving “massive deception.”16 But it would be impossible for God to engage in such a campaign. Doing so would be “morally dubious”; furthermore, Hasker thinks it would be at cross-purposes with one of God’s chief aims in making a world containing human beings, namely, that we come to know God in his essential nature.17 Thus, given God’s goals in world making, God and gratuitous natural evil are not mutually inconsistent. Let us refer to these arguments as “the dubious disinformation argument” and the “cross-purposes argument,” respectively. Hasker’s Cross-Purposes Argument

Suppose God prevents all gratuitous natural evil but we do not know it. As before, the maintenance of significant morality and our coming to know God in his essential nature are among God’s principal goals in world making. Let us focus on the latter goal. It means that God will actualize no world containing us in which we cannot come to know him in his essential nature. But this is not the same as the concept of a world in which we do not come to know God in his essential nature. After all, in the actual world, even on the theistic concept of it, we do not know God in his essential nature. True, there are various concepts and theories of divine nature, theistic and nontheistic. But even within the fold of theistic concepts, there are fundamental disagreements. God, in his essential omniscience, knows the future; God, notwithstanding essential omniscience, does not know the future; God, in his essential omnipotence, is not bound by the laws of logic; God, essential omnipotence notwithstanding, is bound by the laws of logic; God is essentially timeless; God, in his essential nature, exists in time; God, in his essential omniscience, knows everything simultaneously from eternity; God, in his essential omniscience, comes to know things as and when they happen; God is essentially immutable; change is part of God’s essential nature; God’s essential goodness precludes gratuitous evil; God’s essential goodness permits gratuitous evil (the Hasker-Peterson-Schlesinger-van Inwagen idea); God is essentially trinitarian (the Christian concept); God is

500  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

essentially nontrinitarian (the Jewish concept); and so on and on, and all this just within the range of more or less standard theistic concepts of the essential nature of God. Then there are the process theology concepts of a limited God, also theistic, but maybe not within the standard range. And we have not yet got to the many nontheistic concepts of divine nature. Furthermore, we do not know that there exists a being possessing essential omniscience, omnipotence, goodness, and so on, whatever essential omniscience and the others might turn out to mean, which raises a question about knowing such a being by acquaintance as opposed to by description. All in all, then, it seems quite safe to say that, even in terms of theism, we, humanity in general, do not know God in his essential nature. But what kind of a fact is this, our not knowing God in his essential nature? Is it a necessary fact or a contingent fact? It is contingent. But even if this is not so, Hasker cannot maintain that it is not so. For he is committed to the proposition that it is among God’s goals in world making that we come to know God in his essential nature, and so he cannot think that our doing so is precluded on logical grounds. Thus, for him, our not (yet, or ever) knowing God in his essential nature is a contingent fact. Because it is (only) a contingent fact that we do not know God in his essential nature, we could come to know God in his essential nature. Suppose we did. Then, on the presupposition that God in his essential nature prevents all gratuitous natural evil, we would come to know that too. Thus, if we came to know God in his essential nature, the possible world in which God prevents all gratuitous natural evil and we do not know it would turn out not to be that possible world after all. This looks like a serious problem, thus offering significant support for Hasker’s position,18 but it is not. Why not? Because our not knowing God in his essential nature is contingent, not necessary. Thus any possible world in which that contingent fact holds is a world in which it is an open possibility that we do come to know God in his essential nature. Accordingly, any possible world in which we contingently do not know God in his essential nature is underdescribed as such. A better, fuller, description would be along the following lines: it is a world in which we do not know God in his essential nature but in which the possibility of our knowing him in his essential nature is open. Now let us conjoin this better description of a God-made possible world in which we (contingently) do not know God in his essential nature, and

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 501

thus in which we (contingently) do not know that he prevents all gratuitous natural evil, with the upshot of our examination of Hasker’s previous argument, namely, that moral motivation is not undermined in a world wherein we know that no natural evil is gratuitous. Their conjunction means that if God were to make a world with no gratuitous natural evil, then, regardless of whether we knew this or not, two of his goals in world making— maintaining morality and our coming to know him in his essential nature— would not be at odds with one another. Thus if God were to actualize a world with no gratuitous natural evil, he would not on that account have a stake in our being ignorant of the fact. So, contrary to Hasker, God would not be in the impossible position of wanting us to come to know him in his essential nature while at the same time, worried about maintaining morality, “keeping [us] ignorant of his policy of preventing gratuitous [natural] evil.”19 Let us look at this from another angle. Hasker concludes his 1997 version of the cross-purposes argument with these words: “the conjunction, God prevents all gratuitous evil but we humans are permanently unaware of that fact, is not viable.”20 Suppose, however, that we do remain permanently unaware. Now it is a fundamental precept of theism that there is a life after this. Furthermore, it is a fundamental precept of theism that (some) human beings spend that life after this in the presence of God, knowing God in his essential nature. So, unless Hasker wants to maintain that one of God’s goals in world making will be frustrated if, in this life, we do not come to know God in his essential nature, then our remaining permanently unaware in this life that God prevents all gratuitous natural evil, so long as the unawareness is contingent and not necessary, is not a problem for God in making a world in which (contingently), in this life, we do not come to know either him in his essential nature or that there is no gratuitous evil. And surely Hasker does not want to maintain this. Hasker’s Dubious Disinformation Argument

The context here, too, is a God-made world in which (contingently) we do not know God in his essential nature. Suppose for the sake of argument that Hasker is right that if we did know that no natural evil is gratuitous, then moral motivation, thus morality, would be undermined. Suppose as well that it never comes to pass in this life that we know God in his essential

502  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World

nature; we remain permanently unaware in this life, whatever is the case about a next life. And so human beings in this possible world do not know whether there is gratuitous natural evil or not. Now ex hypothesi there is no gratuitous evil. God prevents it. Hasker thinks we would know this unless God engaged in a disinformation campaign. So, if we do not know, God has been engaging in such a campaign. But God in his essential goodness could not do so. Therefore we would know. I agree, of course, about the impossibility of God’s putting out disinformation. But there would be no need for him to do so, no more than in the actual world where, even on theism’s concept of it, we do not know there is no gratuitous natural evil. So all that God would have to do is just what, presumably, God does now, if the theistic story of the actual world’s being without gratuitous evil is true. That is, God would only have to keep quiet on the point; lack of information, not disinformation. And there is nothing morally dubious about lack of information in this case, no more than, as theism sees it, there is anything dubious about God’s allowing us to remain in the dark about, say, the origin and ultimate fate of the actual world. True, in some other kinds of cases, divine silence might be thought to be dubious,21 but those cases are not analogous to the present case. But we have only been pretending that Hasker is right that knowing no natural evil is gratuitous undermines moral motivation. We saw already that such knowledge would not undermine moral motivation at all. Our pretending otherwise, though, helps us to see that, even on Hasker’s assumptions, disinformation would not be needed. The outcome of our discussion of Hasker’s three arguments is that we have no good reason to think that the conventional wisdom—gratuitous natural evil is inconsistent with the existence of God—is wrong.

NOTES

1. See William Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 9, no. 1 (January 1992): 23–44, and “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 14, no. 3 (July 1997): 388–94; Michael L. Peterson, Evil and the Christian God (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker, 1982); George N. Schlesinger, New Perspectives on Old-Time Religion (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1988); “Suffering and Evil,” in

Theism and Gratuitous Natural Evil 503 Contemporary Philosophy of Religion, ed. S. M. Cahn and D. Shatz (New York: Oxford University Press, 1982); Religion and Scientific Method (Dordrecht: Reidel, 1977); and “The Problem of Evil and The Problem of Suffering,” American Philosophical Quarterly 1 (1964); and Peter van Inwagen, “The Place of Chance in a World Sustained by God,” “The Problem of Evil, The Problem of Air, and The Problem of Silence,” and “The Magnitude, Duration, and Distribution of Evil: A Theodicy,” all in van Inwagen, God, Knowledge, and Mystery (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995). 2. I originally discussed Hasker’s position in my “Hasker on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 12, no. 3 (July 1995). Subsequently I incorporated that paper into chapter 3 of my God and Inscrutable Evil (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997). Here in the present essay, although I argue for essentially the same shortcomings in Hasker’s position as I did earlier, my development of the argument differs from my original argument in several respects. A principal reason for rethinking and recasting parts of my argument is William Hasker’s response to my original paper. See his “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil.” With respect to other dissenters from the standard view of God and gratuitous evil, I discuss Schlesinger’s position in my “Schlesinger and the Morally Perfect Man,” The Journal of Value Inquiry 20, no. 3 (1986), 245–49, and in God and Inscrutable Evil, chap. 7. I discuss van Inwagen’s position in God and Inscrutable Evil, chap. 3, 70–76. 3. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 24. 4. Ibid. 5. Ibid., 42n19, and Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 393n2. In Hasker’s words from both sources, his arguments presuppose “certain very general but contingent facts about what the world and human moral agents are like.” Likewise here. 6. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 30, 36. Although I shall not press the point here, I think it better to say that one of God’s goals in making a world containing human beings like us would be to maintain the possibility of significant morality. 7. Ibid., 39. 8. Ibid. Emphasis in the original. The term “really believed” in the quoted passage is not intended by Hasker to involve any downgrading from knowledge to belief. He uses it as a full synonym for “knew.” For an additional clarification, see O’Connor, God and Inscrutable Evil, 247–48, n7. 9. Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 388. 10. This agreement is for the sake of argument only. For an alternative, see my God and Inscrutable Evil, chap. 5, and my “Swinburne on Natural Evil from Natural Processes,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 30, no. 2 (October 1991). 11. Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 390. Emphasis in the original. Hasker’s term “very possibly” seems a bit hyperbolic, or at least unearned, if

504  Gratuitous Evil and God’s Relation to the World it is intended, as I think it may be, to suggest that “very possibly,” as opposed to just plain “possibly,” means that the possibility Hasker favors is more likely (maybe even far more likely) than the rival possibility that the greater good will result from intervention. If scaled back to the prosaic but warranted point that things might be worse overall following intervention than following nonintervention, Hasker would be right. But no advantage would accrue therefrom to his position, as, for all we know, things might possibly (perhaps very possibly) be the better for intervention than nonintervention. I will develop this point shortly. 12. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 28, quoting William K. Frankena, Ethics, 2nd ed. (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1973), 113. 13. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 28–29. Emphasis in the original. 14. This point is related to a point made by Hasker himself in a different context. See William Hasker, “Chrzan on Necessary Gratuitous Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 12, no. 3 (July 1995): 423–24. See also O’Connor, God and Inscrutable Evil, 247n6. 15. Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 390. Emphasis in the original. Again, somewhat hyperbolic terms are being used: “the very real possibility,” and a further instance of “very possibly.” See above note 11. Hasker’s position seems to reflect, and require, a stance akin to one sometimes found in formulations of global skepticism, namely, that, for all we know from our day-to-day perspective, it is always possible that we are wrong, that things are really quite different from how they seem. 16. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 39, and “O’Connor on Gratu­ itous Natural Evil,” 391, respectively. 17. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 39. 18. Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 391, 392; Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 39. 19. Hasker, “The Necessity of Gratuitous Evil,” 39. Also see Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 391. 20. Hasker, “O’Connor on Gratuitous Natural Evil,” 391. 21. The silence of God in the face of horrendous suffering is sometimes used as a premise in arguments from evil against the existence of God.

C H A P T E R

2 9

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil M I C H A E L B E RG M A N N

For many years, William Rowe has been defending an evidential argument from evil.1 Here’s his 1996 summary of that argument: (E1 is the case of a fawn trapped in a forest fire and undergoing several days of terrible agony before dying. E2 is the case of the rape, beating, and murder by strangulation of a five-year-old girl.)   P: No good we know of justifies an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being in permitting E1 and E2;     therefore [it is probable that],   Q: no good at all justifies an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being in permitting E1 and E2;     therefore [it is probable that],   not-G: there is no omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being. (262–63)2 Michael Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil,” Noûs 35, no. 2 (2001): 278–96. Copyright © 2001. Used by permission of John Wiley & Sons.

505

506  Skeptical Theist Defense

Recently, however, Rowe has concluded that his attempt to defend the inductive inference from P to Q in the above argument is “weak” and “inadequate.” It is inadequate, he says, because its adequacy requires what he hasn’t given us, namely, a “reason to think it likely that the goods we know of . . . are representative of the goods there are.” Instead of trying to provide us with such a reason, he has decided to “abandon this argument altogether and give what [he] believe[s] is a better argument.”3 This new “better” argument, along with skeptical theism, will be the focus of this paper. Before turning to that new argument, let’s consider the stance Rowe seems to have taken toward skeptical theism. What is skeptical theism? It has two components—a skeptical component and a theistic one. The skeptical theist’s theism is just the traditional monotheistic view that there exists an omniscient, omnipotent, and perfectly good being. It is the skeptical theist’s skepticism that needs explaining. Rather than attempt a precise definition of her skepticism, I’ll simply list here some of the skeptical theses that are plausibly associated with it. We can call these “the skeptical theist’s skeptical theses”: ST1: We have no good reason for thinking that the possible4 goods we know of are representative of the possible goods there are. ST2: We have no good reason for thinking that the possible evils we know of are representative of the possible evils there are. ST3: We have no good reason for thinking that the entailment relations we know of between possible goods and the permission of possible evils are representative of the entailment relations there are between possible goods and the permission of possible evils.5 Our focus will, for the most part, be on ST1, but having all three skeptical theses before our minds gives us more of a feel for what skeptical theism is.6 Each of these three skeptical theses has an initial ring of plausibility that is due to an awareness of our cognitive limitations and the vastness and complexity of reality.7 It just doesn’t seem unlikely that our understanding of the realm of value falls miserably short of capturing all that is true about that realm.8 One can recognize this even if one is not a theist. For an acceptance of the skeptical theist’s skepticism can easily be divorced from an acceptance of her theism. Rowe, for example, appears to have some sympathy

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 507

for the above skeptical theses—at least for ST1. He believes that his defense of his original evidential argument from evil is successful only if ST1 is false. And instead of undertaking to show that ST1 is false, he abandons the original argument for a new one. This doesn’t show that Rowe is committed to accepting ST1, but it suggests that he recognizes its plausibility. At the very least, it appears that the challenge presented by skeptical theism to Rowe’s original evidential argument from evil has contributed to his decision to propose a new evidential argument in its place. Furthermore, he seems to think that his new evidential argument from evil doesn’t require him to refute the skeptical theses mentioned above. In the first section of the paper, I will argue that Rowe’s new evidential argument does depend on a rejection of those skeptical theses and, therefore, that his new argument suffers from the same problem that afflicts his original argument. Then, in the second and longer section, I will defend the skeptical theist’s skepticism against objections by Michael Tooley, Bruce Russell, and others, thereby supporting my contention that to rely on a rejection of it constitutes a weakness in an argument.

I. ROW E’S NEW EV IDENTI A L A RGUMENT FROM EV IL

A.  The Argument

Rowe’s original argument proceeded by moving from P to Q and then from Q to ~G. With his new argument he tries to move directly from P to ~G. Suppose we let k be our background knowledge. This will include information that is available to both nontheists and theists who have thought about the problem of evil (so, for example, it includes an awareness of evils such as E1 and E2 as well as an awareness of many goods). But it doesn‘t include either G or ~G or P or ~P. Rowe wants to determine whether someone whose knowledge consisted of k would, upon learning P, have a reason for ~G. One way to decide this question is to find out whether Pr(G/P & k) is less than Pr(G/k). If it is, then P is a reason for ~G (for a person whose background knowledge is k) since P makes G less likely than it would be otherwise. How could one go about determining whether Pr(G/P & k) is less than Pr(G/k)? Rowe proposes that we rely on Bayes’ Theorem, which tells us that:

508  Skeptical Theist Defense Pr (G/P & k) Pr (P/G & k)

————— = ­ —————.

Pr (G/k)

Pr (P/k)

From this we can see that if Pr(P/G & k) < Pr(P/k) then Pr(G/P & k) < Pr(G/k). So if we can determine that Pr(P/G & k) < Pr(P/k), we will have learned that P is a reason for ~G since it makes G less likely than it would be otherwise. But how can we tell whether Pr(P/G & k) < Pr(P/k)? Very easily says Rowe. First, we need to take note of the fact that, as Rowe understands P, it is entailed by ~G. If there is no God, then no good we know of justifies God in permitting anything since there is no God to be justified (264–65). And if ~G entails P, Pr(P/~G & k) = 1. Second, we need to recognize that according to the rule of elimination: Pr(P/k) = [Pr(G/k) × Pr(P/G & k)] + [Pr(~G/k) × Pr(P/~G & k)]. From these observations, our conclusion follows as a matter of simple arithmetic and a couple of seemingly harmless assumptions. Let m = Pr(G/k) and n = Pr(P/G & k). The seemingly harmless assumptions are that both m and n are less than one. Here’s the simple arithmetic (beginning with substituting m and n and the values we already know into the above instantiation of the rule of elimination): Pr(P/k) = mn + [(1 – m) × 1] = mn + [(1 – m) × {n + (1 – n)}] = mn + (1 – m)n × (1 – m)(1 – n) = [m + (1 – m)]n + (1 – m)(1 – n) = n + (1 – m)(1 – n). Given our assumptions, the product (1–m)(1–n) must be greater than 0. Since n = Pr(P/G & k), this proves that Pr(P/G & k) < Pr(P/k). And, as we noted above, this has the result that Pr(G/P & k) < Pr(G/k). So it looks as if Rowe is right that P lowers the probability of G and that P is, therefore, a reason for ~G.9 Notice however that, according to Bayes’ Theorem, the closer Pr(P/G & k) is to 1, the larger the ratio of Pr(G/P & k) to Pr(G/k). And the larger

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 509

that ratio, the less significant P is as a reason for ~G. Rowe recognizes this and insists that he is concerned not just with the question of whether P supports ~G but also with “degree of support P provides for ~G” (270). He concedes that if Pr(P/G & k) is sufficiently high, then P does not provide a significant degree of support for ~G (274). In response to this worry, Rowe offers a critique of an argument by Stephen Wykstra for the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is extremely high. And on the basis of his rejection of Wykstra’s argument, he concludes that “we are justified in concluding that we’ve been given no good reason to think that if God exists the goods that justify him in permitting much human and animal suffering are quite likely to be beyond our ken” (276). B.  An Objection to Rowe’s New Argument

The problem with Rowe’s argument is that he doesn’t clearly address the concern that P fails to provide significant support for ~G.10 He seems to think that, in response to this worry, he needs to show only that we have no good reason to think Pr(P/G & k) is high (this is what he argues for in response to Wykstra). But that isn’t true. What he needs to show is that we have good reason to think Pr(P/G & k) is not high. Otherwise, he hasn’t shown us that P significantly lowers the probability of G. At most he has shown that we’ve no good reason to deny that P significantly lowers the probability of G. But I take it that his aim is to show that P counts significantly against G, not merely that for all we know P counts significantly against G. So Rowe needs to give us a reason for thinking that Pr(P/G & k) is not high. If he doesn’t, then even if we grant his point that Pr(G/P & k) < Pr(G/k), we aren’t forced to concede that his new evidential argument from evil presents a significant objection to theism. For that concession depends on the assumption that Pr(P/G & k) is not high. Although Rowe doesn’t seem to be aware that the success of his new evidential argument depends on his showing that Pr(P/G & k) is not high, he is not without resources for a response. For there are at least two arguments in his published work that can be thought of as supporting that conclusion. And one of these arguments occurs in the context of his discussion of Pr(P/G & k) though he does not suggest that it shows that that probability is not high. But, as I will argue below, the problem with these arguments is

510  Skeptical Theist Defense

that their success depends on a rejection of one or more of the skeptical theist’s skeptical theses. And this is something Rowe seemed to want to avoid when he switched from his original evidential argument from evil to his new one. Thus, even if we think of his new evidential argument as being supplemented by these two arguments for the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is not high, we may conclude that his new evidential argument from evil suffers from the same weakness that afflicted his original argument. That weakness is its unsupported rejection of the extremely plausible skeptical theses proposed by skeptical theists. Two claims in the previous paragraph need to be defended. One is that the two published arguments of Rowe’s that could be thought of as supporting the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is not high depend for their success on a rejection of one or more of the skeptical theist’s skeptical theses. I will defend this claim in section I.C. The other is that the skeptical theses that Rowe needs to reject are extremely plausible. In section II I will defend this claim and expose the weaknesses of several published objections to ST1. C.  Two Arguments that Pr(P/G & k) Is Not High

Here’s the first argument of Rowe’s that could be viewed as support for denying that Pr(P/G & k) is high: If we do apply the parent analogy, the conclusion about God that we should draw is something like the following: When God permits horrendous suffering for the sake of some good, if that good is beyond our ken, God will make every effort to be consciously present to us during our period of suffering, will do his best to explain to us why he is permitting us to suffer, and will give us special assurances of his love and concern during the period of the suffering. Since enormous numbers of human beings undergo prolonged, horrendous suffering without being consciously aware of any such divine presence, concern, and explanations, we may conclude that if there is a God, the goods for the sake of which he permits horrendous human suffering are more often than not goods we know of. (276)

Suppose we conceded that the conclusion of this argument could be derived from k. Then k would enable us to conclude that if God exists, it is likely

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 511

that we would know of the goods that justify permission of E1 and E2. From this we could reasonably conclude that Pr(P/G & k) is not high. This sort of argument has been called “the argument from divine silence” since one of its crucial premises is that much human suffering is not accompanied by any comforting communication from God.11 We can state this premise as follows: (1) If God exists and the goods that justify God in permitting E1 and E2 are beyond our ken, then it is likely that we would not have divine silence (i.e., it is likely that we would at least have assurances of God’s love and of the fact that there is a good that justifies God in permitting such horrendous evils even though we don’t know what that good is). As Rowe points out, the plausibility of (1) has to do with an analogy theists like to employ—the analogy between God and human parents. If the goods for the sake of which human parents permit their child to suffer are beyond the ken of the child, the parents make every effort to let their child know that she is loved and that there is a good reason for the permitted suffering though that reason is beyond the child’s ken. Unfortunately, premise (1) depends on a prior rejection of ST1. To see this, consider why it is that people accept (1). It begins with a recognition of the plausibility of: (2) If God exists and the goods that justify God in permitting E1 and E2 are beyond our ken, then either   (a) we wouldn’t have divine silence or   (b) there is some good that justifies God in permitting divine silence. Then the proponent of (1) assumes that (2)(a) is much more likely than (2)(b). But to assume that, the proponent of (1) must think that it is likely that (3) No good justifies God in permitting divine silence.12 But how could a proponent of (1) come to any reasonable conclusion about how likely it is that there is no such good? She could rely on

512  Skeptical Theist Defense

(4) No good we know of justifies God in permitting divine silence. But the inference from (4) to the likelihood of (3) is basically the same as the inference from P to the likelihood of Q. Consequently it too seems to depend on a rejection of ST1; it too seems to take for granted that the goods we know of are representative of the goods there are.13 So this way of supporting the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is not high doesn’t avoid what Rowe seems to want to avoid—namely, reliance on a rejection of the skeptical theses of the skeptical theist.14 Let’s turn to the other argument of Rowe’s that can be thought of as supporting the conclusion the Pr(P/G & k) is not high: In the first place, unless we are excessively utilitarian, it is reasonable to believe that the goods for the sake of which [God] permits much intense human suffering are goods that either are or include good experiences of the humans that endure the suffering. I say this because we normally would not regard someone as morally justified in permitting intense, involuntary suffering on the part of another, if that other were not to figure significantly in the good for which that suffering was necessary. We have reason to believe, then, that the goods for the sake of which much human suffering is permitted will include conscious experiences of these humans, conscious experiences that are themselves good. Now the conscious experiences of others are among the sorts of things we do know. And we do know the beings who undergo the suffering. So if such goods do occur we are likely to know them.15

The idea here is this. If a good that would justify God in permitting E2 (the case of the little girl) must include conscious human experience and if we are likely to be familiar with the goods that include conscious human experience, then we are likely to know of any good that would justify God in permitting E2. Now suppose that both that conditional and its antecedent were a part of k. Then we might think that it is also a part of k that we are likely to know of any good that would justify God in permitting E2. This makes it reasonable to think that Pr(P/G & k) is not high. This argument seems to depend on a rejection of the following skeptical thesis:

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 513

ST1*: We have no good reason for thinking that the possible goods we know of that involve conscious human experience are representative of the possible goods there are that involve conscious human experience. This skeptical thesis is fairly similar to ST1. And it is plausible for the same sorts of reasons (to be discussed in section II). Thus, I think it fair to throw ST1* in with the other skeptical theses and conclude that this second way of supporting the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is not high also fails to avoid relying on a rejection of one of the skeptical theses endorsed by the skeptical theist. This concludes my defense of the claim that Rowe’s new evidential argument, even if supplemented by one or both of the arguments considered in this subsection, involves a rejection of the skeptical theist’s skeptical theses. Thus, his new evidential argument from evil is inadequate in the very same way Rowe thinks his original argument is inadequate.

II. IN SUPPORT OF THE SK EPTIC A L THESES

Before looking at some objections to the skeptical theist’s skeptical theses, I want to underscore their prima facie plausibility. Let’s focus first on ST1: ST1: We have no good reason for thinking that the possible goods we know of are representative of the possible goods there are. The claim here isn’t that we have good reason for thinking that the goods we know of aren’t representative of the goods there are. Rather, the claim is that we have no good reason to oppose the suggestion that the goods we know of are representative of only a minor portion of the goods there are and that many (or even most) of the goods beyond our ken are far greater than and significantly different from any of the goods with which we are familiar. (Of course, given k alone, we have no good reason to endorse this suggestion either.) Notice that the skepticism recommended by ST1 is extremely modest and completely appropriate even for those who are agnostic about the existence of God.16 It is just the honest recognition of the fact that it wouldn’t be the least bit surprising if reality far outstripped our understanding of it.

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There is nothing bold or dogmatic or even theistic about ST1. Nor is it excessively skeptical. Similar remarks apply to ST2 (which has to do with the possible evils there are). And, as I said earlier, they also apply to ST1* (which has to do with the possible goods there are that involve conscious human experiences). After all, what reason do we have to think that our current familiarity with conscious human experience (both actual and possible) provides us with much information about all the possible goods there are involving conscious human experience?17 The fact that the goods we know of might not be representative of the goods there are is, in itself, a reason to be open to the suggestion that the conscious human experiences with which we are familiar might not be representative of the conscious human experiences there are. For it may be that enjoyment of goods that are very different from those with which we are familiar would lead to conscious experiences that are very different from—and far more enjoyable than—those with which we are familiar. Furthermore, it wouldn’t be at all surprising if our powers for comprehending and appreciating goods are currently but contingently limited—perhaps even extremely so. Who’s to say in what ways those powers could be increased (and still be our powers)? If they could be dramatically increased then, even if they never are, there may well be possible conscious experiences we have never dreamed of. The idea isn’t just that we don’t know for certain that the possible positive conscious human experiences we are aware of are representative of the possible positive conscious human experiences there are. Rather, it is that we don’t even have a good reason to think that this is likely. Consider someone who has experienced no greater pleasure than the temporary absence of pain. Suppose that no one has ever told her of a more pleasant experience and that she cannot even imagine one. That person would be mistaken to conclude that the possible positive conscious experiences she is aware of are representative of the possible positive conscious experiences there are. She would also be unreasonable to draw such a conclusion for she has no good reason to endorse it. But the very same point applies to us. True, our actual experience and imagination include more than hers do when it comes to positive conscious experience. But we really have no idea whether or not our experiences, like hers, are only a very small and unrepresentative sample of the possible positive conscious experiences there are.

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A natural response here (on the part of those who recognize the plausibility of ST1 and ST1*) is to say, “Perhaps there are goods unknown to us that are so great that their occurrence outweighs the horrendous evils that humans experience. Nevertheless, the permission of the horrendous evils that occur around us isn’t in any way necessary for the obtaining of such goods.” But how could one know that if the goods in question aren’t even known to us? Furthermore, that response seems to involve a rejection of ST3. For though it is true that we often aren’t aware of any entailment relations between the permission of evils involving human suffering and possible goods involving conscious human experience (or any other goods for that matter), we can’t, if we accept ST3, infer from that that there are no such entailment relations. If we could be reasonably confident that our modal intuiting enabled us to canvass all or most of modal space or that the region of modal space we have canvassed was representative of the rest of it (with respect to the existence of the entailment relations in question), then perhaps we could safely reject ST3. But it doesn’t look as if we can be reasonably confident of such things. This isn’t to say that we can never be reasonably confident in any of the things we believe on the basis of modal intuition. Far from it. It’s just to say that a failure to identify an entailment relation of a certain kind isn’t always a good indication that there is no such entailment relation. This is a fairly modest variety of modal skepticism.18 Thus, initially at least, ST1, ST2, ST3, and ST1* appear to be extremely plausible theses. They merely assert that we lack good reasons for thinking certain questionable things. Until such reasons are given, the sensible thing for both the theist and the nontheist to do is to accept these skeptical theses.19 A.  Objection 1: Tooley’s Argument

Let’s turn now to some reasons that have been proposed for rejecting ST1. They are, it seems to me, quite unimpressive. The weakest of the three I will consider is proposed by Michael Tooley. Both Rowe and Daniel HowardSnyder take Tooley’s argument to be offered as support for the conclusion that the goods we know of are representative of the goods there are.20 In fairness to Tooley, it may be that Rowe and Howard-Snyder are mistaken in interpreting him as arguing against ST1. And that may explain why Tooley’s

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argument fails so completely to lend support to the conclusion that ST1 is false. On the other hand, given that that conclusion is just the sort of conclusion that Tooley needs in the context in which his argument appears, it is also understandable that Rowe and Howard-Snyder have interpreted him as they have. I will first lay out the context of Tooley’s argument and then explain why his argument fails. Tooley is considering a way of determining whether God would be justified in permitting some evil E. It requires one to examine each possible good there is and to make a judgment about whether E is both outweighed by and such that its permission is required for the obtaining of that good.21 He calls this way of making this determination “the first route.” And he wants to consider whether our having the actual limited moral knowledge we do (instead of being morally omniscient) prevents us from taking the first route. He first argues that it is extremely problematic to think that there are moral properties whose moral significance is inaccessible to us. For example, he says that it is “extremely problematic” to think that a familiar goodmaking property of states of affairs could fail to be appreciated as such.22 Thus, he rejects the idea that there are good states of affairs with which we are perfectly familiar but whose goodness is completely unknown to us. And from this he concludes that if our limited moral knowledge were to prevent us from taking the first route, it would have to be due to there being good states of affairs with which we aren’t familiar—i.e., goods that are unknown to us—rather than to there being familiar states of affairs whose goodness is unknown to us. He makes this point more generally as follows: But epistemic accessibility [i.e., the idea that if a state of affairs with which we are familiar is good, we can tell that it is good] means that if it is true that some particular property is morally significant [and such that it prevents us from taking the first route], the property must be one with which we are not acquainted. Is it possible that there are such properties? Yes, that is certainly possible, and because it is, it is possible that there are basic moral truths [e.g., truths such as G is a possible good state of affairs] of which we have no knowledge. But is that possibility sufficient to block the first route? No, it is not.23

Notice that he agrees that there may be moral properties with which we are unacquainted. This suggests that there may be good-making properties of

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 517

states of affairs with which we are unacquainted (or, to put it more plainly, there may be goods we don’t know of). But if he is suggesting that there may be goods we don’t know of, how can he say that this possibility doesn’t block the first route? After all, we can’t very well examine those goods we don’t know of to see if they justify God in permitting some evil E. So, before we even get to Tooley’s argument, we are left with unanswered questions that make it difficult for us to discern what that upcoming argument is intended to establish. Does he think there may be possible goods we don’t know of ? If he does, then why isn’t that sufficient to block the first route which requires us to examine each good there is and make certain judgments about it? If he doesn’t, then why does he confess that there may be moral properties with which we are unacquainted? A natural place to look for answers to these questions is Tooley’s argument—the one that Rowe and Howard-Snyder had in mind—which he gives in the three paragraphs immediately following the passage quoted above. And one natural set of answers to expect is the one Rowe and Howard-Snyder think Tooley seeks to give: that there are possible goods we don’t know of and that this doesn’t block the first route because the goods we know of are representative of the goods there are. But if we look to Tooley’s argument for this answer—or any answer— to these questions, we will be disappointed. The argument focuses on the alleged fact that for the last few thousand years, humans haven’t discovered any new good­-making properties. The conclusion is summed up like this: The thrust of the argument, in short, is that the discovery of a new property which is morally significant in itself is an extremely rare occurrence. That being so, [it is unlikely that] new morally significant properties will be discovered.24

In other words, Tooley has given us an argument for the conclusion that it is unlikely that we will discover goods previously unknown to us. But even if his argument succeeds in establishing this conclusion25 it simply fails to address the crucial question I mentioned in the previous paragraph, namely, Does Tooley think there are goods we don’t know of ? More importantly for our purposes, this conclusion doesn’t seem to have any bearing on whether the goods we know of are representative of the goods there are (contrary to

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what Rowe and Howard-Snyder reasonably expect from Tooley). It tells us only that the goods we currently know of are representative of the goods likely to be discovered by us. But no reason is given for thinking that the goods likely to be discovered by us are representative of the goods there are. We can put this same criticism another way (without imputing to Tooley any views on the representativeness of goods known to us). To take the first route, says Tooley, involves forming a judgment about each of the goods there are. And he seems to acknowledge that our actual moral knowledge may be limited in the sense that there may be goods beyond our ken. But he thinks this creates no problem for those taking the first route. For it is highly unlikely that we would ever discover any of the goods that are now beyond our ken. But so what? Are our dismal prospects for future improvement supposed to make us optimistic about our ability to make informed judgments about each of the goods there are? I can’t see how. This is a very puzzling and unpersuasive line of reasoning. As an argument against ST1, it is quite underwhelming.26 B.  Objection 2: Russell’s “Blue Crow” Argument

The next argument against ST1 that I want to look at is proposed by Bruce Russell: . . . the view that there are reasons beyond our ken that would justify God, if he exists, in allowing all the suffering we see [is] like the view that there are blue crows beyond our powers of observation. Once we have conducted the relevant search for crows (looking all over the world in different seasons and at crows at different stages of maturity), we are justified in virtue of that search in believing there are no crows beyond our powers of observation which are relevantly different from the crows we’ve seen. If after the relevant search we weren’t justified in believing that, then we would have to remain skeptical about all generalizations about crows. What else could we do that would justify us in believing there are no crows beyond our powers of observation that are relevantly different than the crows we’ve seen? How else could we be justified in believing that there are no very shy, very cunning, very able crows that are blue but hide whenever we try to look for them? Similarly, once we’ve conducted the relevant search for moral reasons to justify allowing the relevant suffering (thinking hard about how allow-

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 519 ing the suffering would be needed to realize sufficiently weighty goods, reading and talking to others who have thought about the same problem), we are justified in believing that there are no morally sufficient reasons for allowing that suffering.27

Finding no blue crows after looking all over the world in different seasons and at crows at different stages of maturity justifies the belief that there are no blue crows we haven’t observed.28 Likewise, says Russell, discovering no God­-justifying goods after an intellectual search for God-justifying goods (one that involves thinking hard and talking to others who have thought hard about the question) justifies the belief that there are no God-justifying goods beyond our ken. That, more or less, is the argument. Is it convincing? No, for obvious reasons that have been drawn to our attention by Alston and Howard-Snyder.29 If we search for blue crows in Indiana and find none, that is a good reason to believe there are no blue crows in Indiana only if (i) our visual apparatus is capable of detecting blue crows and (ii) the search covered a representative part of Indiana (representative with respect to the crow population that is). In Russell’s blue crow case, conditions of both sorts are satisfied. But, in the case of identifying possible goods, we have no reason to think that conditions of either sort are satisfied. We know that all blue crows will be blue and large enough for us to see with the naked eye. But we don’t have any good reason to think that all or even most goods can be discovered via an intellectual search conducted by humans. (It’s true, as Russell points out, that an intellectual search is just the sort of thing that reveals possible goods to us.30 But this is no reason to assume that all goods [or even a representative portion of them] can be discovered by humans via such a search.) Likewise, because we know the size and geography of Indiana, we are able to select representative parts of Indiana to be searched. But we don’t know the “size” of the realm of possible goods and so we are completely in the dark about whether or not the sort of intellectual search we are capable of will discover a representative sample. So Russell’s “blue crow” objection to ST1 also seems to be quite unimpressive. C.  Objection 3: Skeptical Theism Leads to Inappropriate Skepticism

The third of the three objections to ST1 that I want to consider is given by several authors.31 Its main idea is that skepticism with respect to whether the

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goods we know of are representative of the goods there are leads to other objectionable kinds of skepticism. For example, according to Russell, if one accepts ST1, then one ought to be skeptical about whether the earth is more than 100 years old.32 After all, for all we know, God exists and had some good reason for creating an old-looking earth 100 years ago. Similarly, according to Gale, if one accepts ST1 then one ought to be skeptical about the existence of the external world.33 After all, for all we know, there is an evil demon making it seem to us like there is an external world when in fact there isn’t. This sort of objection to ST1 is more impressive than the other two just considered, but it is still rather weak. The assumption behind both Gale’s and Russell’s formulations of the objection is that it would be ridiculous to have the doubts they mention. They expect us to see that it wouldn’t be sensible to take the possibility that God exists and had good reasons for making an old-looking earth 100 years ago as a reason to have serious doubts about the earth being more than 100 years old. Likewise, they expect us to see that it wouldn’t be reasonable to take the possibility that there exists a Cartesian demon out to deceive us as a reason to have serious doubts about the existence of the external physical world. I have no problem with these expectations. I agree with Russell and Gale that the doubts they mention in their two examples aren’t sensible doubts. But the reason the doubts they mention aren’t sensible is that the beliefs they concern are rationally held with a very high degree of confidence and the possibilities mentioned are ones we (rightly) find it very difficult to take seriously as grounds for doubts. Now contrast those beliefs with the belief that, because you have tried your best to think of what possible goods there are, you have a fairly good idea of what possible goods there are. Is that belief sensibly held with anything like the degree of confidence with which one properly believes that the earth is more than 100 years old or that there is an external world? Certainly not. And what about the possibility that the goods we know of aren’t representative of the goods there are? Is that a possibility—like the possibility that we are being radically deceived by a Cartesian demon or that God made an old-looking earth 100 years ago—that is difficult to take seriously? Again, certainly not. My discussion at the beginning of section II in support of ST1 makes it plain that it is very easy and sensible to take that possibility seriously. If we want a skeptical thesis parallel to ST1, we should consider the following hypothesis about possible external world constituents. Let’s say that

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 521

a possible external world constituent is, roughly, something physical (vs. something ghostly or spiritual or abstract) whose existence is compatible with the actual (vs. currently believed) laws of nature.34 Now consider H: We have no good reason for thinking that the known possible external world constituents are representative of the possible external world constituents there are.

H is more like ST1 than is the Cartesian demon hypothesis. And the skepticism encouraged by H is far easier to take seriously than is the skepticism recommended by the Cartesian demon hypothesis. No one would suggest that acceptance of H forces us to be skeptical about the existence of the external world or the past. Why then should acceptance of ST1 force us to be skeptical about such things? Furthermore, even if one finds H doubtful, this won’t show that ST1 is doubtful. For our doubts about H (if, indeed, we have any) arise because the source and extent of our knowledge of the external world is extremely impressive—much more so than the source and extent of our knowledge of the realm of value, of what goods there are and what they are like. The persuasive force of this third objection to ST1 (if it has any at all) depends entirely on the false assumption that it is excessively skeptical to have any serious doubts about whether the goods we know of are representative of the goods there are.35 Those proposing this third objection appeal to our reasonable disapproval of excessive skepticism and then try to get us to disapprove of ST1 on the grounds that it involves excessive skepticism. But having doubts about the representativeness of the goods we know of is not excessively skeptical. The possibility that the goods we know of aren’t representative of the goods there are is a live possibility, one that we are sensible to consider and take seriously.36 It is not remote and far-fetched in the way the Cartesian demon and the 100-year-old earth possibilities are. It’s not as if the skeptical theist, in proposing ST1, is grasping at straws and trying to create doubts where there is no reason to have doubts. Similar remarks apply to ST1*, ST2, and ST3. In the interest of fairness, I would like to take the time to say what I think is right about this third objection to the skeptical theist’s skepticism and to consider a slightly more plausible development of it. What’s right

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about the objection is its demand that skeptical theists be consistent in their skepticism instead of applying it only when it suits their agenda. That is a perfectly legitimate demand. My only complaint is with the charge that consistency requires the skeptical theist to be doubtful about the earth being more than 100 years old or about the existence of the external world. For there doesn’t seem to be any good reason to think the skeptical theist must extend her skepticism to these matters. What those who propose this sort of objection to skeptical theism owe us is a clear account of how it is that the skepticism involved in skeptical theism commits the skeptical theist to some objectionable sort of skepticism. A more plausible attempt to provide such an account—i.e., more plausible than the attempts discussed above—is given by Russell.37 He asks us to consider a case where a human onlooker (we’ll call him Stan) observes an evil like E1 or E2 and refrains from intervening. To avoid needless objections to Russell’s argument, let’s beef the story up by saying that Stan can easily intervene and that he can see no serious harm that would come to him as a result of his intervening to prevent the evil in question. Russell says that if one endorses the skeptical theist’s skeptical theses, then one should be agnostic about whether Stan’s inaction is wrong. For suppose we are skeptical enough to admit that there may well be some good which outweighs the evil of E1 and E2 and which can be achieved only if God refrains from preventing E1 and E2 (or something as bad or worse). Then, says Russell, we should also admit that there may be some good that outweighs E1 and E2 and which can be achieved only if Stan refrains from preventing E1 and E2. The natural first reaction to this way of defending the third objection is to say, “Even if we can’t tell whether there is an outweighing good in Stan’s case, we can be sure that it isn’t what is motivating him since it is reasonable to think that he, like us, can’t see what that good might be. But in the case involving God, our inability to tell whether there is an outweighing good leaves us in the dark about whether there is a morally adequate motivation for divine inaction since God, being omniscient, would have such a motivation if there were such a good. So although we can be reasonably sure that Stan’s inaction is unjustified, we should remain agnostic about whether divine inaction would be unjustified.” Russell anticipates this objection.38 It is based, he says, on a misunderstanding. He wants to evaluate actions, not persons or their motives. As far as I can tell, he wants to consider whether or not

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A: There is some good G such that (a) it outweighs the evil permitted by Stan’s inaction, (b) the permission of that evil is necessary for the obtaining of G and (c) were G appropriately39 to motivate Stan’s inaction, his inaction would be justified. If there is such a good, then, says Russell, there is some justifying reason for Stan’s inaction even if Stan or his motives should be evaluated negatively due to the fact that his inaction is not motivated by this or any other justifying reason. However Russell also says that accepting the skeptical theist’s skepticism forces us to admit that we aren’t justified in believing that Stan “did something wrong in failing to intervene.”40 Thus, it seems as if Russell thinks agnosticism about A leads to agnosticism about B: Stan’s inaction is wrong. So we can summarize his argument as follows: The skeptical theist’s skepticism leads to agnosticism about A which leads to agnosticism about B. But agnosticism about B is excessive and unreasonable. So the skeptical theist’s skepticism is also unreasonable. Some philosophers have responded to Russell’s argument by pointing out that agnosticism about A doesn’t lead to agnosticism about B.41 That seems to me to be an eminently sensible response. If we know Stan lacks an appropriate motivation for permitting such evil when he could easily prevent it, then we can know his inaction is wrong even if we have no idea whether or not A is true. But let’s try to run with the argument a little. Let’s say that the truth of A would result in Stan’s inaction having some kind of positive moral status. We won’t deny that his inaction is wrong in the sense that its motivation is morally inadequate. We simply want to say that, if A is true, there exists a justifying reason for Stan’s inaction in the sense that the consequences of that inaction are, on the whole, better than the consequences of his intervention. Of course Stan isn’t in possession of this justifying reason, which is why we rightly judge him and his motives to be immoral. But this doesn’t change the fact that, if A is true, his inaction can be positively evaluated in the sense that we can say it has a justifying reason. In light of these remarks, Russell can restate his case by saying that agnosticism about A leads to agnosticism about

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C: There exists no (known or unknown) justifying reason for Stan’s inaction.42 This enables him to sidestep the charge that agnosticism about A doesn’t lead to agnosticism about B. Unfortunately, he thereby loses his punch line. For agnosticism about C, unlike agnosticism about B, is entirely reasonable. Given our ignorance about what possible goods there are and about which goods require Stan’s inaction we simply have no idea whether or not C is true. So Russell is faced with a choice. He can argue that the skeptical theist’s skepticism leads to agnosticism about A which leads to agnosticism about B. If he does, the reasonable response is to point out that agnosticism about A doesn’t lead to agnosticism about B. Or he can argue that the skeptical theist’s skepticism leads to agnosticism about A which leads to agnosticism about C. We can allow that agnosticism about A leads to agnosticism about C. But just as we are sensibly agnostic about whether A is true, we are also sensibly agnostic about whether C is true.43 Thus, Russell’s “moral skepticism” defense of the third objection to the skeptical theist’s skepticism fails. In sum then, the problem with Rowe’s new evidential argument from evil is that he needs—but doesn’t seem to recognize that he needs—to support it with an argument for the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is not high. Without such an argument, he hasn’t shown that P provides us with a significant objection to theism. But not just any such argument will do. It can’t be an argument that relies on a rejection of the skeptical theist’s very plausible skeptical theses (as Rowe himself seems to recognize when he abandons his original argument). Or, if it does, it needs to be accompanied by an additional argument showing that one or more of these skeptical theses is false. And this additional argument needs to have a lot more going for it than do the usual arguments presented for that conclusion.

NOTES

My thanks to Martin Curd, Evan Fales, Daniel Howard-Snyder, Richard Otte, Michael Rea, and Stephen Wykstra for comments on earlier drafts. Special thanks to William Rowe for his comments on this paper and for his generous participation in lengthy discussions out of which the paper grew. Thanks also to audience members

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 525 and to my commentator, Daniel Howard-Snyder, for their comments on a version of this paper presented at the 1999 Eastern APA meeting in Boston. Finally, I would like to acknowledge my gratitude to the School of Liberal Arts at Purdue University for a semester’s leave which provided me time to work on this paper. 1. See William L. Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” American Philosophical Quarterly 16 (1979): 335–41; “Evil and the Theistic Hypothesis: A Response to S. J. Wykstra,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 95–100; “The Empirical Argument from Evil,” in Rationality, Religious Belief and Moral Commitment, ed. Robert Audi and William Wainwright (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 244; “Evil and Theodicy,” Philosophical Topics 16 (1988): 119–32; “Ruminations about Evil,” Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 69–88; and “William Alston on the Problem of Evil,” in The Rationality of Belief and the Plurality of Faiths, ed. Thomas Senor (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1994). 2. Unless otherwise noted, page numbers given in the text are to William L. Rowe, “The Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 262–85. 3. The quotations in the last three sentences are all from ibid., 267. 4. A possible good or a possible evil is a good or evil the occurrence of which is metaphysically possible. In wording the skeptical theses in this way I am following Rowe’s lead when he makes the focus not actual goods or even future goods but rather “goods that we have some grasp of, even though we have no knowledge at all that they have occurred or ever will occur.” See ibid., 264. 5. These entailment relations detail at least some of the constraints on obtaining goods and avoiding evils that are placed on even an omnipotent and omniscient being. A standard example of such an entailment relation is the one holding between the good of having free creatures and the permission of the evil of freely doing what is morally wrong. In speaking of the permission of a possible evil, I am not speaking of its being morally permissible but of its occurrence intentionally not being prevented by someone capable of preventing it. 6. For some critical discussion of skeptical theism, see Paul Draper, “The Skeptical Theist,” in Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument, and David O’Connor, God and Inscrutable Evil: In Defense of Theism and Atheism (Lanham, MD: Rowman and Littlefield, 1997). Proponents of skeptical theism in some form or other include William Alston, “The Inductive Argument from Evil and the Human Cognitive Condition,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), previously published as “The Inductive Argument from Evil and the Human Cognitive Condition,” in Philosophical Perspectives, 5, Philosophy of Religion, ed. James Tomberlin (Atascadero, CA: Ridgeview Publishing Co., 1991); Alston, “Some (Temporarily) Final Thoughts on Evidential Arguments from Evil,” in

526  Skeptical Theist Defense Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument; Alvin Plantinga, “Epistemic Probability and Evil,” in Archivo di filosofia 56 (1988); Peter van Inwagen, “The Problem of Evil, The Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence,” in Tomberlin, Philosophical Perspectives, 5, Philosophy of Religion; and Stephen Wykstra, “Rowe’s Noseeum Arguments from Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument. 7. Cf. Alston, “Inductive Argument,” in Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument, 109. 8. Which isn’t to say that it seems likely that our understanding of that realm is miserably incomplete. These remarks are not meant to serve as anything like a proof of the skeptical theses in question. They are offered only as a very brief initial explanation of the prima facie plausibility of these theses. See section II of this paper for a more thorough defense of them. 9. But see Alvin Plantinga’s objections to this argument in his “Degenerate Evidence and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil,” Noûs 32 (1998): 531–44. For a reply, see William L. Rowe, “Reply to Plantinga,” Noûs 32 (1998): 545–52. 10. Though I can’t take the time to explore this here, l also think that P itself is problematic from the skeptical theist’s perspective. lt should be replaced with P*: No good we know of is known by us to justify an omnipotent, omniscient, perfectly good being in permitting E1 and E2. But to infer P from P* is to reject ST3 (or something like it). It is to assume we have a good idea of the possible ways in which permitting an evil can play an essential role in the obtaining of some good. For more on this, see Alston, “Final Thoughts,” 323–35; Daniel Howard-Snyder, “The Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument, 295, 308n13; and Plantinga, “Degenerate Evidence,” 534. 11. For more on this sort of argument, see J. L. Schellenberg, Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993). 12. It is important to recognize that the unlikelihood of (2)(b)—and, therefore, the likelihood of (3)—is not supported by the (supposed) fact that, at best, a very small proportion of possible goods are goods of the kind mentioned in (2)(b) or (3). For it might be very likely (given k) that there are goods of that kind even if Pr(x is a good of that kind/x is a good) is very low. 13. The above comments help us to see that divine silence is just a further instance of inscrutable evil. Thus, the skeptical theist’s response to the argument from inscrutable evil can be applied, without any alteration, to the problem of divine silence. For similar remarks, see Alston, “Final Thoughts,” 321. 14. Rowe seems to show some recognition of this difficulty with the argument in his “Evidential Argument,” 285n35. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t explicitly propose it as a defense of the conclusion that Pr(P/G & k) is not high. 15. Rowe, “Empirical Argument,” 244.

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 527 16. Unless they are moral antirealists in the sense that they think being a good supervenes in some way on human evaluative activities. For the purposes of this paper, I will be ignoring that antirealist view as well as the view that there simply are no such things as goods. 17. Of course we know some things that are true of all conscious experiences. We know that all of them will be either extremely pleasant or not. But this doesn’t give us much information at all about how pleasant a conscious human experience can be. The familiar experiences that we think of as extremely pleasant sensory and emotional experiences may be so much less pleasant than other possible human conscious experiences (ones with which we aren’t familiar) that we are, in an important sense, completely in the dark about how pleasant a conscious human experience can be. 18. See Peter van Inwagen, “Modal Epistemology,” Philosophical Studies 92 (1998): 67–84, for an attempt to clarify the moderate nature of the sort of modal skepticism endorsed by ST3. See also my discussion below (section II.C) of the charge that endorsing ST3 leads to a more radical sort of skepticism—a sort that the skeptical theist will want to resist. 19. For more in this vein, l strongly recommend Alston, “Final Thoughts,” section V where he discusses some useful analogies in support of skeptical theism. 20. Rowe (“Evidential Argument,” 267, 284n17) takes Tooley’s argument to be proposed in support of the conclusion that most goods are known to us. And he takes this conclusion to support a rejection of ST1. Howard-Snyder (“Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” 296, 309n16) takes Tooley’s argument to be proposed in support of the conclusion that it is unlikely that there are goods other than the ones we know of. This also lends support to a rejection of ST1. 21. Michael Tooley describes this way of reasoning in his “The Argument from Evil,” in Philosophical Perspectives, 5, Philosophy of Religion, 110. 22. Ibid., 113–14. My lack of comment on this argument should not be taken as an endorsement of it. 23. Ibid., 114. 24. Ibid., 115. 25. For reasons to think it doesn’t succeed, see Howard-Snyder, “Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” 296–97. 26. My dismal appraisal of this argument of Tooley’s should not, of course, be taken to imply anything (negative or positive) about his argument in support of what he calls “the second route” (Tooley, “Argument from Evil,” 112–13). For his purposes in that paper only one of those two arguments needs to be successful. 27. Bruce Russell, “Defenseless,” in Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument, 197. 28. Does that sort of search justify the belief that there are no blue crows “beyond our powers of observation”? I don’t think so. How could checking for crows

528  Skeptical Theist Defense using our powers of observation tell us anything about whether there are any crows beyond our powers of observation? And what counts as being a crow that is beyond our powers of observation? Are “very shy, very cunning, very able crows that are blue but hide whenever we try to look for them” beyond our powers of observation? I don’t think so. If crows of that sort would, upon being placed in our line of sight at close range, be as visible to us as ordinary crows are when so placed, then they aren’t beyond our powers of observation. If anything counts in support of the conclusion that there are no blue crows beyond our powers of observation it is reflection on the kind of thing a blue crow would be (e.g., something blue with such and such approximate dimensions) and the kind of thing we are capable of observing. It is because of these sorts of concerns that I speak of “blue crows we haven’t observed” rather than, as Russell does, of “blue crows beyond our powers of observation.” 29. See Alston, “Final Thoughts,” 319, and Howard-Snyder, “Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” 292. 30. See Russell, “Defenseless,” 198–99. 31. See Richard Gale, “Some Difficulties in Theistic Treatments of Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, Evidential Argument, 208–9; O’Connor, God and Inscrutable Evil, 220–21; Rowe, “Empirical Argument,” 244; and Russell, “Defenseless,” 196–98. 32. See Russell, “Defenseless,” 196–97. 33. See Gale, “Some Difficulties,” 208–9. 34. Notice that I didn’t require that its existence be compatible with both the actual laws of nature and the actual past (including the actual initial conditions of the Big Bang). 35. Russell’s argument illegitimately gets some of its persuasive force by getting us to focus on the following plausible claim: If (a) we can’t tell by thinking and talking with others about the goods we know of that there are no goods beyond our ken that would justify God in permitting the evils we observe then (b) we can’t tell by thinking and talking with others about the goods we know of that there are no goods beyond our ken that would justify God in creating an old-looking earth 100 years ago. I say this is an illegitimate means of obtaining persuasive force for his objection because although this claim is plausible, it doesn’t adequately support Russell’s conclusions. For the skeptical theist faces no embarrassment in accepting (b). The conditional claim Russell needs in order to create a problem for the skeptical theist is something like: If (a) then (c) we can’t reasonably believe that the earth came into existence more than 100 years ago.

Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil 529 But the above plausible claim yields this last conditional only if (b) implies (c). And the skeptical theist is under no rational obligation to think that (b) implies (c). Certainly Russell has done nothing to show that the skeptical theist is under such an obligation. 36. This is so even if we aren’t reasonable in thinking that this possibility actually obtains. The fact (assuming it is a fact) that we aren’t reasonable in thinking a possibility obtains doesn’t imply that we are reasonable in thinking that possibility doesn’t obtain. 37. Russell, “Defenseless,” 197–98. 38. Ibid., 198. 39. For G to appropriately motivate Stan’s inaction, Stan would have to be aware of (a) and (b) and refrain from intervening because of this awareness. 40. Russell, “Defenseless,” 197. 41. See Alston, “Final Thoughts,” 321, and Howard-Snyder, “Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” 292–93. 42. This way of stating Russell’s case seems in keeping with his claim (“Defenseless,” 198) that The question at issue is whether we must be unable to judge that there are no justifying reasons for human nonintervention if we are unable to judge that there are none for Divine nonintervention. 43. Perhaps Russell will insist that agnosticism about A is unreasonable. But that is just to insist (without reason) that the considerations mustered in support of the skeptical theist’s skepticism at the beginning of section II are without weight. For those very same considerations show that we should be agnostic about A.

C H A P T E R

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The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil NICK TRAKAKIS

For over two decades William Rowe has been articulating, defending, and refining the evidential argument from evil—the argument that the presence of evil in the world inductively supports or makes likely the claim that the theistic God does not exist. His argument has received much attention since its formal inception in 1978, as it is often considered to be the most cogent presentation of the evidential problem of evil. James Sennett, for example, views Rowe’s argument as “the clearest, most easily understood, and most intuitively appealing of those available.1 Terry Christlieb, likewise, thinks of Rowe’s argument as “the strongest sort of evidential argument, the sort that has the best chance of success.”2 My aim is to subject Rowe’s argument to what has come to be known as “the skeptical theist critique,” Nick Trakakis, “What No Eye Has Seen: The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument,” Philo 6, no. 2 (2003): 263–79. Copyright © 2003 Center for Inquiry. Reprinted by permission of the Center for Inquiry.

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The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 531

an increasingly popular critique which challenges a crucial assumption made by Rowe and which, moreover, has a venerable lineage in the theistic religious tradition. To begin with, however, it may be helpful to provide an outline of some of the key features of Rowe’s argument.

1. ROW E’S EV IDENTI A L A RGUMENT FROM EV IL

Rowe’s work on the evidential problem of evil can be divided into three distinct periods—an early period (1978–1986), a middle phase (1988–1995), and his current period (beginning from 1996)—in each of which Rowe has advanced a specific version of the evidential argument.3 However, the arguments proposed by Rowe during his first two periods are sufficiently similar to be thought of as a single argument gradually being stated in a more precise and systematic manner. By contrast, the evidential argument developed by Rowe since 1996, which is heavily indebted to Bayesian probability theory, represents a significant departure from previous versions and may therefore be regarded as a separate argument in its own right.4 In the present paper, I will only be concerned with the evidential argument put forward by Rowe during his early and middle periods. The early Rowe, as we may call him, provided his first elaborate defense of the evidential argument in the first edition of his Philosophy of Religion: An Introduction, which was published in 1978.5 His defense of this argument was to be repeated in significantly expanded form in 1979 in the now classic and well-anthologized paper, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism.”6 In presenting his version of the evidential argument, Rowe thinks it best to focus on a particular kind of evil that is found in our world in abundance. He therefore selects “intense human and animal suffering,” as this occurs on a daily basis, is in great plenitude in our world, and is a clear case of evil. More precisely, it is a case of intrinsic evil: it is bad in and of itself, even though it sometimes is part of, or leads to, some good state of affairs.7 Rowe then proceeds to state his argument for atheism as follows: (1) There exist instances of intense suffering which an omnipotent, omniscient being could have prevented without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse.

532  Skeptical Theist Defense

(2) An omniscient, wholly good being would prevent the occurrence of any intense suffering it could, unless it could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. (3) (Therefore) There does not exist an omnipotent, omniscient, wholly good being.8 This argument, as Rowe points out, is clearly valid, and so if there are rational grounds for accepting its premises, to that extent there are rational grounds for accepting the conclusion, that is to say, atheism. Beginning with the second premise of the above argument, this may be called “the theological premise” as it expresses a belief about what God as a perfectly good being would do under certain circumstances. In particular, this premise states that if such a being knew of some intense suffering that was about to take place and was in a position to prevent its occurrence, then it would prevent it unless it could not do so without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. Since premise (2) is commonly thought to be the least controversial aspect of Rowe’s argument, and since the primary focus of this paper is the “skeptical theist” objection, an objection which does not attempt to challenge premise (2), I will not have anything further to say about this premise. Moving on to the first premise of Rowe’s argument, this may be called “the factual premise,” for it purports to state a fact about the world: viz., that there exist instances of intense suffering which are gratuitous or pointless. An instance of suffering is gratuitous, according to Rowe, if an omnipotent, omniscient being could have prevented it without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. A gratuitous evil, in this sense, is a state of affairs that is not (logically) necessary to the attainment of a greater good or to the prevention of an evil at least as bad. Rowe’s case in support of the existence of gratuitous evil begins with two particular instances of suffering. The first is a hypothetical instance of natural evil described as follows by Rowe: Suppose in some distant forest lightning strikes a dead tree, resulting in a forest fire. In the fire a fawn is trapped, horribly burned, and lies in terrible agony for several days before death relieves its suffering.9

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 533

Although this is presented as a hypothetical event, Rowe takes it to be “a familiar sort of tragedy, played not infrequently on the stage of nature.”10 The case of the fawn is supplemented by Rowe with a case of moral evil, this case being an actual event in which a five-year-old girl in Flint, Michigan, was severely beaten, raped, and then strangled to death early on New Year’s Day in 1986.11 Following Rowe, the case of the fawn will be referred to as E1, and the case of the little girl as E2.12 Further, following Alston’s practice, the fawn will be named “Bambi” and the little girl “Sue.”13 Rowe states that, in choosing to focus on E1 and E2, he is “trying to pose a serious difficulty for the theist by picking a difficult case of natural evil, E1 (Bambi), and a difficult case of moral evil, E2 (Sue).”14 Rowe, then, is attempting to state the evidential argument in the strongest possible terms. As one commentator has put it, “if these cases of evil [El and E2] are not evidence against theism, then none are.”15 However, Rowe’s almost exclusive preoccupation with these two instances of suffering must be placed within the context of his belief that, even if we discovered that God could not have eliminated E1 and E2 without thereby losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse, it would still be unreasonable to believe this of all cases of horrendous evil occurring daily in our world. In fact, Rowe calls the belief that no instantiation of intense human and animal suffering could have been prevented by an omnipotent being without thereby losing a greater good or allowing an evil at least as bad an “extraordinary, absurd idea, quite beyond our belief.”16 E1 and E2 are thus employed by Rowe merely as dramatic illustrations of seemingly pointless evil. Many other cases from the vast array of evils permeating our world could have been used. Rowe concedes that if the examples of the fawn or the little girl were the only instances of apparently pointless suffering available, then it would not be unreasonable to believe that somehow even an infinitely intelligent, allpowerful being could not achieve its good ends without permitting the suffering of the fawn and the girl. But, as Rowe points out in a recent paper, “our world is not like that. It is the enormous amount of apparently pointless, horrendous suffering occurring daily in our world that grounds the claim in the first premise that there are pointless evils in our world.”17 Rowe is therefore appealing not only to particular instances of evil, but also to the quantity of evil.

534  Skeptical Theist Defense

E1 and E2 are thus best viewed as representative of a particular class of evil—viz., intense or horrendous suffering—and as such they pose a specific problem for theistic belief. This problem is expressed by Rowe in the following way: (P) No good state of affairs we know of is such that an omnipotent, omniscient being’s obtaining it would morally justify that being’s permitting El or E2. (Q) (Therefore) No good state of affairs is such that an omnipotent, omniscient being’s obtaining it would morally justify that being in permitting E1 or E2.18 (P) states that no good we know of justifies God in permitting El and E2. From this it is inferred that (Q) is likely to be true, or that probably there are no goods which justify God in permitting El and E2. Rowe therefore bases his case for the factual premise on the inference from (P) to (Q). The first question to be addressed when considering this inference is: What exactly do (P) and (Q) assert? Beginning with P, the central notion here is “a good state of affairs we know of.” But what is it to know of a good state of affairs? According to Rowe, to know of a good state of affairs is to (a) conceive of that state of affairs, and (b) recognize that it is intrinsically good (examples of states that are intrinsically good include pleasure, happiness, love, and the exercise of virtue).19 Rowe therefore instructs us to not limit the set of goods we know of to goods that we know have occurred in the past or to goods that we know will occur in the future. The set of goods we know of must also include goods that we have some grasp of, even if we do not know whether they have occurred or ever will occur. For example, in the case of Sue such a good may consist of the experience of eternal bliss in the hereafter. Even though we lack a clear grasp of what this good involves, and even though we cannot be sure that such a good will ever obtain, we do well to include this good amongst the goods we know of. A good that we know of, however, cannot justify God in permitting E1 or E2 unless that good is actualized at some time.20 On what grounds does Rowe think that (P) is true? Rowe states that “we have good reason to believe that no good state of affairs we know of would justify an omnipotent, omniscient being in permitting either E1 or

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 535

E2.”21 The good reason in question consists of the fact that the good states of affairs we know of, when reflecting on them, meet one or both of the following conditions: either an omnipotent being could obtain them without having to permit E1 or E2, or obtaining them would not morally justify that being in permitting E1 or E2.22 As for (Q), this corresponds to the factual premise of the argument. In short, (Q) asserts that no good whatever justifies God in permitting E1 and E2. This brings us, finally, to Rowe’s inference from (P) to (Q). This is, of course, an inductive inference. Rowe does not claim to know or be able to prove that cases of intense suffering such as the fawn’s are indeed pointless. For as he makes clear, it is quite possible that there is some familiar good outweighing the fawn’s suffering and which is connected to that suffering in a way unbeknown to us. Or there may be goods we are not aware of to which the fawn’s suffering is intimately connected. But although we cannot know or cannot establish the truth of (Q), we do possess rational grounds for accepting (Q), and these grounds consist of the considerations adumbrated in (P). Thus, the truth of (P) is taken to provide strong evidence for the truth of (Q).23 This concludes my outline of Rowe’s evidential argument as it is presented in his early and middle writings. It is time to consider whether theism is defenseless in the face of the evidential challenge mounted by Rowe.

2. THE SK EPTIC A L THEIST R ESPONSE TO ROW E’S A RGUMENT

Rowe’s argument can be criticized on a number of fronts. Firstly, one may contest the factual premise by developing a defense, if not a theodicy, in order to show that there are, or could be, outweighing goods made possible by the kinds of evil appealed to by Rowe. One may, for example, propose human freedom in conjunction with the vision of God enjoyed by the victim in heaven as the greater good served by E2. Secondly, it may be argued that gratuitous evil is entirely compatible with a theistic worldview, thus challenging the seemingly uncontroversial theological premise in Rowe’s argument. Finally, one may attempt to undermine the case built by Rowe in support of the factual premise by undercutting his inference from (P) to (Q). This is perhaps the favored response to Rowe’s argument, and it is best

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exemplified by a group of philosophers known as “skeptical theists,” including the likes of Alvin Plantinga, William Alston, Peter van Inwagen, and Stephen Wykstra. It is this last response to Rowe’s argument that I wish to examine. In brief, skeptical theism is the view that there exists a great epistemic gulf between God and humanity, so that various aspects of God—such as his will, intentions, and goals—are bound to strike us as mysterious. This view has its roots in traditional forms of theism as expressed within the Judeo­-Christian and Islamic religions. In Romans 11:33–34, for example, the apostle Paul emphasizes the inscrutability of the ways of God: “Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable his judgments, and his paths beyond tracing out! Who has known the mind of the Lord?”24 It is in the context of this tradition that skeptical theists have responded to the evidential problem of evil by claiming that, given our cognitive limitations, we are in no position to judge as improbable the statement that there are goods beyond our ken secured by God’s permission. Following the terminology introduced by Wykstra, Rowe’s inference from (P) to (Q) may be called a “noseeum inference,” for this inference amounts to the claim that “we don’t see ’um [the greater goods in question], so they ain’t there!” It may plausibly be held, however, that it is reasonable to draw this noseeum inference only if it is reasonable to make the following assumption: If there were God-justifying goods served by horrendous evils, we would very likely see or comprehend these goods. Call this “Rowe’s noseeum assumption,” or RNA for short. Skeptical theists have put forward various considerations purporting to show that it is not reasonable to accept RNA. Wykstra, for example, endeavors to establish the implausibility of RNA by drawing a comparison between the vision and wisdom of an omniscient being such as that postulated by theism and human cognitive capacities.25 Clearly, the gap between God’s intellect and ours is immense, and Wykstra compares it to the gap between the cognitive abilities of a parent and her one-month-old infant. But if this is the case, then even if there were outweighing goods connected in the requisite way to the instances of suffering appealed to by Rowe, that we should discern most of these goods is just as likely as that a one-month-old infant should discern most of her parents’ purposes for those pains they allow her to suffer—that is to say, it is not likely at all. But then Rowe would not be entitled to claim, for any given instance of intense suffering, that it is point-

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 537

less or gratuitous. What Rowe has failed to see, according to Wykstra, is that “if we think carefully about the sort of being theism proposes for our belief, it is entirely expectable—given what we know of our cognitive limits—that the goods by virtue of which this Being allows known suffering should very often be beyond our ken.”26 This position has become a central tenet of the skeptical theist credo and has generated a great deal of discussion, leading some to conclude that “the inductive argument from evil is in no better shape than its late lamented deductive cousin.”27 But how well does this theistic form of skepticism fare under close investigation?

3. R ESPONDING TO SK EPTIC A L THEISM

3.1  Rowe’s Noseeum Assumption and Divine Hiddenness

To properly evaluate the skeptical theist position, it is necessary to distinguish various versions of RNA. In its most basic form, RNA consists of the following claim: RNA1 If there are goods justifying God’s permission of horrendous evil, it is likely that we would discern or be cognizant of such goods. It is perhaps fair to say that, if skeptical theists have succeeded in establishing anything, it is that it is far from easy to show that the above version of RNA is true. But even if we agree that it is far more likely than not that we would not have epistemic access to God’s reasons for permitting horrendous evil, if such reasons there be, this will not suffice to dispose of Rowe’s evidential argument. For as Daniel Howard-Snyder has pointed out, Rowe need not be committed to RNA1, but only to one of the following weaker noseeum assumptions: RNA 2 If there are goods justifying God’s permission of horrendous evil, it is likely that we would be cognizant of the fact that there are goods of that kind. RNA 3 If there are goods justifying God’s permission of horrendous evil, it is unlikely that we would infer (from our inability to discern any such goods) that there are no goods of that kind.28

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RNA1 is the assumption that, in situations in which there is a morally sufficient reason for God’s permission of E1 and E2, we would know what that reason is. By contrast, RNA 2 and RNA 3 state that, in the relevant circumstances, we would know (or reasonably believe) that there is a sufficient reason, or we would not infer that there is no sufficient reason. Although much of the debate between proponents of Rowe’s argument and skeptical theists has been couched in terms of the first version of RNA, there is no reason why Rowe would need to do anything beyond satisfying either RNA 2 or RNA 3 in order to be permitted to infer (Q) from (P).29 This, however, leads us to the problem of divine hiddenness. Two levels of divine hiddenness may be distinguished: Divine hiddenness—level 1: God’s reasons for permitting horrendous evil are hidden from us. Divine hiddenness—level 2: God hides from us the fact that he has a reason for permitting horrendous evil and/or the fact that he exists or loves us and cares about us. I have granted (for the sake of argument) that RNA1 is false, in which case it is quite likely that there is in fact divine hiddenness on level 1. We must therefore ascend to the second level of divine hiddenness. Now, it seems that the most obvious way for God to ensure that we know that he does have good reasons for permitting horrendous evil (or to ensure that we do not falsely believe that he does not have any such reasons) is for him to make his existence or love and concern for us unambiguously clear to us. Thus, RNA2 and RNA3 may be combined as follows: RNA4 If there are goods justifying God’s permission of horrendous evil E and the nature of such goods is unknown to us (or unknowable by us), God would make his existence or love sufficiently clear to us so that we would know that there are God­-justifying goods for E, or so that we would not infer (from our failure to discern the nature of the relevant God-justifying goods) that there are no God-justifying goods for E. The point here is not that the world does in fact exhibit level 2 divine hiddenness. Rather, the point is that, in a world in which God does not (or

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 539

cannot) reveal his reasons for permitting horrendous evil, there would be no level 2 divine hiddenness. Put differently, if theism is true and there is level 1 divine hiddenness, then there must be no divine hiddenness on level 2. But is this conditional true? Herein lies the problem of divine hiddenness. 3.2  Analogies in Support of RNA4

The plausibility of RNA4 is principally derived from analogies drawn between God’s relationship to us and some of the relationships we form amongst ourselves. Rowe, for example, focuses on the good-parent analogy favored by Wykstra. As we saw earlier, Wykstra employs this analogy to highlight our cognitive limits in understanding the goods for the sake of which God permits intense human and animal suffering. But this same analogy, as Rowe observes, can be quite a useful tool for the nontheist. For if we reason from the behavior of a good parent to the behavior of an omnipotent, omniscient, infinitely good God, we arrive at a conclusion at odds with skeptical theism. In the words of Rowe: We know that when a good, loving parent permits her child to suffer severely for some future outweighing good the child cannot comprehend, the loving parent then makes every effort to be consciously present to the child during his period of suffering, giving special assurances of her love, concern, and care.30

Rowe continues: So, on the basis of the good-parent analogy, we should infer that it is likely that God, too, will almost always be consciously present to humans, if not other animals, when he permits them to suffer for goods they cannot comprehend, giving special assurances of his love for them.31

Rowe goes on to claim that “countless numbers of human beings undergo prolonged, horrendous suffering without being consciously aware of God’s presence or any special assurances of his love and comfort,”32 and from this he draws the conclusion that either there is no God or the goods that justify God in permitting horrendous evil are more often than not goods we know of.33 The parent analogy thus confers some plausibility to RNA4, and

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when conjoined with the alleged fact of level 2 divine hiddenness, adds further weight to the case against skeptical theism. But as mentioned earlier, it is only RNA4, not the purported fact of divine hiddenness, that concerns us here. J. L. Schellenberg, in the context of an atheological argument derived from level 2 divine hiddenness, also draws an analogy based on human relationships that can be used in support of RNA4. According to Schellenberg, an often-neglected feature of the concept of a perfectly loving God is that such a being, in virtue of being perfectly loving, would seek to be personally related to us. Any adequate explication of “God loves human beings” would include the view of God as seeking explicit, reciprocal relationship with us. To illustrate this point, Schellenberg delves into the nature of human love at its best: Only the best human love could serve as an analogy of Divine love, and human love at its best clearly involves reciprocity and mutuality. If I love you and so seek your well-being, I wish to make available to you all the resources at my disposal for the overcoming of difficulties in your life. But then I must also make it possible for you to draw on me personally—to let you benefit from my listening to your problems, from my encouragement, from my spending time together with you, and so on. In other words, I wish to make available to you the resources of an intimate personal relationship with me.34

Elsewhere, the seeking of personal relationship is again emphasized as an essential part of human love in its purest form: The best human love—the best love of parent or spouse or friend—involves seeking meaningful personal relationship with the beloved. It seeks a kind of closeness between itself and the beloved. The lover clearly wants this for its own sake. . . . But instrumental value comes into the picture too. The lover, being—as the best and truest lover must be—benevolently disposed toward the beloved, will also seek the relationship so that she may offer opportunities for explicit participation in her life; she will allow and indeed encourage the beloved to draw from this relationship what he may need to flourish.35

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 541

But if, as Schellenberg claims, only the best human love could serve as an analogy of divine love, then God—like a human lover—would desire personal relationship with his beloved (i.e., his creatures) both for its own sake and for the benefits such a relationship would make available to the beloved. Clearly, the benefits of a personal relationship with God are many and varied. It is often said, for example, that a relationship with a perfectly loving God would provide us with a sense of peace, joy, and security, and would also offer us the resources for dealing with the moral weakness that is endemic to humanity.36 But a further benefit is that we would gain the experience of God’s loving presence, so that we would not be inclined to doubt his existence or love for us. This, in turn, would provide us with the assurance that, despite all the horrendous evil we face, there is a greater purpose served by such evil, even if we do not know what that purpose is. This knowledge would be enormously comforting to many people, enabling them to better bear their suffering and perhaps even preventing them from losing their faith. As Schellenberg points out, Life is tough, and so in a certain sense the relationship to which I refer [i.e., the personal relationship with God] belongs in this life. Now, in the midst of earthly pain and suffering and bewilderment, is when we need divine guidance, support, consolation, forgiveness. When in the afterlife of traditional theology are we going to need these things?37

And so we would expect a loving God, like a loving parent or partner, to pursue a personal relationship with us, to seek us out and draw near to us— an expectation that is magnified when we take into account that it is God who permits our suffering, and magnified further when we do not understand why he allows this suffering to befall us.38 I submit that considerations such as those adumbrated by Rowe and Schellenberg provide a prima facie case in support of RNA4. It is time to consider whether this case can be defeated. 3.3  The Skeptical Theist Response to RNA4

The problem of divine hiddenness has much in common with the evidential problem of evil, and so it comes as no surprise that many of the responses to

542  Skeptical Theist Defense

Rowe’s evidential argument are also offered in reply to RNA4. One may, for example, deploy a version of the free will theodicy in order to establish that, were God’s existence or love unambiguously evident to us, our freedom would in some significant respect be curtailed.39 Alternatively, one may adopt a skeptical theist position not only towards instances of horrendous evil but also in response to the problem of divine hiddenness raised by RNA4. William Alston is a case in point: Some argue that it is incompatible with the goodness of God to leave us in ignorance as to why He permits us to suffer. Surely, these people say, a loving Father would explain to His children why He is allowing them to undergo their suffering if He could. And since God is omnipotent and omniscient, He could certainly do so. My response to this is that our ignorance of God’s reasons for permitting our sufferings is just one more instance of evil the reason for permitting which we cannot see. Hence the present objection simply amounts to saying that my position implies that there is a certain kind of evil God’s reason for permitting which we cannot discern. But of course! That’s not an objection; it’s a restatement of the common starting point from which my opponents and I go in opposite directions.40

Michael Bergmann also applies the “God’s reasons are inscrutable” strategy to divine hiddenness.41 He notes that the proponent of RNA4 begins with the following assumption: (4) If God exists and the goods that justify God in permitting E1 and E2 are beyond our ken, then either   (a) we would not have divine silence (i.e., it is likely that we would at least have assurances of God’s love and of the fact that there is a good that justifies God in permitting such horrendous evils, even though we do not know what that good is), or   (b) there is some good that justifies God in permitting divine silence. Bergmann then points out that, according to the advocate of RNA4, (4a) is much more likely than (4b). But to assume that, the proponent of RNA4 must hold that it is likely that

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 543

(5) No good justifies God in permitting divine silence. But what reason is there to accept (5)? One may, of course, rely on our inability to discern any good served by divine silence: (6) No good we know of justifies God in permitting divine silence. Now we are faced with a noseeum inference analogous to Rowe’s inference from (P) to (Q). But this way of justifying RNA4 is subject to the same criticisms leveled against Rowe’s inference. That is to say, one may object that, given the distance between divine omniscience and our finite grasp of God’s purposes, it would not be surprising if there were a reason beyond our ken for God’s silence in the face of inscrutable evil. Thus, the inference from (6) to (5), like Rowe’s noseeum inference, is an illegitimate one. But then, contra RNA4, divine hiddenness on level 1 need not rule out divine hiddenness on level 2. For if a perfectly good being allows us to undergo suffering for the sake of some unknown good, such a being may also choose to not manifest himself and his love to us for the sake of some unknown good.42 Before responding to this skeptical theist challenge, it may be worthwhile looking at Rowe’s initial response to it. According to Rowe, Bergmann can be credited with showing that one way of justifying RNA4 is by appealing to the noseeum inference from (6) to (5). But in Rowe’s view, this is not the only way of supporting RNA4, for one can simply rely on the parent analogy outlined earlier in order to justify one’s commitment to RNA4. As Rowe puts it, It is as though Bergmann has discovered a road that starts out in the direction of Rome but doesn’t in fact lead to Rome. This is not uninteresting. But to conclude from this fact that there is no road that leads to Rome is not quite right. One can conclude the latter only by showing that if this road doesn’t lead to Rome, none other does.43

I must side with Bergmann here. The parent analogy as employed by Rowe only shows that in situations where God permits us to suffer for a good we cannot understand, it is to be expected that God would be consciously present to us, expressing his love and concern, unless he has a good reason

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for not disclosing himself to us in this way. Rowe, however, has not shown that such a reason is not available to God. For as the skeptical theist would point out, it would not be surprising if there were reasons we are not aware of lying behind God’s silence. It is incumbent upon Rowe, therefore, to show that it is unlikely that there is some unknown good that justifies God in remaining silent. To borrow Rowe’s terminology, the road traversed by Bergmann is the only way to get to Rome. Rowe, however, has developed another, and more persuasive, line of response to the skeptical theist view of divine silence as serving goods beyond our ken.44 Rowe points out that to suppose that divine silence serves an unknown good is to be committed to a number of propositions which, when grouped together as a set, strike us as being highly implausible or counterintuitive. In particular, one who adopts the skeptical theist response to RNA4 subscribes to all of the following: (7) A being of infinite wisdom and power is unable to prevent any instance of horrendous suffering without thereby forfeiting a greater good1. (8) A being of infinite wisdom and power is unable to enable those who undergo horrendous suffering to understand just what good1 is (for which their suffering was necessary) without thereby forfeiting a greater good2. (9) A being of infinite wisdom and power is unable to be consciously present to those who undergo horrendous suffering without thereby forfeiting another greater good3—despite the despair and loneliness of those who undergo horrendous suffering without any conscious awareness of God’s presence. (10) A being of infinite wisdom and power is unable to enable those who undergo horrendous suffering without any conscious awareness of God’s presence to understand just what good3 is (for the sake of which their suffering without any conscious awareness of God’s presence was necessary) without forfeiting another greater good4.45 According to Rowe, anyone who seriously reflects on this set of propositions will see the “inherent implausibility” in the idea that these propositions reflect the way things are.46 Rowe’s point is that it borders on the absurd to believe that good states of affairs are so related to the vast array of horren-

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 545

dous evils that an infinitely powerful and infinitely loving being is unable to prevent any of these evils without (a) forfeiting a greater good1, (b) forfeiting a greater good2 if he enables the sufferers to understand good1, (c) forfeiting a greater good3 if he is consciously present to those who suffer for a good1 they cannot understand, and (d) forfeiting a greater good4 if he enables the sufferers to understand good3. Such a view strains our credibility to such an extent that we would require strong evidence for the existence of God before we could reasonably accept it.47 I regard Rowe’s reply to the skeptical theist as being entirely effective. Committing oneself to the above set of four propositions comes at a great cost—viz., a significant downturn in plausibility—which can only be offset by very convincing reasons to believe that there is a God. This is the danger inherent in the inscrutable goods strategy. For this strategy would always be available to the theist no matter how bad life may become—even, in fact, if we were to suffer horrendously and continuously from birth to death. One is reminded here of Antony Flew’s infamous parable involving two explorers who come across a clearing in a jungle.48 The clearing contained many flowers but also many weeds. One explorer claimed that some gardener tends this plot, whereas the other explorer denied this. So they decided to put their respective claims to the test. They set up their tents and keep watch, but no gardener is seen. It is therefore suggested that the gardener is invisible. They set up an electrified barbed-wire fence and they patrol the area with bloodhounds. Still nothing. Nevertheless, the “believer” is not convinced: “But there is a gardener, invisible, intangible, insensible to electric shocks, a gardener who has no scent and makes no sound, a gardener who comes secretly to look after the garden which he loves.” The “skeptic,” however, asks, “What then remains of your original assertion? How does this gardener of yours differ from an imaginary gardener or no gardener at all?” Flew, applying this parable to the case of religious belief, is prompted to put the following question to the theist: What would have to occur or to have occurred to constitute for you a disproof of the love of, or the existence of, God?49

A similar situation arises with respect to skeptical theism, for this position leads to the view that, no matter what evils befall our world, these cannot be deemed pointless and thus could never constitute decisive evidence

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against theism. But as Rowe has stated, “surely there must be some point at which the appalling agony of human and animal existence as we know it would render it unlikely that God exists.”50 The skeptical theist, however, seems unable to countenance any such point.51

4. CONCLUSION

To sum up, skeptical theists have attempted to undermine Rowe’s argument by challenging the “noseeum assumption” underlying his inference from inscrutable evil to pointless evil. The success of the skeptical theist response, however, depends largely on the specific noseeum assumption that is at issue. Although a relatively simple version of RNA may be difficult to defend, Rowe has at his disposal a more subtle and plausible noseeum assumption such as that expressed by RNA4. In other words, it is open to Rowe to maintain that if (as skeptical theists contend) there is divine hiddenness on level 1, then we would not expect there to be divine hiddenness on level 2. Skeptical theists, of course, are bound to hold that divine hiddenness on level 2, just as on level 1, may well serve some good that lies beyond our ken. This response to RNA4, however, merely inherits and amplifies the implausibility of the skeptical theist position. The theist is back in Flew’s jungle. It may therefore be concluded that if Rowe’s atheological argument from evil is indeed flawed, the flaw is unlikely to reside in its embedded noseeum assumption. The critic of Rowe’s case must look elsewhere.

NOTES

1. James Sennett, “The Inscrutable Evil Defense against the Inductive Argument from Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 10 (1993): 220. 2. Terry Christlieb, “Which Theisms Face an Evidential Problem of Evil?” Faith and Philosophy 9 (1992): 47. Cf. Daniel Howard-Snyder, “God, Evil, and Suffering,” in Reason for the Hope Within, ed. Michael J. Murray (Grand Rapids, MI: Eerd­ mans, 1999), 103. 3. The turning point between Rowe’s early and middle periods is marked by his 1988 paper, “Evil and Theodicy,” Philosophical Topics 16 (1988): 119–32, in which an explicit and quite precise argument in support of the factual premise of the argument

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 547 (by way of the inference from [P] to [Q]) is first developed. Moreover, in this and subsequent papers, Rowe makes a decisive turn away from the “appears” and “seems” locutions that he had earlier made ample use of but which had led to some misunderstanding of his argument. 4. Rowe’s first and most thorough presentation of his Bayesian evidential argument occurs in “The Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” in The Evidential Argument from Evil, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1996), 262–85. Further writings by Rowe related to his latest evidential argument include “Reply to Plantinga,” Noûs 32 (1998): 545–52; “God and Evil,” Philosophic Exchange: Annual Proceedings 28 (1988): 5–15; and “Grounds for Belief Aside, Does Evil Make Atheism More Reasonable than Theism,” in chap. 7, “An Exchange on the Problem of Evil,” by Daniel Howard-Snyder, Michael Bergmann, and William L. Rowe, in God and the Problem of Evil, ed. William L. Rowe (Oxford: Blackwell, 2001): 124–37. 5. See William L. Rowe, Philosophy of Religion: An Introduction (Encino, CA: Dickenson Publishing Company, 1978), 86–94. This was not, however, the first expression in print of Rowe’s thinking on the evidential argument. Prior to 1978, Rowe briefly touched on the evidential argument in a review of Plantinga’s God and Other Minds in “God and Other Minds,” Noûs 3 (1969): 259–84 (esp. 271–72), as well as in “Plantinga on Possible Worlds and Evil,” Journal of Philosophy 70 (1973), 554–55. 6. Rowe’s “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism” was originally published in American Philosophical Quarterly 16 (1979): 335–41. 7. Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 335. 8. Ibid., 336. Cf. Rowe, Philosophy of Religion, 87, and William L. Rowe, “The Empirical Argument from Evil,” in Rationality, Religious Belief, and Moral Commitment: New Essays in the Philosophy of Religion, ed. Robert Audi and William J. Wainwright (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 228. 9. Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 337. 10. Rowe, “Evil and Theodicy,” 119. 11. This case was introduced into the literature by Bruce Russell, “The Persistent Problem of Evil,” Faith and Philosophy 6 (1989): 123. Cf. the horrendous evils recounted by Ivan Karamazov in book V, chapter 4 of Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. 12. Rowe introduces these abbreviations in “Evil and Theodicy,” 120. 13. See William Alston, “The Inductive Argument from Evil and the Human Cognitive Condition,” Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 32. 14. Rowe, “Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” 264. 15. Christlieb, “Which Theisms Face an Evidential Problem of Evil?” 47. 16. Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 338. 17. Rowe, “Grounds for Belief Aside,” 127–28; emphasis his.

548  Skeptical Theist Defense 18. This inference is first advanced in Rowe’s “Evil and Theodicy,” 120–21, and is subsequently repeated in William L. Rowe, “Ruminations about Evil,” Philosophical Perspectives 5 (1991): 72, and his “William Alston on the Problem of Evil,” in The Rationality of Belief and the Plurality of Faith: Essays in Honor of William P. Alston, ed. Thomas P. Senor (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1995), 89–91. 19. Rowe, “Evil and Theodicy,” 123. 20. Rowe, “Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” 264; “God and Evil,” 7. A further point of clarification with regard to (P) is made by Plantinga, who observes that a more precise formulation of (P) would be: P′: No good we know of is such that we know that it justifies an omnipotent, omniscient being in permitting E1 and E2. Without the italicized phrase, (P′) could be false even though some good we know of justifies God in permitting E1 and E2, for we may not know that it does (see Alvin Plantinga, Warranted Christian Belief [New York: Oxford University Press, 2000], 465n9). 21. Rowe, “Evil and Theodicy,” 120; emphasis his. 22. See ibid., 121, 123, and Rowe, “Ruminations about Evil,” 72. The point here, as Rowe emphasizes, is that “we cannot even conceive of goods that may occur and would justify God in permitting the terrible evils that afflict our world” (“Reply to Howard-Snyder and Bergmann,” in chap. 7, “An Exchange on the Problem of Evil,” by Daniel Howard-Snyder, Michael Bergmann, and William L. Rowe, in Rowe, God and the Problem of Evil, 157; emphasis his). 23. See Rowe, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 337. 24. New International Version. The human mind’s severely limited grasp of God’s purposes is also powerfully expressed in God’s castigation of Job (see the book of Job, chaps. 38–42; cf. Isa. 55:8–9, and 1 Cor. 1:25, 13:12). Interestingly, Rowe also acknowledges that “the theist’s own religious tradition usually maintains that in this life it is not given to us to know God’s purpose in allowing particular instances of suffering” (“The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism,” 338–39). 25. Stephen Wykstra, “The Humean Obstacle to Evidential Arguments from Suffering,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 87–91. In two later papers, Wykstra attempted to strengthen this analogy in various respects— see his coauthored paper with Bruce Russell, “The ‘Inductive’ Argument from Evil: A Dialogue,” Philosophical Topics 16 (1988): 145–47, and his “Rowe’s Noseeum Arguments from Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 143–45. 26. Wykstra, “Humean Obstacle,” 91. It may be noted that Wykstra has altered his position somewhat. Instead of holding that it is quite likely that the goods for the sake of which God permits many sufferings would be beyond our ken, he now holds the more modest view that it is just as likely as not that these goods would be beyond our ken (see Wykstra, “Rowe’s Noseeum Arguments from Evil,” 136–37).

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 549 27. Alston, “Inductive Argument from Evil,” 61. 28. Daniel Howard-Snyder, “Seeing through CORNEA,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 32 (1992): 41–42. 29. However, a commitment to any of these alternatives to RNA alters the nature of Rowe’s noseeum inference so that it becomes something like the following: (P*). We are not aware that a God-justifying good of an inscrutable nature is served by E1 and E2; therefore, (Q*) there is no God-justifying good of an inscrutable nature served by E1 and E2. From this version of (Q), together with the claim that no good within our ken justifies God in permitting the relevant evils, one can infer the factual premise of Rowe’s argument. Thus, this alteration in the noseeum inference is of no significance to Rowe’s case. One further note: the “we” in RNA2, RNA3, and (P*) should be taken to refer to every (or nearly every) intellectually-able person who inquires into the matter of why evil is permitted by God. 30. William L. Rowe, Philosophy of Religion: An Introduction, 3rd ed. (Belmont, CA: Wadsworth, 2001), 102; emphasis his. 31. Ibid., 103. 32. Ibid. 33. Rowe puts the parent analogy to similar use in “Evidential Argument from Evil: A Second Look,” 276; “God and Evil,” 8; “Skeptical Theism: A Response to Bergmann,” Noûs 35 (2001): 298–300; and “Grounds for Belief Aside,” 130–31. A similar analogy is suggested by Daniel Howard-Snyder, “The Argument from Inscrutable Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 305–6. 34. J. L. Schellenberg, Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1993), 18; emphasis his. 35. J. L. Schellenberg, “What the Hiddenness of God Reveals: A Collaborative Discussion,” in Divine Hiddenness: New Essays, ed. Daniel Howard-Snyder and Paul K. Moser (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 41; emphases his. 36. Schellenberg discusses these and other benefits in Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason, 19–21. Cf. Robert McKim’s list of disadvantages of God’s hiddenness, each of which corresponds to an advantage or benefit that would accrue if God were not hidden (Religious Ambiguity and Religious Diversity [New York: Oxford University Press, 2001], 12–14). 37. Schellenberg, “What the Hiddenness of God Reveals,” 44; emphases his; cf. Schellenberg, Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason, 28–29. 38. It may be noted that the claim I am making here (viz., in a world replete with inscrutable evil, a loving God would seek to be personally related to us at least partly because, by doing so, he would enable us to come to know that he has some purpose for permitting suffering and this knowledge would benefit us in various ways) is not one that is explicitly endorsed by Schellenberg; it is, however, taken up by Theodore Drange in Nonbelief and Evil: Two Arguments for the Nonexistence of God (Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 1998), 202–5.

550  Skeptical Theist Defense 39. The chief exponents of this view are John Hick, who argues for the necessity of epistemic distance for the preservation of our freedom with respect to a personal relationship or commitment to God (see Hick, Evil and the God of Love, rev. ed. [New York: HarperCollins, 1977], 372–73), and Richard Swinburne, who maintains that, in a world in which God is not hidden, we would have little temptation to do wrong and would therefore lack a “genuine choice of destiny” (see Swinburne, The Existence of God, rev. ed. [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991], 212, and Swinburne, Providence and the Problem of Evil [Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998], 203–10). For an excellent discussion of the arguments of Hick and Swinburne, see Schellenberg, Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason, chap. 5, 95–130. 40. William P. Alston, “Some (Temporarily) Final Thoughts on Evidential Arguments from Evil,” in Howard-Snyder, The Evidential Argument from Evil, 321. 41. See Michael Bergmann, “Skeptical Theism and Rowe’s New Evidential Argument from Evil,” Noûs 35 (2001): 282–83. The skeptical theist response to RNA4 is also supported by Daniel Howard-Snyder, “Review of Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason, by J. L. Schellenberg,” Mind 104 (1995): 432; Daniel HowardSnyder, “The Argument from Divine Hiddenness,” Canadian Journal of Philosophy 26 (1996): 453; Daniel Howard-Snyder and Michael Bergmann, “Grounds for Belief in God Aside, Does Evil Make Atheism More Reasonable than Theism?,” in chap. 7, “An Exchange on the Problem of Evil,” by Daniel Howard-Snyder, Michael Bergmann, and William L. Rowe, in Rowe, God and the Problem of Evil, 140–54; Larry Lacy, “Review of Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason by J. L. Schellenberg,” International Journal for Philosophy of Religion 40 (1996); 123–24; Robert McKim, Religious Ambiguity and Religious Diversity, 87–91; Laura Garcia, “St. John of the Cross and the Necessity of Divine Hiddenness,” in Howard-Snyder and Moser, Divine Hiddenness, 85–86; and Paul Moser, “Cognitive Idolatry and Divine Hiding,” in Howard-Snyder and Moser, Divine Hiddenness, 135, 139, 146. 42. A different, and somewhat unique, argument in support of skeptical theism with respect to divine hiddenness is provided by Robert McKim, according to whom: It might be essential to the hiddenness of God that we not see precisely which goods are served by God’s being hidden. The idea is that if we could see precisely which goods were achieved by God’s being hidden, then, in effect, God would not be hidden at all. (Religious Ambiguity and Religious Diversity, 89) This view consists of two parts. Firstly, it is held that God must be hidden for the sake of certain goods, say G1–G4. Secondly, it is held that the goods in question, G1–G4, must be unknown to us, otherwise God (or God’s existence) could not be hidden. However, this second component in McKim’s position seems dubious. For how could the removal of our ignorance with respect to the content of G1–G4 make it obvious to us that there is a God?

The Skeptical Theist Response to Rowe’s Evidential Argument from Evil 551 43. Rowe, “Skeptical Theism,” 300–301. 44. Ibid., 301–2. 45. Rowe adds that from (8) it also follows that “God is unable to enable the sufferers to understand good2 without thereby having to forfeit some other yet greater good, and so on, and so on,” a point which he reiterates with respect to (10)—see notes 10 and 11 in ibid., 303. It is not clear, however, that the skeptical theist is committed to the view that good2 and good4 are beyond our ken. It is open to the skeptical theist to claim, for instance, that good1 may be so complex that it cannot be made comprehensible to humans without forfeiting the good2 of actualizing epistemically finite creatures. 46. The inherent implausibility of the above set of propositions is emphasized by Rowe a number of times in ibid., 302. 47. The implausibility of skeptical theism when applied to divine hiddenness may explain why some skeptical theists have preferred theodicies of one sort or another in order to account for God’s hiddenness—see, for example, Daniel HowardSnyder, Inscrutable Evil and the Silence of God (PhD diss., Syracuse University, 1992), §30, 173–75, and Howard-Snyder, “The Argument from Divine Hiddenness,” 440–48. 48. See Antony Flew, “Theology and Falsification,” in New Essays in Philosophical Theology, ed. Antony Flew and Alasdair MacIntyre (London: SCM Press, 1955), 96–99. 49. Ibid., 99. 50. Rowe, “Skeptical Theism,” 298. 51. Two further objections to the inscrutable goods defense, one more promising than the other, may be noted here. Firstly, Schellenberg has argued that, if we “suppose that it is as likely as not . . . that if there is a God, at any rate some evils of human experience serve inscrutable goods,” then the probability that reasonable nonbelief is a member of the “inscrutable class” would be half of the first probability, thus giving it an overall probability of 0.25, which is “clearly too low for rational acceptance” (Schellenberg, Divine Hiddenness and Human Reason, 90–91; a similar argument has been put forward by Drange, Nonbelief and Evil, 211–14). Critics, however, have picked up on Schellenberg’s initial probability assignment, which would clearly be unpalatable to the skeptical theist. See Laura Garcia, “St. John of the Cross and the Necessity of Divine Hiddenness,” 85–86, and Jonathan Kvanvig, “Divine Hiddenness: What Is the Problem?” in Howard-Snyder and Moser, Divine Hiddenness, 156. Secondly, Robert McKim insightfully points out that “just as there may be unknown goods among the goods of mystery [‘the goods of mystery’ being the goods served by divine hiddenness], there may also be unknown goods among the goods of clarity” (Religious Ambiguity and Religious Diversity, 89).

552  Skeptical Theist Defense This seems to neutralize the skeptical theist response to the problem of divine hiddenness. For if religious ambiguity is taken to be necessary for the actualization of some unknown goods, then religious clarity may also be taken to be necessary for some unknown goods—there would therefore be just as much reason to expect clarity as there would be to expect ambiguity. To be sure, a similar objection could be raised against the skeptical theist response to the evidential problem of evil. For just as unknown goods may well be served by horrendous evil, it seems equally likely that unknown evils are served by such cases of evil.

C H A P T E R

3 1

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism PAU L D R A P E R

I. THE NATUR E OF THE PROBLEM

I will argue in this paper that our knowledge about pain and pleasure creates an epistemic problem for theists. The problem is not that some proposition about pain and pleasure can be shown to be both true and logically inconsistent with theism. Rather, the problem is evidential. A statement reporting the observations and testimony upon which our knowledge about pain and pleasure is based bears a certain significant negative evidential relation to theism.1 And because of this, we have a prima facie good epistemic reason to reject theism—that is, a reason that is sufficient for rejecting theism unless overridden by other reasons for not rejecting theism.

Paul Draper, “Pain and Pleasure: An Evidential Problem for Theists,” Noûs 23 (1989): 331–50. Copyright © 1989. Used by permission of John Wiley & Sons.

553

554  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

By “theism’’ I mean the following statement: There exists an omnipotent, omniscient, and morally perfect person who created the Universe. I will use the word “God” as a title rather than as a proper name, and I will stipulate that necessary and sufficient conditions for bearing this title are that one be an omnipotent, omniscient, and morally perfect person who created the Universe. Given this (probably technical) use of the term “God,” theism is the statement that God exists. Some philosophers believe that the evils we find in the world create an evidential problem for theists because theism fails to explain these evils (or most of what we know about them).2 This position is attractive. It seems to reflect the intuitions of a great many people who have regarded evil as an epistemic problem for theists. After all, the most common way of stating the problem of evil is to ask a why-question like “if God exists, then why is there so much evil in the world?” And such questions are either genuine or rhetorical requests for explanation. Moreover, the relevance of theodicies to this alleged problem of evil is quite clear, since a theodicy can very naturally be understood as an attempt to explain certain evils or facts about evil in terms of theism. But other philosophers who agree that theism fails to explain most of the evils we find in the world deny that this creates an epistemic problem for theists—that is, they deny that this explanatory failure is a prima facie good reason to reject theism. This disagreement has led to a debate over how much evil, if any, theism needs to explain to avoid disconfirmation.3 What the members of both sides of this debate have failed to recognize is that one cannot determine what facts about evil theism needs to explain or how well it needs to explain them without considering alternatives to theism. The important question, a question that David Hume asked4 but that most contemporary philosophers of religion have ignored, is whether or not any serious hypothesis that is logically inconsistent with theism explains some significant set of facts about evil or about good and evil much better than theism does. I will argue for an affirmative answer to this question. Specifically, I will compare theism to the following alternative, which I will call “the Hypothesis of Indifference” (“HI” for short):

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 555

HI: neither the nature nor the condition of sentient beings on earth is the result of benevolent or malevolent actions performed by non­ human persons. Unlike theism, HI does not entail that supernatural beings exist and so is consistent with naturalism. But HI is also consistent with the existence of supernatural beings. What makes HI inconsistent with theism is that it entails that, if supernatural beings do exist, then no action performed by them is motivated by a direct concern for our well-being. Now let “O” stand for a statement reporting both the observations one has made of humans and animals experiencing pain or pleasure and the testimony one has encountered concerning the observations others have made of sentient beings experiencing pain or pleasure. By “pain” I mean physical or mental suffering of any sort. I will argue that the pain and pleasure in our world create an epistemic problem for theists by arguing that: C: HI explains the facts O reports much better than theism does. One problem with this formulation of C is that the verb “to explain” has a number of distinct but easily confused meanings. For my purposes here, it will suffice to point out that in some instances the claim that one hypothesis explains some observation report much better than another is equivalent in meaning, or at least bears a close conceptual connection, to the claim that the truth of that observation report is much less surprising on the first hypothesis than it is on the second. Since I suspect that it is only in these instances that comparisons of explanatory power support comparisons of probability, I will reformulate C as the claim that the facts O reports are much more surprising on theism than they are on HI, or, more precisely, that the antecedent probability of O is much greater on the assumption that HI is true than on the assumption that theism is true. By the “antecedent” probability of O, I mean O’s probability, independent of (rather than temporally prior to) the observations and testimony it reports. So my reformulation of C is best expressed as follows: C: Independent of the observations and testimony O reports, O is much more probable on the assumption that HI is true than on the assumption that theism is true.

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For the sake of brevity, I will use P(x/y) to represent the probability of the statement x, independent of the observations and testimony O reports, on the assumption that the statement y is true. Using this notation, I can abbreviate C in the following way: C: P(O/HI) is much greater than P(O/theism). One last elucidatory remark about C. The probabilities employed in C are epistemic ones rather than, for example, statistical, physical, or logical probabilities.5 Thus, they can vary from person to person and from time to time, since different persons can be in different epistemic situations at the same time and the same person can be in different epistemic situations at different times. For example, suppose that six hands of poker are dealt. Then the epistemic probability that one hand includes four aces will be different for those players who inspect their hands and find no aces and those players who inspect their hands and discover one or more aces. And the epistemic probability for any of the six players that one hand includes four aces will be different before inspecting his or her hand than after inspecting it. Now suppose that I succeed in showing that C is true (relative to my own and my readers’ epistemic situations). Then the truth of C is (for us) a prima facie good (epistemic) reason to believe that theism is less probable than HI. Thus, since the denial of theism is obviously entailed by HI and so is at least as probable as HI, the truth of C is a prima facie good reason to believe that theism is less probable than not. And since it is epistemically irrational to believe both that theism is true and that it is less probable than not, the truth of C is also a prima facie good reason to reject (i.e., to cease or refrain from believing) theism. In Section II, I will argue that C is true. However, my argument will depend on the assumption that theodicies do not significantly raise P(O/ theism). In Section III, I will defend this assumption. And in Section IV, I will discuss the significance of C’s truth.

II. THE BIOLOGIC A L U TILIT Y OF PA IN A ND PLE ASUR E

The claim that P(O/HI) is much greater than P(O/theism) is by no means obviously true. The fact that O reports observations and testimony about

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 557

pleasure as well as pain should make this clear. So an argument for this claim is needed. I will argue that it is the biological role played by both pain and pleasure in goal-directed organic systems that renders this claim true. In order to explain precisely why this is so, I will need to introduce a concept of “biological usefulness.” Though no one doubts that organic systems are goal-directed in some objective sense, it is by no means easy to provide a precise analysis of this kind of goal-directedness. As a first approximation, we may say that a system S is “goal-directed” just in case for some property G that S has exhibited or will exhibit, a broad range of potential environmental changes are such that: (i) if they occurred at a time when S is exhibiting G and no compensating changes took place in the parts of S, then S would cease to exhibit G and never exhibit G again, and (ii) if they occurred at a time when S is exhibiting G, then compensating changes would take place in the parts of S, resulting in either S’s continuing to exhibit G or in S’s exhibiting G once again.6 Notice that to be goal-directed in this sense does not entail direction to the conscious end of some intelligent being. Notice also that the organic world is made up of complex and interdependent goal­-directed systems, including ecosystems, populations of organisms, organisms, parts of organisms, parts of parts of organisms, and so on. I will call the goals to which organic systems are directed in this sense their “biological goals.” And I will say that a part of some goal-directed organic system S is “biologically useful” just in case (i) it causally contributes to one of S’s biological goals (or to one of the biological goals of some other goal-directed organic system of which it is a part), and (ii) its doing so is not biologically accidental. (It is in virtue of clause (ii) that, for example, a non­ fatal heart attack that prevents a person from committing suicide cannot be called biologically useful.) Notice that much of the pain and pleasure in the world is biologically useful in this sense. Consider, for example, the pain my cat Hector felt when he jumped on top of a hot oven door. Hector’s quick response to this pain enabled him to avoid serious injury, and he now flees whenever an oven door is opened. Hector’s pain in this case, like much of the pain reported by O, was biologically useful, for it causally contributed to two central biological goals of individual organisms, namely, survival and reproduction, and its doing so was plainly not accidental from a biological point of view. Of course, there is also much pain and pleasure in our world that is not biologically useful: for instance, masochistic pleasure and

558  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

pain resulting from burns that ultimately prove fatal. (I will sometimes call this kind of pain and pleasure “biologically gratuitous.”) This notion of biological utility enables me to introduce a statement logically equivalent to O that will help me show that C is true. Let “O1,” “O2,” and “O3” stand for statements respectively reporting the facts O reports about: (1) moral agents experiencing pain or pleasure that we know to be bi­ ologically useful, (2) sentient beings that are not moral agents experiencing pain or pleasure that we know to be biologically useful, and (3) sentient beings experiencing pain or pleasure that we do not know to be biologically useful. Since O is obviously logically equivalent to the conjunction of O1, O2, and O3, it follows that, for any hypothesis h: P(O/h) = P(O1 & O2 & O3/h). But the following theorem of the mathematical calculus of probability holds for epistemic probability: P(O1 & O2 & O3/h) = P  (O1/h) × P(O2/h & O1) × P(O3/h & O1 & O2).7 Thus, C is true—P(O/HI) is much greater than P(O/theism)—just in case: A: P(O1/HI) × P(O2/HI & O1) × P(O3/HI & O1 & O2) is much greater than B: P(O1/theism) × P(O2/theism & O1) × P(O3/theism & O1 & O2). I will argue that A is much greater than B by arguing that each of the multiplicands of A is either greater or much greater than the corresponding multiplicand of B. As I will explain in Section III, my arguments will assume that theodicies do not significantly raise P(O/theism).

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Let us begin with O1, which reports those facts reported by O about humans (who are moral agents) experiencing pain or pleasure that we know to be biologically useful. We know antecedently—that is, we know independent of the observations and testimony O reports—that humans are goal-directed organic systems, composed of parts that systematically contribute to the biological goals of these systems. This seems to give us reason to expect that human pain and pleasure, if they exist, will also systematically contribute to these goals. (And this is, of course, precisely what O1 reports.) But notice that pain and pleasure are in one respect strikingly dissimilar to other parts of organic systems: they have intrinsic moral value. Pain is intrinsically bad, and pleasure is intrinsically good. Does this difference substantially decrease the amount of support that our antecedent knowledge about humans gives to the “prediction” that pain and pleasure, if they exist, will systematically contribute to biological goals? I submit that it does if we assume that theism is true but does not if we assume that HI is true. It is this difference between HI and theism that makes P(O1/HI) much greater than P(O1/theism). Allow me to explain. HI entails that, if pain and pleasure exist, then they are not the result of malevolent or benevolent actions performed by nonhuman persons. So on HI, the moral difference between pain and pleasure and other parts of organic systems gives us no antecedent reason to believe that pain and pleasure will not play the same biological role that other parts of organic systems play. Indeed, a biological explanation of pain and pleasure is just the sort of explanation that one would expect on HI. But theism entails that God is responsible for the existence of any pain and pleasure in the world. Since God is morally perfect, He would have good moral reasons for producing pleasure even if it is never biologically useful, and He would not permit pain unless He had, not just a biological reason, but also a morally sufficient reason to do so. And since God is omnipotent and omniscient, He could create goal-directed organic systems (including humans) without biologically useful pain and pleasure. So theism entails both that God does not need biologically useful pain and pleasure to produce human goal­-directed organic systems and that, if human pain and pleasure exist, then God had good moral reasons for producing them, reasons that, for all we know antecedently, might very well be inconsistent with pain and pleasure systematically contributing to the biological goals of human organisms. Therefore, we would have much less reason on theism than on HI to

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be surprised if it turned out that human pain and pleasure differed from other parts of organic systems by not systematically contributing to the bi­ ological goals of those systems. Hence, since O1 reports that the pain and pleasure experienced by humans (who are moral agents) do contribute in this way, P(O1/HI) is much greater than P(O1/theism). One might object that from theism and our antecedent knowledge that goal-directed organic systems exist we can infer that the biological functions of the parts of those systems are themselves morally worthwhile, which gives us reason on theism that we do not have on HI to expect pain and pleasure to have biological functions. It might be thought that this counterbalances the reasons offered above for concluding that O1 is antecedently much more likely given HI than it is given theism.8 Now we obviously cannot infer from theism and our antecedent knowledge that, the greater the number of functioning parts in an organic system, the more valuable the system. We might be able to infer that organic systems are valuable and that the parts of these systems that have biological functions are valuable because the systems could not exist without functioning parts. But this does not imply that we have as much or even close to as much reason on theism as on HI to expect pain and pleasure to have biological functions. For an omnipotent and omniscient being could produce such systems without biologically useful pain and pleasure. Thus, since a morally perfect being would try to accomplish its goals with as little pain as possible, the value of organic systems gives us no reason on theism to expect pain to have biological functions. And since pleasure has intrinsic value and so is worth producing whether or not it furthers some other goal, the value of organic systems gives us very little reason on theism to expect pleasure to have bi­ ological functions. O2 reports the observations and testimony reported by O about sentient beings that are not moral agents (e.g., young human children and nonhuman animals) experiencing pain or pleasure that we know to be biologically useful. Independent of the observations and testimony O reports, we know that some sentient beings that are not moral agents are biologically very similar to moral agents. Since O1 implies that moral agents experience biologically useful pain and pleasure, this knowledge makes it antecedently likely on HI & O1 that some sentient beings that are not moral agents will also experience biologically useful pain and pleasure. Now at first glance,

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 561

one might think that this knowledge makes the existence of such pain and pleasure just as likely on theism & O1. After all, from the assumption that theism and O1 are both true it follows that God has good moral reasons for permitting biologically useful pain. But there is an important difference between the biologically useful pain that O1 reports and the biologically useful pain that O2 reports. Given theism & O1, we have reason to believe that God permits the pain O1 reports because it plays some sort of (presently indiscernible) moral role in the lives of the humans that experience it. But the pain O2 reports cannot play such a role, since the subjects of it are not moral agents. This difference is plainly not relevant on HI & O1, but it gives us some reason on theism & O1 to expect that the good moral reasons God has for permitting moral agents to experience pain do not apply to animals that are not moral agents, and hence some reason to believe that God will not permit such beings to experience pain. So P(O2/HI & O1) is somewhat greater than P(O2/theism & O1). O3 reports facts about sentient beings experiencing pain or pleasure that we do not know to be biologically useful. This includes much pain and pleasure that we know to be biologically gratuitous, as well as some that is not known to be useful and is also not known to be gratuitous. I will give a two-part argument for the conclusion that P(O3/HI & O1 & O2) is much greater than P(O3/theism & O1 & O2). First, we obviously have much more reason on theism & O1 & O2 than we have on HI & O1 & O2 to expect sentient beings (especially nonhuman animals) to be happy—in any case much more happy than they would be if their pleasure were limited to that reported by O1 and O2. Instead, when the facts O3 reports are added to those reported by O1 and O2, we find that many humans and animals experience prolonged and intense suffering and a much greater number are far from happy. In addition, we have more reason on theism & O1 & O2 than on HI & O1 & O2 to expect to discover a close connection between certain moral goods (e.g., justice and virtue) and biologically gratuitous pain and pleasure, but we discover no such connection. Second, we have, antecedently, much more reason on HI & O1 & O2 than on theism & O1 & O2 to believe that the fundamental role of pain and pleasure in our world is a biological one and that the presence of biologically gratuitous pain and pleasure is epiphenomenal, a biological accident resulting

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from nature’s or an indifferent creator’s failure to “fine tune” organic systems. And this is undeniably supported (though not entailed) by what O3 reports. To demonstrate this, a couple definitions are needed. First, by “pathological” pain or pleasure, I mean pain or pleasure that results from the failure of some organic system to function properly. For example, pain caused by terminal cancer and sadistic pleasure is pathological in this sense. And second, by “biologically appropriate” pain or pleasure, I mean pain or pleasure that occurs in a situation which is such that it is biologically useful that pain or pleasure is felt in situations of this sort. For instance, the pain felt by a person killed in a fire is not biologically useful, but it is biologically appropriate because it is biologically useful that humans feel pain when they come in contact with fire. Clearly much of the pain and pleasure reported by O3 is either pathological or biologically appropriate, and very little is known to be both non-pathological and biologically inappropriate.9 And this is exactly what one would expect if pain and pleasure are fundamentally bi­ ological rather than moral phenomena, and so are much more to be expected on HI & O1 & O2 than on theism & O1 & O2. Therefore, assuming that theodicies do not significantly raise P(O/theism), the first and third multiplicands of A are much greater than the first and third multiplicands of B, and the second multiplicand of A is greater than the second multiplicand of B. And this implies that P(O/HI) is much greater than P(O/theism).

III.  THE MOR A L VA LUE OF PA IN A ND PLE ASUR E

In addition to their biological roles, pain and pleasure also play various moral roles in our world. By appealing to these roles, the theist might hope to explain some of the facts O reports in terms of theism, and thereby render O less surprising on theism than it is initially. This would seem to be the theist’s most promising strategy for undermining the argument for C given above. Theodicies can be treated as attempts to carry out such a strategy.10 While few would deny that most theodicies are rather obvious failures, it is widely thought that plausible theistic explanations of suffering can be constructed by appealing to the intrinsic or instrumental moral value of free will. So it is necessary to determine what effect such theodicies have on

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 563

P(O/theism). Additionally, it is important to evaluate the increasingly popular position that evidential arguments from evil against theism fail because the disproportion between omniscience and human knowledge makes it quite likely, on the assumption that God exists, that humans would not understand why God permits evil.11 A.  Evaluating Theodicies

Explaining some phenomenon in terms of a statement usually involves adding other statements to that statement. This is certainly true in the case of theodicies, which typically add to the claim that God exists the claims that God has a certain goal, that even God must produce or permit certain evils in order to accomplish that goal, and that accomplishing the goal is, from a moral point of view, worth the evils. I will say that a statement h* is an “expansion” of a statement h just in case h* is known to entail h. (Notice that h* can be an expansion of h even if it is logically equivalent to h.) The effect of a theodicy on P(O/theism) can be assessed by identifying an appropriate expansion Tn of theism that the theodicy employs and then using the following principle to evaluate P(O/theism):12 P(O/theism) = ( P(Tn/theism) x P(O/Tn)) + (P(~Tn/theism) x P(O/theism & ~Tn)).13 I will call this principle the “Weighted Average Principle” (“WAP” for short) because it identifies one probability with a probability weighted average of two others. Roughly, WAP tells us that P(O/theism) is the average of P(O/Tn) and P(O/theism & ~Tn). This average, however, is a probability weighted average, the weights of which are P(Tn/theism) and P(~Tn/theism). The higher P(Tn/theism), the closer P(O/theism) will be to P(O/Tn). And the lower P(Tn/theism), the closer P(O/theism) will be to P(O/theism & ~Tn). WAP clarifies the relationship between theodicies and the argument for C I gave in Section II. For example, suppose that, for some expansion Tn of theism that a certain theodicy employs, P(Tn/theism) is high. My argument for C in Section II ignores this theodicy and so in effect equates P(O/ theism) with P(O/theism & ~Tn). Since P(Tn/theism) is high, WAP tells us that P(O/theism) is actually closer to P(O/Tn) than to P(O/theism & ~Tn)

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(assuming that these are not the same). To successfully defend my assumption in Section II that this theodicy does not significantly raise P(O/theism), I would need to show that P(O/Tn) is not significantly greater than P(O/theism & ~Tn). In other words, I would need to show that, independent of the observations and testimony O reports, we have little or no more reason on Tn than we have on theism & ~Tn to believe that O is true. B.  Free Will and the Advancement of Morality

Most free will theodicies appeal to a certain sort of moral freedom, which I will call “freedom*.” An action is free* only if (i) it is free in an incompatibilist sense—that is, in a sense incompatible with its being determined by antecedent conditions outside the agent’s control—and (ii) if it is morally right, then at least one alternative action that is open in an incompatibilist sense to the agent is such that it would be morally wrong for the agent to perform that alternative action. This concept of freedom is used to give the following theistic explanation of immorality. Freedom* has great value (either because morally right actions that are freely* performed are more valuable than right actions that that are not freely* performed or because, following Hick,14 moral virtue that is acquired by freely* performing right actions is more valuable than moral virtue that is not freely* acquired). For this reason, God endows humans with freedom*. However, since it is logically impossible to force a person to freely* perform a right action instead of a wrong one, God cannot give humans freedom* and ensure that humans will never perform morally wrong actions. Unfortunately, humans sometimes abuse their freedom* by performing wrong actions. Nevertheless, God is justified in giving humans freedom* because a world in which humans freely* perform both right and wrong actions is (provided that the balance of right over wrong actions or of morally good humans over morally bad humans is sufficiently favorable) better than a world in which immorality is prevented by withholding freedom* from humans. Notice that, so far, we have no explanation of the existence of pain. For there are morally right actions and morally wrong actions that do not entail the existence of pain. Wrong actions of this sort include some instances of breaking promises, killing, attempting to cause pain, and depriving someone of pleasure. So God could have given humans freedom* without permitting

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pain. The first version of the free will theodicy that I will evaluate adds to the above explanation of immorality the proposal that God permits pain in order to advance morality. This proposal can be spelled out in the following way. God wants humans to freely* perform right actions instead of wrong ones. Of course, as mentioned above, He cannot force humans to freely* perform only morally right actions, but He would have some control over the balance of right over wrong actions because even free* choices can be influenced and because God would know what free* choices humans would make (or would be likely to make15) in various situations. In particular, God might use pain to influence humans to freely* perform right actions instead of wrong ones. Also, some right actions entail the existence of pain, and God might know prior to creating humans that some or all humans would perform (or would be likely to perform) these right actions if given the chance. Therefore, God might use pain to obtain a more favorable balance of freely* performed right actions over wrong actions. This version of the free will theodicy employs the following expansion of theism: T1: God exists, and one of His final ends is a favorable balance of freely* performed right actions over wrong actions.16 I doubt that a consensus could ever be reached about P(T1/theism). For T1 presupposes several very controversial metaphysical and ethical positions. For example, it presupposes that the concept of “freedom*” is coherent, that humans have freedom*, and that freedom* is of great value. Since I obviously do not have the space here to discuss how plausible these claims are, I will assume for the sake of argument that P(T1/theism) is high. I will argue, however, that P(O/T1) is not significantly higher than P(O/theism & ~T1). This implies that, even if P(T1/theism) is high, our first version of the free will theodicy does not significantly increase P(O/theism). If, as I will assume, it is morally permissible for God to use pain to advance morality, then we have reason on T1 that we do not have on theism & ~T1 to expect that the world will contain both pain that influences humans to perform morally right actions and pain that is logically necessary for some of the right actions humans perform. Since O reports the existence of pain of both these sorts, we have a predictive success for the theodicy. But O also

566  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

reports both that pain often influences humans to perform morally wrong actions and that pain is logically necessary for many of the wrong actions humans perform. And we have reason on T1 that we do not have on theism & ~T1 to be surprised by these facts. Furthermore, the observations and testimony O reports provide strong evidence that the world does not presently contain a very impressive balance of right over wrong actions performed by humans and that this is due in part both to a variety of demoralizing conditions like illness, poverty, and ignorance and to the absence of conditions that tend to promote morality. All of this is even more surprising on T1 than on theism & ~T1.17 So T1’s “predictive” advantages are counterbalanced by several serious “predictive” disadvantages, and for this reason P(O/T1) is not significantly greater than P(O/theism & ~T1). C.  Free Will and Responsibility

Some free will theodicists claim that God gives humans the freedom* to bring about suffering (either by producing it or by failing to prevent it) in order to increase the responsibility humans have for their own well-being and the well-being of others and thereby increase the importance of the moral decisions humans make. By an “important’’ moral decision, these theodicists mean a decision upon which the presence or absence of something of great positive or negative value depends. The key value judgement here is that, all else held equal, the more important the moral decisions we are free* to make, the more valuable our freedom* is. By not preventing us from freely* bringing about evils, including serious ones, God increases our control over how valuable the world is and thereby increases the value of our freedom*. This theodicy employs the following expansion of theism: T2: God exists, and one of His final ends is for humans to have the freedom* to make very important moral decisions. I will assume, once again, that P(T2/theism) is high, and I will argue that this second version of the free will theodicy does not significantly raise P(O/theism) by arguing that P(O/T2) is not significantly greater than P(O/ theism & ~T2).

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 567

I will begin by arguing that Richard Swinburne18 fails in his attempt to extend this theodicy so that it accounts for pain for which humans are not morally responsible. (I will call this sort of pain “amoral pain.”) Swinburne believes that free will theodicies that employ T2 can account for such pain because (i) they explain why God gives humans the freedom* to bring about suffering and (ii) amoral pain is necessary if humans are to have genuine freedom* to bring about suffering. Swinburne defends (ii) in the following way. Freedom* to bring about suffering requires the knowledge of how to bring about suffering. And humans can obtain such knowledge in only one of two ways: either by God telling them how to bring about suffering or by experiencing how this is done. Unfortunately, if God told humans how to bring about suffering, then humans would know that God exists, and hence would have little temptation to do evil and so no genuine freedom* to bring about suffering. So for humans to have such freedom, they must learn by experience how to bring about suffering, and hence must learn this either by observing suffering for which no human is morally responsible or by observing suffering brought about by other humans. But for any particular kind of suffering, there must have been a first time that a human brought it about, and so a time when a human knew how to bring it about despite never having observed suffering of that kind brought about by a human. Hence, if humans are to learn by experience how to bring about suffering, then amoral pain must exist. Therefore, such suffering is necessary for humans to have the freedom* to bring about suffering. I will make three comments about this argument for (ii). First, even if it is sound, it obviously does not provide an adequate theistic account of amoral pain from which humans gain no new knowledge about how to produce or prevent suffering. Second, even if it is sound, it does not provide an adequate theistic explanation of most of the amoral pain that does give humans new knowledge of this sort. For an omnipotent and omniscient being could have greatly decreased the variety of ways in which humans know how to harm others, and so greatly decreased the amount of amoral pain needed for this knowledge, without decreasing the amount of harm humans can do to others and so without decreasing the amount of control that humans have over the well-being of others. Third and most importantly, the argument is not sound. As Stump19 and Moser20 have observed, God could, without permitting amoral pain, give humans the knowledge of

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how to bring about suffering without revealing His existence and so without undermining human freedom*. For example, as Stump has pointed out,21 humans might regularly have vivid, message-laden dreams and learn of their reliability, and yet not be compelled to believe in God. So if this second version of the free will theodicy raises P(O/theism) at all, it is because we have reason on T2 that we do not have on theism & ~T2 to expect the existence of pain for which humans are morally responsible. Now giving humans the freedom* to bring about intense suffering is certainly one way (though not the only way) of giving humans the freedom* to make important moral decisions. So assuming that there is no better way,22 we have some reason on T2 to expect humans to have such freedom, and so reason on T2 to expect the existence of pain for which humans are morally responsible. But even granting all this, it can be shown that P(O/T2) is not significantly greater than P(O/theism & ~T2) by showing that other facts O reports are even more surprising on T2 than they are on theism & ~T2. An analogy between God and a good parent will be useful here. Ironically, such an analogy is often used to defend this sort of theodicy. For example, Swinburne responds to the objection that God should not give humans the freedom* to seriously harm others by asserting that the objector is asking that God “make a toy-world, a world where [our choices] matter, but not very much.” Such a God “would be like the over-protective parent who will not let his child out of sight for a moment.”23 But Swinburne neglects to ask whether or not humans are worthy of the freedom* to seriously harm others. A good parent gradually increases a child’s responsibility as the child becomes capable of handling greater responsibility. Children who are unworthy of a certain responsibility are not benefitted by parents who give them that responsibility. On the assumption that T2 is true, one would expect that God would behave like a good parent, giving humans great responsibility only when we are worthy of it. I am not claiming that on T2 one would expect God to impose a good moral character on humans before He gives them serious responsibilities. Nor am I claiming that creatures who are worthy of great responsibility would never abuse that responsibility. Rather, I am claiming that on T2 one would expect God to give all or some humans less responsibility—and in particular no ability to do serious evils—until they freely* developed the strength of character that would make them worthy of greater responsibility. And if at some point humans become worthy of

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and are given great responsibility but nevertheless abuse this responsibility to such an extent that they are no longer worthy of it, then one would on T2 expect God, like a good parent, to decrease the amount of responsibility humans have until they are worthy of a second chance. But O conflicts with all of these expectations. Many humans are plainly not worthy of the freedom* to do serious evils. Nor is the human race making any significant amount of moral progress. If God exists, then for centuries He has been allowing his children to torment, torture, and kill each other. Thus, even if they were once worthy of great responsibility, they no longer are, and hence are not benefitted by having such responsibility. So like T1, T2’s predictive advantages are counterbalanced by several serious predictive disadvantages. Therefore, P(O/T2) is not significantly greater than P(O/theism & ~T2), and hence this second version of the free will theodicy fails to significantly raise P(O/theism). D.  The “Infinite Intellect Defense”

Some philosophers think that “evidential arguments from evil” can be refuted by pointing out that, since God’s knowledge about good and evil is limitless, it is not all that surprising that He produces or permits evils for reasons that are unknown to humans. The expansion of theism suggested here is the following: T3: God exists and has a vast amount of knowledge about good and evil and how they are related that humans do not have. Since P(T3/theism) = one, P(O/theism) = P(O/T3). But this does not reveal any defect in my argument for C. For antecedently—that is, independent of the observations and testimony O reports—we have no reason to think that God’s additional knowledge concerning good and evil is such that He would permit any of the facts O reports to obtain. Of course, an omnipotent and omniscient being might, for all we know antecedently, have moral reasons unknown to us to permit the evil reported by O. But it is also the case that such a being might, for all we know antecedently, have moral reasons unknown to us to prevent this evil. Indeed, we have no more reason antecedently to believe that such a being would know of some great good

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unknown to us whose existence entails the existence of the pain O reports than we have reason to believe that such a being would know of some great good unknown to us whose existence entails the nonexistence of the pain or the pleasure that O reports. And an omnipotent and omniscient being might very well know of means, far too complicated for humans to understand, by which He could obtain certain goods without the evil O reports. Of course, given the facts O reports, we have some reason on T3 to expect that humans will be unable to produce a plausible theistic explanation of those facts. But HI gives us even more reason to expect this. So human ignorance does not solve the theist’s evidential problems. Hence, none of the theodicies we have considered significantly raises P(O/theism). Therefore, relative to the epistemic situations of those of us who are unable to think of some other much more successful theodicy (i.e., all of us, I suspect), C is true: P(O/HI) is much greater than P(O/theism).

I V. THE SIGNIFIC A NCE OF THE PROBLEM

In The Origin of Species, Charles Darwin argued that his theory of the evolution of species by means of natural selection explains numerous facts (e.g., the geographical distribution of species and the existence of atrophied organs in animals) much better than the alternative hypothesis that each species of plant and animal was independently created by God. (Let us call this latter hypothesis “special creationism.”) Darwin’s results were significant partly because special creationists at Darwin’s time did not have nor were they able to obtain any evidence favoring special creationism over evolution theory that outweighed or at least offset Darwin’s evidence favoring evolution theory over special creationism. For this reason, many theists, while continuing to believe in creationism, which is consistent with Darwin’s theory, rejected special creationism. And those theists who were familiar with Darwin’s arguments and yet remained special creationists did so at a cost: their belief in special creationism was no longer an epistemically rational one. Similarly, how significant my results are depends, in part, on how many theists have or could obtain propositional or non­propositional evidence favoring theism over HI that offsets the propositional evidence, provided by my argument for C, favoring HI over theism.24 Any theist confronted with

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 571

my argument for C that lacks such evidence and is unable to obtain it cannot rationally continue to believe that theism is true. It is beyond the scope of this paper to determine how many theists would be in such a position. But I will make four sets of comments that I hope indicate how difficult a theist’s search for the needed evidence might be. First, I do not see how it could be shown that HI is an ad hoc hypothesis or that theism is intrinsically more probable than HI. For HI is consistent with a wide variety of both naturalistic and supernaturalistic hypotheses, and it has no positive ontological commitments. Theism, on the other hand, is a very specific supernaturalistic claim with a very strong ontological commitment. Indeed, such differences between theism and HI might very well provide additional evidence favoring HI over theism. Second, traditional and contemporary arguments for theism are far from compelling—that is, they are far from being so persuasive as to coerce the acceptance of all or even most rational theists. Thus, even if some such argument were sound, most theists, including many philosophically sophisticated ones, would not recognize this, and hence the argument would not provide them with evidence favoring theism over HI. (The evidence would exist, but they would not have it.) Third, many traditional and contemporary arguments for theism, including many versions of the cosmological argument, the teleological argument, and the argument from consciousness, may not solve the theist’s problem even if they are sound and recognized by the theist to be so. For they at most purport to show that an omnipotent and omniscient being exists—not that that being is morally perfect. Suppose then that some such argument is sound. My argument for C would work just as well if HI were replaced with the following hypothesis, which I will call “the Indifferent Deity Hypothesis”: There exists an omnipotent and omniscient person who created the Universe and who has no intrinsic concern about the pain or pleasure of other beings. Like theism, this hypothesis entails that an omnipotent and omniscient being exists. So establishing that such a being exists would help the theist only if the theist also has strong evidence favoring theism over the Indifferent Deity Hypothesis.25

572  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

Finally, religious experiences of the kind appealed to by “Reformed Epistemologists” like Alvin Plantinga26 are ambiguous with respect to the moral attributes of the creator. While Plantinga is correct in claiming that theists typically do feel inclined in certain circumstances (e.g., “when life is sweet and satisfying”) to think that the creator is morally good, sensitive theists also feel inclined in other circumstances—namely, when they experience poignant evil—to believe that the creator is indifferent to their good or to the good of others. And many atheists have very powerful experiences in which they seem to be aware of the ultimate indifference of nature. These experiences are very common and are very similar phenomenologically to the experiences Plantinga mentions. Moreover, C implies that these “experiences of indifference” are better corroborated than the “theistic experiences” to which Plantinga appeals. Thus, even if Plantinga is correct in thinking that theistic experiences confer prima facie justification on the theist’s belief in God, experiences of indifference defeat this justification. Therefore, theistic experiences do not provide non-propositional evidence that favors theism over HI, or at least none that outweighs the propositional evidence favoring HI over theism provided by my argument for C. NOTES

For criticisms of previous versions of this paper, I am grateful to Gary Gutting, C. Stephen Layman, Nelson Pike, Alvin Plantinga, Philip L. Quinn, and an anonymous Noûs referee. 1. I agree with most philosophers of religion that theists face no serious logical problem of evil. This paper challenges the increasingly popular view (defended by Robert Pargetter, Alvin Plantinga, and Bruce Reichenbach) that theists face no serious evidential problem of evil. See Pargetter, “Evil as Evidence Against the Existence of God,” Mind 85 (1975): 242–45; Plantinga, “The Probabilistic Argument from Evil,” Philosophical Studies 35 (1979): 1–53; and Reichenbach, “The Inductive Argument from Evil,” American Philosophical Quarterly 17 (1980): 221–27. 2. See, for example, Edward H. Madden and Peter H. Hare, Evil and the Concept of God (Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas, 1968). 3. See, for example, Keith E. Yandell, “Ethics, Evils, and Theism,” Sophia 8 (1969): 18–28; “A Premature Farewell to Theism,” Religious Studies 5 (1969): 251–55; “Theism and Evil: A Reply,” Sophia 11 (1972): 1–7; Stanley Kane, “Theism and Evil,” Sophia 9 (1970): 14–21; George I. Mavrodes, Belief in God: A Study in the Epistemology of Religion (New York: Random House, 1970), 90–111; M. B. Ahern, The

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 573 Problem of Evil (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1971); and Peter H. Hare and Edward H. Madden, “Evil and Inconclusiveness,” Sophia 11, no.1 (1972): 8–12. 4. David Hume, Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, ed. Richard Popkin (Indianapolis: Hackett Publishing Co., 1980), part XI, 74–75. 5. The concept of epistemic probability is an ordinary concept of probability for which no adequate philosophical analysis has, in my opinion, been proposed. As a first approximation, however, perhaps the following analysis will do: Relative to K, p is epistemically more probable than q, where K is an epistemic situation and p and q are propositions, just in case any fully rational person in K would have a higher degree of belief in p than in q. 6. Cf. Christopher Boorse, “Wright on Functions,” The Philosophical Review 85 (1976): 70–86; Michael Ruse, The Philosophy of Biology (London: Hutchinson & Co., 1973). 7. One difficulty with the claim that this theorem of the probability calculus is true for epistemic probability is that, since multiplication and addition can only be performed on numbers, it follows that the theorem presupposes that probabilities have numerical values. But most epistemic probabilities have only comparative values. This difficulty can be overcome by interpreting the claim that this theorem is true for epistemic probability as the claim that (i) if each of the probabilities in the theorem have numerical values, then the theorem states the numerical relationships which hold between them, and (ii) if at least one probability in the theorem does not have a numerical value, then all statements of comparative probability entailed by that theorem are true. My reason for believing that this theorem is true for epistemic probability in this sense is that I can find no counterexample to it. I do not place a lot of emphasis on the mere fact that it is a theorem of the probability calculus. For I do not believe that all theorems of the probability calculus are true for epistemic probability. 8. I am grateful to a Noûs referee for this objection. 9. Even the enjoyment of perceiving beauty may be biologically appropriate. For our enjoyment of clear perception is plausibly thought to be biologically useful, and Guy Sircello gives a very interesting argument for the conclusion that perceiving beauty is a special case of clear perception. See his A New Theory of Beauty (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1975), 129–34. 10. The term “theodicy” is often defined as “an attempt to state what God’s actual reason for permitting evil is.” This definition implies that, in order to show that some theodicy is successful, one must show that God exists. I prefer a definition of “theodicy” that avoids this implication. By a “theodicy” I mean an attempt to give a plausible theistic explanation of some fact about evil. 11. For a defense of this position, see Stephen Wykstra, “The Humean Obstacle to Evidential Arguments from Suffering: On Avoiding the Evils of ‘Appearance,’” International Journal for the Philosophy of Religion 16 (1984): 73–93.

574  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure 12. Robert M. Adams, “Plantinga on the Problem of Evil,” in Alvin Plantinga, ed. James E. Tomberlin and Peter van Inwagen, Profiles (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1985), 252. 13. More generally, it follows from the probability calculus that P(O/theism) = (P(Tn/theism) × P(O/theism & Tn)) + (P(~Tn/theism) × P(O/theism & ~Tn)). WAP replaces P(O/theism & Tn) with P(O/Tn) because Tn is an expansion of theism and hence is known to be logically equivalent to theism & Tn. 14. John Hick, Evil and the God of Love (New York: Harper and Row, 1966). 15. Robert Adams argues that God, despite being omniscient, would not know what free* choice a particular human would make in a certain situation prior to deciding both to place that human in that situation and to allow him to make that choice. Adams also argues, however, that God would have prior knowledge of what free* choices humans would be likely to make in various situations. Adams, “Middle Knowledge and the Problem of Evil,” American Philosophical Quarterly 14 (1977): 109–17. 16. A slightly different version of this theodicy employs the following expansion of theism: T1*: God exists, and one of His final ends is a favorable balance of morally good humans whose moral goodness was freely* acquired over morally bad humans. I suspect that P(T1*/theism) is greater than P(T1/theism) because God would be more likely to be concerned about persons than about actions. However, I need not evaluate T1* separately because I will assume that P(T1/theism) is high and my arguments concerning P(O/T1) would work just as well if T1 were replaced with T1*. 17. Adams, “Plantinga,” 250–51. 18. Richard Swinburne, The Existence of God (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979), chap. 11. 19. Eleonore Stump, “Knowledge, Freedom and the Problem of Evil,” International Journal for the Philosophy of Religion 14 (1983): 49–58. 20. Paul K. Moser, “Natural Evil and the Free Will Defense,” International Journal for the Philosophy of Religion 15 (1984): 49–56. 21. Stump, “Knowledge, Freedom and the Problem of Evil,” 52–53. 22. One might challenge this assumption and thereby attack theodicies that employ T2 in the following way. Choosing whether or not to produce a large amount of pleasure is, all else held equal, a more important moral decision than choosing whether or not to produce a small amount of pain. Hence, it would seem that by increasing our capacity to produce or prevent pleasure, God could give us the power to make moral decisions about pleasure that are as important as any that we now make concerning pain. But it is antecedently likely that such a world would be a better

The Distribution of Pain and Pleasure as Evidence for Atheism 575 world than one in which humans have the ability to cause others to suffer. Therefore, it is antecedently unlikely that God would use pain to accomplish His goal of giving humans important moral choices. 23. Swinburne, Existence, 219–20. 24. One way of attempting to show that such evidence exists would be to (i) identify an appropriate body of evidence (call it O*) that is broader than O (e.g., a statement reporting the relevant observations and testimony, not just about pain and pleasure, but about all intrinsic goods and evils) and then (ii) attempt to show that, independent of the observations and testimony O* reports, O* is at least as likely on theism as it is on HI. 25. Swinburne argues that quasi-theistic hypotheses like the Indifferent Deity Hypothesis are intrinsically much less probable than theism. I do not believe his argument is sound, but if it were, then strong evidence favoring theism over the Indifferent Deity Hypothesis would be available. Swinburne, Existence, chap. 5. 26. Alvin Plantinga, “Reason and Belief in God,” in Faith and Rationality: Reason and Belief in God, ed. Alvin Plantinga and Nicholas Wolterstorff (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983), 16–93.

C H A P T E R

3 2

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence P E T E R VA N I N WA G E N

It used to be widely held that evil—which for present purposes we may identify with undeserved pain and suffering—was incompatible with the existence of God: that no possible world contained both God and evil. So far as I am able to tell, this thesis is no longer defended. But arguments for the following weaker thesis continue to be very popular: Evil (or at least evil of the amounts and kinds we actually observe) constitutes evidence against the existence of God, evidence that seems decisively to outweigh the totality of available evidence for the existence of God. In this paper, I wish to discuss what seems to me to be the most powerful version of the “evidential argument from evil.” The argument takes the Peter van Inwagen, “The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence,” in Philosophical Perspectives, 5, Philosophy of Religion, ed. James E. Tomberlin (Atascadero, CA: Ridgeview, 1991), 135–65. Copyright © Ridgeview Publishing Company and reprinted by permission of Ridgeview Publishing Company.

576

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 577

following form. There is a serious hypothesis h that is inconsistent with theism and on which the amounts and kinds of suffering that the world contains are far more easily explained than they are on the hypothesis of theism. This fact constitutes a prima facie case for preferring h to theism. Examination shows that there is no known way of answering this case, and there is good reason to think that no way of answering it will be forthcoming. Therefore, the hypothesis h is (relative to the epistemic situation of someone who has followed the argument this far) preferable to theism. But if p and q are inconsistent and p is (relative to one’s epistemic situation) epistemically preferable to q, then it is not rational for one to accept q. (Of course, it does not follow either that it is rational for one to accept p or that it is rational for one to reject q.) It is, therefore, not rational for one who has followed the argument up to this point to accept theism.1 In section I, I shall present the version of the evidential argument from evil I wish to discuss. In section II, I shall explain why I find the argument unconvincing. These two sections could stand on their own, and this paper might have consisted simply of the proposed refutation of the evidential argument from evil that they contain. But many philosophers will find the proposed refutation implausible, owing to the fact that it turns on controversial theses about the epistemology of metaphysical possibility and intrinsic value. And perhaps there will also be philosophers who find my reasoning unconvincing because of a deep conviction that, since evil just obviously creates an insoluble evidential problem for the theist, a reply to any version of the evidential argument can be nothing more than a desperate attempt to render the obvious obscure. Now if philosophers are unconvinced by one’s diagnosis of the faults of a certain argument, one can attempt to make the diagnosis seem more plausible to them by the following method. One can try to find a “parallel” argument that is obviously faulty, and try to show that a parallel diagnosis of the faults of the parallel argument can be given, a diagnosis that seems plausible, and hope that some of the plausibility of the parallel diagnosis will rub off on the original. For example, if philosophers find one’s diagnosis of the faults of the ontological argument unconvincing, one can construct an obviously faulty argument that “runs parallel to” the ontological argument—in the classical case, an argument for the existence of a perfect island. And one can then attempt to show that a diagnosis parallel to one’s diagnosis of the faults of the ontological argument is a

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correct diagnosis of the faults (which, one hopes, will be so evident as to be uncontroversial) of the parallel argument. It is worth noting that even if an application of this procedure did not convince one’s audience of the correctness of one’s diagnosis of the faults of the original argument, the parallel argument might by itself be enough to convince them that there must be something wrong with the original argument. This is the plan I shall follow. In fact, I shall consider two arguments that run parallel to the evidential argument from evil. In section III, I shall present an evidential argument, which I feign is addressed to an ancient Greek atomist by one of his contemporaries, for the conclusion that the observed properties of air render a belief in atoms irrational. In section IV, I shall present an evidential argument for the conclusion that the observed fact of “cosmic silence” renders a belief in “extraterrestrial intelligence” irrational. Neither of these parallel arguments—at least this seems clear to me—succeeds in establishing its conclusion. In each case, I shall offer a diagnosis of the faults of the parallel argument that parallels my diagnosis of the faults of the evidential argument from evil. Finally, in section V, I shall make some remarks in aid of a proposed distinction between facts that raise difficulties for a theory, and facts that constitute evidence against a theory.

I

Let “S” stand for a proposition that describes in some detail the amount, kinds, and distribution of suffering—the suffering not only of human beings, but of all the sentient terrestrial creatures that there are or ever have been.2 (We assume that the content of S is about what one would expect, given our own experience, the newspapers, history books, textbooks of natural history and paleontology, and so on. For example, we assume that the world was not created five minutes ago—or six thousand years ago— “complete with memories of an unreal past,” and we assume that Descartes was wrong and that cats really do feel pain.) Let “theism” be the proposition that the universe was created by an omniscient, omnipotent, and morally perfect being.3 The core of the evidential argument from evil is the contention that there is a serious hypothesis, inconsistent with theism, on which S is more

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 579

probable than S is on theism. (The probabilities that figure in this discussion are epistemic. Without making a serious attempt to clarify this notion, we may say this much: p has a higher epistemic probability on h than q does, just in the case that, given h, q is more surprising than p. And here “surprising” must be understood as having an epistemic, rather than a merely psychological, sense. It is evident that the epistemic probability of a proposition is relative to the “epistemic background” or “epistemic situation” of an individual or a community: the epistemic probability of p on h need not be the same for two persons or for the same person at two times.)4 That hypothesis is “the hypothesis of indifference” (HI): Neither the nature nor the condition of sentient beings on earth is the result of benevolent or malevolent actions performed by nonhuman persons.5 Here is a brief statement of the argument that is built round this core. We begin with an epistemic challenge to the theist, the presentation of a prima facie case against theism: The truth of S is not at all surprising, given HI, but the truth of S is very surprising, given theism. (For the following propositions, if they are not beyond all dispute, are at least highly plausible. Suffering is an intrinsic evil; a morally perfect being will see to it that, insofar as it is possible, intrinsic evils, if they are allowed to exist at all, are distributed according to desert; an omniscient and omnipotent being will be able so to arrange matters that the world contains sentient beings among whom suffering, if it exists at all, is apportioned according to desert; the pattern of suffering recorded in S is well explained—insofar as it can be explained: many instances of suffering are obviously due to chance—by the biological utility of pain, which is just what one would expect on HI, and has little if anything to do with desert.) We have, therefore, a good prima facie reason to prefer HI to theism. How shall the theist respond to this challenge? The “evidentialist” (as I shall call the proponent of the evidential argument from evil) maintains that any response must be of one of the following three types: The theist may argue that S is much more surprising, given HI, than one might suppose. The theist may argue that S is much less surprising, given theism, than one might suppose.

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The theist may argue that there are reasons for preferring theism to HI that outweigh the prima facie reason for preferring HI to theism that we have provided. The first of these options (the evidentialist continues) is unlikely to appeal to anyone. The third is also unappealing, at least if “reasons” is taken to mean “arguments for the existence of God” in the traditional or philosophyof-religion-text sense. Whatever the individual merits or defects of those arguments, none of them but the “moral argument” (and perhaps the ontological argument) purports to prove the existence of a morally perfect being. And neither the moral argument nor the ontological argument has many defenders these days. None of the “theistic” arguments that are currently regarded as at all promising is, therefore, really an argument for theism.6 And, therefore, none of them can supply a reason for preferring theism to HI. The second option is that taken by philosophers who construct theodicies. A theodicy, let us say, is the conjunction of theism with some “auxiliary hypothesis” h that purports to explain how S could be true, given theism. Let us think for a moment in terms of the probability calculus. It is clear that if a theodicy is to be at all interesting, the probability of S on the conjunction of theism and h (that is, on the theodicy) will have to be high—or at least not too low. But whether a theodicy is interesting depends not only on the probability of S on the conjunction of theism and h, but also on the probability of h on theism. Note that the higher P(h/theism), the more closely P(S/theism) will approximate P(S/theism & h). On the other hand, if P(h/theism) is low, P(S/theism) could be low even if P(S/theism & h) were high. (Consider, for example, the case in which h is S itself: even if P(S/theism) is low, P(S/theism & S) will be 1— as high as a probability gets.) The task of the theodicist, therefore, may be represented as follows: find a hypothesis h such that P(S/theism & h) is high, or at least not too low, and P(h/theism) is high. In other words, the theodicist is to reason as follows: “Although S might initially seem surprising on the assumption of theism, this initial appearance, like many initial appearances, is misleading. For consider the hypothesis h. The truth of this hypothesis is just what one would expect given theism, and S is just what one would expect [would not be all that surprising] given both theism and h. Therefore, S is just what one would expect [would not be all that surprising] given theism. And, there-

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 581

fore, we do not have a prima facie reason to prefer HI to theism, and the evidential argument from evil fails.”7 But (the evidentialist concludes) the prospects of finding a theodicy that satisfies these conditions are not very promising. For any auxiliary hypothesis h that has actually been offered by the defenders of theism, it would seem that either no real case has been made for P(h/theism) being high, or else no real case has been made for P(S/theism & h) being high—or even not too low. Consider, for example, the celebrated Free Will Defense (FWD). Even if it is granted that P(FWD/theism) is high, there is every reason to think that P(S/theism & FWD) is low, since of all cases of suffering (a phenomenon that has existed for hundreds of millions of years), only a minuscule proportion involve, even in the most indirect way, beings with free will. And no one has the faintest idea of how to find a proposition that is probable on theism and, in conjunction with theism, renders S probable. Therefore, given the present state of the available evidence, our original judgment stands: we have a good prima facie reason to prefer HI to theism. And, as we have seen, we have no reason to prefer theism to HI that outweighs this prima facie reason. It is, therefore, irrational to accept theism in the present state of our knowledge.

II

It will be noted that the evidential argument consists not only of an argument for the conclusion that there is a prima facie case for preferring HI to theism, but also of a list of options open to the theist who wishes to reply to that argument: the defender of theism must either refute the argument or else make a case for preferring theism to HI that outweighs the prima facie case for preferring HI to theism; if the defender chooses to refute the argument, he must do this by producing a theodicy in the sense explained in section I. This list of options seems to me to be incomplete. Suppose that one were successfully to argue that S was not surprising on theism—and not because S was “just what one should expect” if theism were true, but because no one is in a position to know whether S is what one should expect if theism were true. (Suppose I have never seen, or heard a description of, Egyptian

582  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

hieroglyphs, although I am familiar with Chinese characters and Babylonian cuneiform and many other exotic scripts. I am shown a sheet of paper reproducing an ancient Egyptian inscription, having been told that it displays a script used in ancient Egypt. What I see cannot be described as “looking just the way one should expect a script used in ancient Egypt to look,” but the fact that the script looks the way it does is not epistemically surprising on the hypothesis that it was a script used in ancient Egypt. I am simply not in a position to know whether this is the way one should expect a script that was used in ancient Egypt to look.)8 If one could successfully argue that one simply could not know whether to expect patterns of suffering like those contained in the actual world in a world created by an omniscient, omnipotent, and morally perfect being, this would refute the evidentialist’s case for the thesis that there is a prima facie reason for preferring HI to theism. If one is not in a position to assign any epistemic probability to S on theism—if one is not in a position even to assign a probability-range like “high” or “low” or “middling” to S on theism—then, obviously, one is not in a position to say that the epistemic probability of S on HI is higher than the probability of S on theism.9 The evidentialist’s statement of the way in which the defender of theism must conduct his defense is therefore overly restrictive: it is false that the defender must either make a case for theism or devise a theodicy. At any rate, another option exists as a formal possibility. But how might the defender of theism avail himself of this other option? Are there reasons for thinking that the assumption of theism yields no prima facie grounds for expecting a pattern of suffering different from that recorded by S? I would suggest that it is the function of what have come to be called “defenses” to provide just such reasons. The word “defense” was first employed as a technical term in discussions of the “logical” version of the argument from evil. In that context, a defense is a story according to which both God and suffering exist, and which is possible “in the broadly logical sense”— or which is such that there is no reason to believe that it is impossible in the broadly logical sense. Let us adapt the notion of a defense to the requirements of a discussion of the evidential argument: a defense is a story according to which God and suffering of the sort contained in the actual world both exist, and which is such that (given the existence of God) there is no reason to think that it is false, a story that is not surprising on the hypothesis that God exists. A defense obviously need not be a theodicy in

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 583

the evidentialist’s sense, for the probability of a defense need not be high on theism.10 (That is, a defense need not be such that its denial is surprising on theism.) In practice, of course, the probability of a defense will never be high on theism: if the defender of theism knew of a story that accounted for the sufferings of the actual world and which was highly probable on theism, he would employ it as a theodicy. We may therefore say that, in practice, a defense is a story that accounts for the sufferings of the actual world and which (given the existence of God) is true “for all anyone knows.” What does the defender of theism accomplish by constructing a defense? Well, it’s like this. Suppose that Jane wishes to defend the character of Richard III and that she must contend with evidence that has convinced many people that Richard murdered the two princes in the Tower. Suppose that she proceeds by telling a story—which she does not claim to be true, or even more probable than not—that accounts for the evidence that has come down to us, a story according to which Richard did not murder the princes. If my reaction to her story is, “For all I know, that’s true. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if that’s how things happened,” I shall be less willing to accept a negative evaluation of Richard’s character than I might otherwise have been. (Note that Jane need not try to show that her story is highly probable on the hypothesis that Richard was of good character.) It would, moreover, strengthen Jane’s case if she could produce not one story but many stories that “exonerated” Richard—stories that were not trivial variants on one another but which were importantly different. This analogy suggests that one course that is open to the defender of theism is to construct stories that are true for all anyone knows—given that there is a God—and which entail both S and the existence of God. If the defender can do that, this accomplishment will undermine the evidentialist’s case for the proposition that the probability of S is lower on theism than on HI. Of course, these stories will (presumably) be false for all anyone knows, so they will not, or should not, create any tendency to believe that the probability of S on theism is not lower than it is on HI, that it is about the same or higher. Rather, the stories will, or should, lead a person in our epistemic situation to refuse to make any judgment about the relation between the probabilities of S on theism and on HI. I shall presently offer such a story. But I propose to simplify my task in a way that I hope is legitimate. It seems to me that the theist should not assume that there is a single reason, or tightly interrelated set of reasons, for

584  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

the sufferings of all sentient creatures. In particular, the theist should not assume that God’s reasons for decreeing, or allowing, the sufferings of nonrational creatures have much in common with His reasons for decreeing or allowing the sufferings of human beings. The most satisfactory “defenses” that have so far been offered by theists purport to account only for the sufferings of human beings. In the sequel, I will offer a defense that is directed towards the sufferings of non-rational creatures—“beasts,” I shall call them. If this defense were a success, it could be combined with defenses directed towards the sufferings of human beings (like the Free Will Defense) to produce a “total” defense. This “separation of cases” does not seem to me to be an arbitrary procedure. Human beings are radically different from all other animals, and a “total” defense that explained the sufferings of beasts in one way and the sufferings of human beings in a radically different way would not be implausible on that account. Although it is not strictly to our purpose, I will point out that this is consonant with the most usual Christian view of suffering. Typically, Christians have held that human suffering is not a part of God’s plan for the world, but exists only because that plan has gone awry. On the other hand: Thou makest darkness that it may be night; wherein all the beasts of the forest do move. The lions, roaring after their prey, do seek their meat from God. The sun ariseth, and they get them away together, and lay them down in their dens. (Ps. 104:20–22)

This and many other biblical texts seem to imply that the whole subrational natural world proceeds according to God’s plan (except insofar as we human beings have corrupted nature). And this, as the Psalmist tells us in his great hymn of praise to the order that God has established in nature, includes the phenomenon of predation. I will now tell a story, a story that is true for all I know, that accounts for the sufferings of beasts. The story consists of the following three propositions: (1) Every possible world that contains higher-level sentient creatures either contains patterns of suffering morally equivalent to those recorded by S, or else is massively irregular.

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 585

(2) Some important intrinsic or extrinsic good depends on the existence of higher-level sentient creatures; this good is of sufficient magnitude that it outweighs the patterns of suffering recorded by S. (3) Being massively irregular is a defect in a world, a defect at least as great as the defect of containing patterns of suffering morally equivalent to those recorded by S. The four key terms contained in this story may be explained as follows. Higher-level sentient creatures are animals that are conscious in the way in which (pace Descartes) the higher non-human mammals are conscious. Two patterns of suffering are morally equivalent if there are no morally decisive reasons for preferring one to the other: if there are no morally decisive reasons for creating a world that embodies one pattern rather than the other. To say that A and B are in this sense morally equivalent is not to say that they are in any interesting sense comparable. Suppose, for example, that the Benthamite dream of a universal hedonic calculus is an illusion, and that there is no answer to the question whether the suffering caused by war is less than, the same as, or greater than the suffering caused by cancer. It does not follow that these two patterns of suffering are not morally equivalent. On the contrary: unless there is some “non-hedonic” morally relevant distinction to be made between a world that contains war and no cancer and a world that contains cancer and no war (i.e., a distinction that does not depend on comparing the amounts of suffering caused by war and cancer), it would seem to follow that the suffering caused by war and the suffering caused by cancer are, in the present technical sense, morally equivalent. It is important to note that A and B may be morally equivalent even if they are comparable and one of them involves less suffering than the other. By way of analogy, consider the fact that there is no morally decisive reason to prefer a jail term of ten years as a penalty for armed assault to a term of ten years and a day, despite the indubitable facts that these two penalties would have the same deterrent effect and that one is lighter than the other. I have argued elsewhere that, for any amount of suffering that somehow serves God’s purposes, it may be that some smaller amount of suffering would have served them as well.11 It may be, therefore, that God has had to choose some amount of suffering as the amount contained in the actual world, and could, consistently with His purposes, have chosen any of a vast

586  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

array of smaller or greater amounts, and that all of the members of this vast array of alternative amounts of suffering are morally equivalent. (Similarly, a legislature has to choose some penalty as the penalty for armed assault, and—think of penalties as jail terms measured in minutes—must choose among the members of a vast array of morally equivalent penalties.) Or it may be that God has decreed, with respect to this vast array of alternative, morally equivalent amounts of suffering, that some member of this array shall be the actual amount of suffering, but has left it up to chance which member that is.12 A massively irregular world is a world in which the laws of nature fail in some massive way. A world containing all of the miracles recorded in the New Testament would not, on that account, be massively irregular, for those miracles were too small (if size is measured in terms of the amounts of matter directly affected) and too few and far between. But a world would be massively irregular if it contained the following state of affairs: God, by means of a continuous series of ubiquitous miracles, causes a planet inhabited by the same animal life as the actual earth to be a hedonic utopia. On this planet, fawns are (like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego) saved by angels when they are in danger of being burnt alive. Harmful para­ sites and microorganisms suffer immediate supernatural dissolution if they enter a higher animal’s body. Lambs are miraculously hidden from lions, and the lions are compensated for the resulting restriction on their diets by physically impossible falls of high-protein manna. On this planet, either God created every species by a separate miracle, or else, although all living things evolved from a common ancestor, a hedonic utopia has existed at every stage of the evolutionary process. (The latter alternative implies that God has, by means of a vast and intricately coordinated sequence of supernatural adjustments to the machinery of nature, guided the evolutionary process in such a way as to compensate for the fact that a hedonic utopia exerts no selection pressure.)

It would also be possible for a world to be massively irregular in a more systematic or “wholesale” way. A world that came into existence five minutes ago, complete with memories of an unreal past, would be on that account alone massively irregular—if indeed such a world was metaphysically

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 587

possible. A world in which beasts (beasts having the physical structure and exhibiting the pain-behavior of actual beasts) felt no pain would be on that account alone massively irregular—if indeed such a world was metaphysically possible. A defect in a world is a feature of a world that (whatever its extrinsic value might be in various worlds) a world is intrinsically better for not having. Our story comprises propositions (1), (2), and (3). I believe that we have no reason to assign any probability or range of probabilities to this story. (With the following possible exception: if we have a reason to regard the existence of God as improbable, then we shall have a reason to regard the story as improbable.) We should have reason to reject this story if we had reason to believe that there were possible worlds—worlds that were not massively irregular— in which higher-level sentient creatures inhabited a hedonic utopia. Is there any reason to think that there are such worlds? I suppose that the only kind of reason one could have for believing that there was a possible world having a certain feature would be the reason provided by a plausible attempt to “design” a world having that feature. How does one go about designing a world? One should start by describing in some detail the laws of nature that govern that world. (Physicists’ actual formulations of quantum field theories and the general theory of relativity provide the standard of required “detail.”) One should then go on to describe the boundary conditions under which those laws operate: the topology of the world’s spacetime, its relativistic mass, the number of particle families, and so on. Then one should tell in convincing detail the story of cosmic evolution in that world: the story of the development of large objects like galaxies and stars and of small objects like carbon atoms. Finally, one should tell the story of the evolution of life. These stories, of course, must be coherent, given one’s specification of laws and boundary conditions. Unless one proceeds in this manner, one’s statements about what is intrinsically or metaphysically possible—and thus one’s statements about an omnipotent being’s “options” in creating a world—will be entirely subjective, and therefore without value. But I have argued for this view of the epistemology of modal statements (that is, of modal statements concerning major departures from actuality) elsewhere, and the reader is referred to those arguments. In fact, the argument of those papers should be considered a part of the argument of the present paper.13

588  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

Our own universe provides the only model we have for the formidable task of designing a world. (For all we know, in every possible world that exhibits any degree of complexity, the laws of nature are the actual laws, or at least have the same structure as the actual laws. There are, in fact, philosophically minded physicists who believe that there is only one possible set of laws of nature, and it is epistemically possible that they are right.) Our universe apparently evolved out of an initial singularity in accordance with certain laws of nature.14 This evolution is not without its mysteries: the very early stages of the unfolding of the universe (the incredibly brief instant during which the laws of nature operated under conditions of perfect symmetry), the formation of the galaxies, and the origin of life on the earth are, in the present state of natural knowledge, deep mysteries. Nevertheless, it seems reasonable to assume that all of these processes involved only the non-miraculous operation of the laws of nature. One important thing that is known about the evolution of the universe into its present state is that it has been a very tightly structured process. A large number of physical parameters have apparently arbitrary values such that if those values had been only slightly different (very, very slightly different) the universe would contain no life, and a fortiori no intelligent life.15 It may or may not be the “purpose” of the cosmos to constitute an arena in which the evolution of intelligent life takes place, but it is certainly true that this evolution did take place and that if the universe had been different by an all but unimaginably minute degree it wouldn’t have. My purpose in citing this fact—it is reasonable to believe that it is a fact—is not to produce an up-to-date version of the Design Argument. It is, rather, to suggest that (at least, for all we know) only in a universe very much like ours could intelligent life, or even sentient life, develop by the non­miraculous operation of the laws of nature. And the natural evolution of higher sentient life in a universe like ours essentially involves suffering, or there is every reason to believe it does. The mechanisms underlying biological evolution may be just what most biologists seem to suppose—the production of new genes by random mutation and the culling of gene pools by environmental selection pressure—or they may be more subtle. But no one, I believe, would take seriously the idea that conscious animals, animals conscious as a dog is conscious, could evolve naturally without hundreds of millions of years of ancestral suffering. Pain is an indispensable component of the evolutionary process after organisms have

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 589

reached a certain stage of complexity. And, for all we know, the amount of pain that organisms have experienced in the actual world, or some amount morally equivalent to that amount, is necessary for the natural evolution of conscious animals. I conclude that the first part of our defense is true for all we know: Every possible world that contains higher-level sentient creatures either contains patterns of suffering morally equivalent to those recorded by S, or else is massively irregular. Let us now consider the second part of our defense: Some important intrinsic or extrinsic good depends on the existence of higher-level sentient creatures; this good is of sufficient magnitude that it outweighs the patterns of suffering recorded by S. It is not very hard to believe (is it?) that a world that was as the earth was just before the appearance of human beings would contain a much larger amount of intrinsic good, and would, in fact, contain a better balance of good over evil, than a world in which there were no organisms higher than worms. (Which is not to say that there could not be worlds lacking intelligent life that contained a still better balance of good over evil—say, worlds containing the same organisms, but significantly less suffering.) And then there is the question of extrinsic value. One consideration immediately suggests itself: intelligent life—creatures made in the image and likeness of God—could not evolve directly from worms or oysters; the immediate evolutionary predecessors of intelligent animals must possess higher­-level sentience. We now turn to the third part of our defense: Being massively irregular is a defect in a world, a defect at least as great as the defect of containing patterns of suffering morally equivalent to those recorded by S. We should recall that a defense is not a theodicy and that we are not required to argue at this point that it is plausible to suppose that massive irregularity is a defect in a world, a defect so grave that creating a world containing animal suffering morally equivalent to the animal suffering of the actual world is a reasonable price to pay to avoid it. We are required to argue only that for all we know this judgment is correct. The third part of our defense is objectionable only if we have some prima facie reason for believing that the actual sufferings of beasts are a graver defect in a world than massive irregularity would be. Have we any such reason? It seems to me that we do not. To begin with, it does seem that massive irregularity is a defect in a world. One minor point in favor of this

590  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

thesis is the witness of deists and other thinkers who have deprecated the miraculous on the ground that any degree of irregularity in a world is a defect, a sort of unlovely jury-rigging of things that is altogether unworthy of the power and wisdom of God. Presumably such thinkers would regard massive irregularity as a very grave defect indeed. And perhaps there is something to this reaction. It does seem that there is something right about the idea that God would include no more irregularity than was necessary in His creation. A second point is that many, if not all, massively irregular worlds are not only massively irregular but massively deceptive. This is obviously true of a world that looks like the actual world but which began five minutes ago, or a world that looks like the actual world but in which beasts feel no pain. (And this is not surprising, for our beliefs about the world depend in large measure on our habit of drawing conclusions that are based on the assumption that the world is regular.) But it is plausible to suppose that deception, and, a fortiori, massive deception, is inconsistent with the nature of a perfect being. These points, however, are no more than suggestive, and, even if they amounted to proof, they would prove only that massive irregularity was a defect; they would not prove that it was a defect in any way comparable with the actual suffering of beasts. In any case, proof is not the present question: the question is whether there is a prima facie case for the thesis that the actual sufferings of beasts constitute a graver defect in a world than does massive irregularity. What would such a case be based on? I would suppose that someone who maintained that there was such a case would have to rely on his moral intuitions, or, more generally, on his intuitions of value. He would have to say something like this: “I have held the two states of affairs—the actual sufferings of beasts and massive irregularity—before my mind and carefully compared them. My considered judgment is that the former is worse than the latter.” This judgment presupposes that these two states of affairs are, in the sense that was explained above, comparable: one of them is worse than the other, or else they are of the same value (or disvalue). It is not clear to me that there is any reason to suppose that this is so. If it is not so, then, as we have seen, it can plausibly be maintained that the two states of affairs are morally equivalent, and a Creator could not be faulted on moral grounds for choosing either over the other. But let us suppose that the two states of affairs are comparable. In that case, if the value-judgment we are considering is to

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 591

be trusted, then human beings possess a faculty that enables them correctly to judge the relative values of states of affairs of literally cosmic magnitude, states of affairs, moreover, that are in no way (as some states of affairs of cosmic magnitude may be) connected with the practical concerns of human beings. Why should one suppose that one’s inclinations to make judgments of value are reliable in this area? One’s intuitions about value are either a gift from God or a product of evolution or socially inculcated or stem from some combination of these sources. Why should we suppose that any of these sources would provide us with the means to make correct value-judgments in matters that have nothing to do with the practical concerns of everyday life? (I do think we must be able to speak of correct value-judgments if the Problem of Evil is to be of any interest. An eminent philosopher of biology has said in one place that God, if He existed, would be indescribably wicked for having created a world like this one, and, in another place, that morality is an illusion, an illusion that we are subject to because of the evolutionary advantage it confers. These two theses do not seem to me to add up to a coherent position.) Earlier I advocated a form of modal skepticism: our modal intuitions, while they are no doubt to be trusted when they tell us that the table could have been placed on the other side of the room, are not to be trusted on such matters as whether there could be transparent iron or whether there could be a “regular” universe in which there were higher sentient creatures that did not suffer. And if this is true, it is not surprising. Assuming that there are “modal facts of the matter,” why should we assume that God or evolution or social training has given us access to modal facts knowledge of which is of no interest to anyone but the metaphysician? God or evolution has provided us with a capacity for making judgments about size and distance that is very useful in hunting mammoths and driving cars, but which is of no use at all in astronomy. It seems that an analogous restriction applies to our capacity for making modal judgments. How can we be sure that an analogous restriction does not also apply to our capacity for making value­-judgments? My position is that we cannot be sure, and that for all we know, our inclinations to make value-judgments are not veridical when they are applied to cosmic matters unrelated to the concerns of everyday life. (Not that our inclinations in this area are at all uniform. I myself experience no inclination to come down on one side or the other of the question whether massive irregularity or vast amounts of animal suffering is the

592  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

graver defect in a world. I suspect that others do experience such inclinations. If they don’t, of course, then I’m preaching to the converted.) But then there is no prima facie case for the thesis that the actual sufferings of beasts constitute a graver defect in a world than does massive irregularity. Or, at least, there is no case that is grounded in our intuitions about value. And in what else could such a case be grounded? These considerations have to do with intrinsic value, with comparison of the intrinsic disvalue of two states of affairs. There is also the matter of extrinsic value. Who can say what the effects of creating a massively irregular world might be? What things of intrinsic value might be frustrated or rendered impossible in a massively irregular world? We cannot say. Christians have generally held that at a certain point God plans to hand over the government of the world to humanity. Would a massively irregular world be the sort of world that could be “handed over”? Perhaps a massively irregu­ lar world would immediately dissolve into chaos if an infinite being were not constantly making adjustments to it. We simply cannot say. If anyone insists that he has good reason to believe that nothing of any great value depends on the world’s being regular, we must ask him why he thinks he is in a position to know things of that sort. We might remind him of the counsel of epistemic humility that was spoken to Job out of the whirlwind: Gird up now thy loins like a man; for I will demand of thee, and answer thou me. Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth? Declare if thou hast understanding. Knowest thou it, because thou wast then born, or because the number of thy days is great? Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion? Knowest thou the ordinances of heaven? Canst thou set the dominion thereof in the earth?16

I have urged extreme modal and moral skepticism (or, one might say, humility) in matters unrelated to the concerns of everyday life. If such skepticism is accepted, then we have no reason to accept the evidentialist’s premise that “an omniscient and omnipotent being will be able so to arrange

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 593

matters that the world contains sentient beings among whom suffering, if it exists at all, is apportioned according to desert.” More exactly, we have no reason to suppose that an omniscient and omnipotent being could do this without creating a massively irregular world; and, for all we know, the intrinsic or extrinsic disvalue of a massively irregular world is greater than the intrinsic disvalue of vast amounts of animal suffering (which, presumably, are not apportioned according to desert). If these consequences of modal and moral skepticism are accepted, then there is no reason to believe that the probability of S on HI is higher than the probability of S on theism, and the evidential argument from evil cannot get started. Even if we assume that the probability of S on HI is high (that the denial of S is very surprising on HI), this assumption gives us no reason to prefer HI to theism. If there were such a reason, it could be presented as an argument: The probability of S on HI is high We do not know what to say about the probability of S on theism HI and theism are inconsistent Therefore, for anyone in our epistemic situation, the truth of S constitutes a prima facie case for preferring HI to theism. This argument is far from compelling. If there is any doubt about this, it can be dispelled by considering a parallel argument. Let L be the proposition that intelligent life exists, and let G be the proposition that God wants intelligent life to exist. We argue as follows: The probability of L on G is high We do not know what to say about the probability of L on atheism G and atheism are inconsistent Therefore, for anyone in our epistemic situation, the truth of L constitutes a prima facie case for preferring G to atheism. The premises of this argument are true. (As to the second premise, there has been considerable debate in the scientific community as to whether the natural evolution of intelligent life is inevitable or extremely unlikely or something in between; let us suppose that “we” are a group of people who have tried to follow this debate and have been hopelessly confused by it.)

594  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

But I should be very surprised to learn of someone who believed that the premises of the argument entailed its conclusion. I will close this section by pointing out something that is not strictly relevant to the argument it contains, but is, in my view, of more than merely autobiographical interest. I have not accepted the extreme modal skepticism that figures so prominently in the argument of this section as a result of epistemic pressures exerted by the evidential argument from evil. I was an extreme modal skeptic before I was a theist, and I have, on the basis of this skepticism, argued (and would still argue) against both Swinburne’s attempt to show that the concept of God is coherent and Plantinga’s attempt to use the modal version of the ontological argument to show that theism is rational.17

III

Imagine an ancient Greek, an atomist who believes that the whole world is made of tiny, indestructible, immutable solids. Imagine that an opponent of atomism (call him Aristotle) presents our atomist with the following argument: “If fire were made of tiny solids, the same solids earth is made of, or ones that differ from them only in shape, then fire would not be Absolutely Light—it would not rise toward the heavens of its own nature. But that fire is not Absolutely Light is contrary to observation.”18 From our lofty twentiethcentury vantage point, we might be inclined to regard Aristotle’s argument as merely quaint. But this impression of quaintness rests on two features of the argument that can be removed without damage to what is, from one point of view anyway, its essential force. The two quaint features of Aristotle’s argument, the idea that fire is a stuff, and the idea of the Absolutely Light, can be removed from the argument by substituting air for fire and by substituting the behavior we nowadays associate with the gaseous state for the defining behavior of the Absolutely Light (that is, a natural tendency to move upwards). The resulting argument would look something like this: Suppose air were made of tiny solid bodies as you say. Then air would behave like fine dust: it would eventually settle to the ground and become a mere dusty coating on the surface of the earth. But this is contrary to observation.

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 595

Well, what is wrong with this argument? Why don’t the O2, N2, CO2, and other molecules that make up the atmosphere simply settle to the ground like dust particles? The answer is that air molecules, unlike dust particles, push on one another; they are kept at average distances that are large in comparison with their own sizes by repulsive forces (electromagnetic in nature), the strength of these forces in a given region being a function of the local temperature. At the temperatures one finds near the surface of the earth (temperatures maintained by solar radiation and the internal heat of the earth), the aggregate action of these intermolecular forces produces the kind of aggregate molecular behavior that, at the macroscopic level of description, we call the gaseous state. We can see where the improved version of Aristotle’s argument goes wrong. (We can also see that in one minor respect it’s better than an ancient Greek could know: if it weren’t for intermolecular forces, air molecules would not simply settle slowly to the ground; they would drop like rocks.) But what about our imaginary ancient atomist, who not only doesn’t know all these things about intermolecular forces and temperature and so on, but who couldn’t even conceive of them as epistemic possibilities? What shall he say in response to the improved version of Aristotle’s argument? In order to sharpen this question, let us imagine that a Greek philosopher called A-prime has actually presented our atomist with the air-anddust argument, and let us imagine that A-prime has at his disposal the techniques of a late-twentieth-century analytical philosopher. Having presented the atomist with the simple argument that I have given above (the primitive or “whence, then, is air?” version of the Argument from Air), he presses his point by confronting the atomist with a much more sophisticated argument, the evidential argument from air. “Let HI, the Hypothesis of Independence, be the thesis that there are four independent and continuous elements, air among them, each of which has sui generis properties (you can find a list of them in any reputable physics text) that determine its characteristic behavior. Let S be a proposition that records the properties of air. The simple air-and-dust argument is sufficient to establish that S is not surprising given HI, but is very surprising given atomism. There are only three ways for you to respond to this prima facie case against atomism: you may argue that S is much more surprising, given HI, than one might suppose; or that S is much less surprising, given atomism, than one might suppose; or

596  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure

that there are reasons for preferring atomism to HI that outweigh the prima facie reason for preferring HI to atomism that is provided by the air­-anddust argument. The first I shall not discuss. The third is unpromising, unless you can come up with something better than the very abstract metaphysical arguments with which you have attempted to support atomism in the past, for they certainly do not outweigh the clear and concrete air-anddust argument. The only course open to you is to construct an atomodicy. That is, you must find some auxiliary hypothesis h that explains how S could be true, given atomism. And you will have to show both that the probability of S is high (or at least not too low) on the conjunction of atomism and h and that the probability of h on atomism is high. While you may be able to find a hypothesis that satisfies the former condition, I think it very unlikely that you will be able to find one that satisfies the latter. In any case, unless you can find a hypothesis that satisfies both conditions, you cannot rationally continue to be an atomist.” Whatever else may be said about this argument, A-prime is certainly right about one thing: it is unlikely that the atomist will be able to produce a successful atomodicy. Even if he were told the modern story about air, he could not do it. At least, I don’t think he could. What is the epistemic probability on atomism (relative to the epistemic situation of an ancient Greek) of our complicated modern story of intermolecular forces and the gaseous state? What probability should someone who knew nothing about the microstructure of the material world except that it was composed of atoms (it is, of course, our “elementary particles” and not our “atoms” or our “molecules” that correspond to the atoms of the Greeks) assign to the modem story? As far as I am able to judge, the only rational thing such a person could do would be to decline to assign any probability to the modem story on atomism. (The answer of modem science to the air-and-dust argument does not take the form of a story that, relative to the epistemic situation of an ancient Greek, is highly probable on atomism.) Fortunately for the atomist, A-prime’s demand that he produce an atomodicy is unreasonable. The atomist need do nothing more in response to the evidential argument from air than find a defense—or, better, several independent defenses. A defense, of course, is a story that explains how there could be a stuff that has the properties of air (those known to an ancient Greek), given that the material world is made entirely of atoms. A defense need not be highly probable on atomism. It is required only

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 597

that, given atomism, the defense be true for all anyone (sc. any ancient Greek) knows. Here is one example of a defense: air atoms (unlike earth atoms) are spheres covered with a “fur” of long, thin, flexible spikes that are, unless flexed by contact with another atom, perpendicular to the surface of the atom’s “nucleus” (i.e., its central sphere); the length of the spikes is large in comparison with the diameters of nuclei, and their presence thus tends to keep nuclei far apart. Since, for all anyone (anyone in the epistemic situation of an ancient Greek) knows, some atoms have such features—if there are atoms at all—the observed properties of air are not surprising on the assumption of atomism. Since there are defenses that are true for all anyone (anyone in the epistemic situation of an ancient Greek) knows, no ancient Greek was in a position to say anything about the probability on atomism of S, the proposition that sums up the properties of air that were known to him. A-prime, therefore, is left with no better argument than the following: The probability of S on HI is high We do not know what to say about the probability of S on atomism and HI and atomism are inconsistent Therefore, for anyone in our epistemic situation, the truth of S constitutes a prima facie case for preferring HI to atomism. And this argument is manifestly invalid.

IV

We know how it is that air can be composed of molecules and yet not drift to the ground like dust. This knowledge provides us with a certain rather Olympian perspective from which to view the “Problem of Air.” I wish next to examine the epistemic situation of those of our contemporaries who believe that the Milky Way galaxy (ours) contains other intelligent species than humanity. (Since they are our contemporaries, we cannot view their situation from any such Olympian perspective.) Let us confront them with an argument analogous to the argument from evil and the argument from air. The essence of this argument is contained in a question of Enrico Fermi’s, a question as pithy as “Whence, then, is evil?”: Where are they?

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If there are other intelligent species in the galaxy, the overwhelming probability is that at least one intelligent species existed at least a hundred million years ago. There has been life on the earth for at least thirty times that long, and there is nothing magical about the present time. The universe was just as suitable for intelligent life a hundred million years ago, and if the pace of evolution on the earth had been just three or four percent faster, there would have been intelligent life here a hundred million years ago. An intelligent and technologically able species will attempt to send messages to other species elsewhere in the galaxy (as we have begun to do). The most efficient way to do this is to send out self-reproducing robotic probes to other stars: when such a probe reaches another star, it makes two or more duplicates of itself out of local materials, and these duplicates proceed to further stars. Then it waits, perhaps for hundreds of millions of years, till it detects locally produced radio signals, at which point it reveals itself and delivers its message. (There are no fundamental technological barriers to this program. At our present rate of scientific progress, we shall be able to set such a process in motion within the next century.) It is not hard to show that the descendants of the original probes will reach every star in the galaxy within fifty million years. (We assume that the probes are capable of reaching onetenth the speed of light.) But no such probe has revealed itself to us. Therefore, any non­human intelligence in the galaxy came into existence less than fifty million years ago. But it is statistically very unlikely that there are non­ human intelligences all of which came into existence within the last fifty million years. (The reasoning is like this: if you know that such people as there are in the Sahara Desert are distributed randomly, and if you know that there are no people in the Sahara except, possibly, within a circular area one hundred miles in diameter that is hidden from you, you can conclude that there are probably no people at all in the Sahara.) Furthermore, it is not merely the absence of robotic probes that should disturb the proponent of “extraterrestrial intelligence.” There are also the absence of radio signals from thousands of nearby stars and several of the nearer galaxies19 and the absence of manifestations of “hypertechnology” like the wide-angle infrared source that would signal the presence of a star that has been surrounded with a “Dyson sphere.” We may refer collectively to all of these “absences” as cosmic silence, or simply silence. (If there are other intelligent species in the galaxy, or even in nearby galaxies, they are species absconditae.) The obvious implication of these observations is that we are alone.20

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 599

Let us call the thesis that there is intelligent life elsewhere in the galaxy noetism. The above argument, the argument from cosmic silence, provides materials from which the anti-noetist may construct an evidential argument against noetism analogous to the evidential argument from evil: “Let the Hypothesis of Isolation (HI) be the hypothesis that humanity is the only intelligent species that exists or has ever existed in the Milky Way galaxy or any of the nearby galaxies. Let S be a proposition that records all of the observations that constitute a failure to discover any manifestation whatever of life, and, a fortiori, of intelligent life, elsewhere in the universe. The argument from cosmic silence is sufficient to establish that the truth of S (which, of course, is not at all surprising given HI) is very surprising, given noetism. There are only three ways for you to respond to the argument from cosmic silence: you may argue that S is much more surprising, given HI, than one might suppose; or that S is much less surprising, given noetism, than one might suppose; or that there are reasons for preferring noetism to HI that outweigh the prima facie reason for preferring HI to noetism that is provided by the argument from cosmic silence. The first is no more than a formal possibility. The third is unpromising, unless you can come up with something better than those facile arguments for the prevalence of life in the cosmos that are so popular with astronomers and physicists and so exasperating to evolutionary biologists.21 The only course open to you is to construct a noödicy. That is, you must find some auxiliary hypothesis h that explains how S could be true, given noetism. And you will have to show both that the probability of S is high (or at least not too low) on the conjunction of noetism and h and that the probability of h on noetism is high. While you may be able to find a hypothesis that satisfies the former condition, I think it very unlikely that you will be able to find one that satisfies the latter. In any case, unless you can find a hypothesis that satisfies both conditions, you cannot rationally continue to be a noetist.” The anti-noetist is no doubt right in supposing that it is very unlikely that the noetist will be able to construct a successful noödicy. One example should suffice to make the point. Consider the elegantly simple, if rather depressing, Nuclear Destruction Scenario: intelligent species do not last long enough to make much of a mark on the cosmos; within at most a few decades of developing radio transmitters powerful enough to be detected across a distance of light-years (and long before they can make self-reproducing intersiderial robotic probes), they invariably destroy themselves in nuclear

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wars. It is clear that the Nuclear Destruction Scenario is a failure as a noödicy, for it is not highly probable on noetism. (That intelligent species invariably destroy themselves in nuclear wars is not highly probable on the hypothesis that intelligent species exist.) The proponents of extraterrestrial intelligence have provided a wide range of possible explanations of “cosmic silence” (intelligence does not necessarily imply technology; the desire to communicate with other intelligent species is a human idiosyncrasy; the most efficient means of intersiderial signaling, the one that all the extraterrestrials actually employ, is one we haven’t yet thought of ), but it is clear that none of these possible explanations should be regarded as highly probable on noetism. We simply do not know enough to make any such probability judgment. Shall the noetist therefore concede that we have shown his position to be irrational? No, for the anti-noetist’s demand that the noetist produce a noödicy is wholly unreasonable. The noetist need only produce one or more defenses, one or more explanations of the phenomenon of cosmic silence that entail noetism and are true for all we know. And this is just what the noetist has done. (I have already mentioned several of them.) Since there are defenses that for all anyone knows are true, no one knows what to say about the probability on noetism of S (the proposition that records all of our failed attempts to discover any manifestation of intelligent life elsewhere in the universe). The anti-noetist has therefore failed to show that the truth of S constitutes a prima facie case in favor of preferring HI to noetism.

V

“This is all very well. But evil is a difficulty for the theist, and the gaseous state was a difficulty for the ancient atomist, and cosmic silence is a difficulty for the noetist. You seem to be saying that they can just ignore these difficulties.” Not at all. I have said that these difficulties (I accept the term “difficulty”) do not render their beliefs irrational—not even if they are unable to find arguments that raise the probabilities of their hypotheses relative to the probabilities of competing hypotheses that do not face the same difficulties and are also unable to devise auxiliary hypotheses that enable them to construct “-dicies.” It doesn’t follow that they should simply ignore the difficulties.

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 601

“Well, what should they do?” To begin with, they can acknowledge the difficulties. They can admit that the difficulties exist and that they’re not sure what to say about them. They might go on to offer some speculations about the causes of the phenomena that raise the difficulties: mechanisms that would account for the gaseous state, possible conditions that would interfere with communications across light-years, reasons God might have for allowing evil. Such speculations need not be (they almost certainly will not be) highly probable on the “-ism” in whose defense they are employed. And they need not be probable on anything that is known to be true, although they should not be improbable on anything that is known to be true. They are to be offered as explanations of the difficult phenomena that are, for all anyone knows, the correct ones. In sum, the way to deal with such difficulties is to construct defenses. “But if a phenomenon is a ‘difficulty’ for a certain theory, does that not mean that it is evidence against that theory? Or if it is not evidence against that theory, in what sense can it raise a ‘difficulty’ for the theory? Are you not saying that it can be right to accept a theory to which there is counterevidence when there are competing theories to which there is no counterevidence?” That sounds good, but it is really a recipe for rejecting just about any interesting theory. Just about any interesting theory is faced with phenomena that make the advocates of the theory a bit uncomfortable, this discomfort being signaled by the tendency to speculate about circumstances consistent with the theory that might produce the phenomena. For any theory that faces such a difficulty, there will always be available another “theory,” or at least another hypothesis, that does not face that difficulty: its denial. (The denial of an interesting theory will rarely if ever itself be an interesting theory; it will be too general and non-specific.) Your suggestion would therefore appear to constrain us never to accept any interesting theory, but always either to accept its denial or else neither the theory nor its denial. The latter will be the more common result, since the denial of a theory can usually be partitioned into interesting theories that face individual difficulties. (For example, the denial of atomism can be partitioned into the following hypotheses: matter is continuous; matter is neither continuous nor atomically structured; matter does not exist. Each of these hypotheses faces difficulties.) This result might be avoided if you placed

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some sort of restriction on what counted as a “competing theory,” but it is not clear what sort of restriction would be required. It will not do simply to rule out the denial of a theory as a competing theory, for contraries of the theory that were very general and non-specific could produce equally counter­intuitive results. If, moreover, you did produce a satisfactory solution to this problem, it is not clear what consequences your solution might have for the evidential argument from evil. Consider, for example, the Hypothesis of Indifference. This is not a very specific thesis: it tells us only that the nature and condition of sentient beings on earth do not have a certain (very narrowly delineated) cause. Perhaps it would not count as a proper “competitor” with the quite specific thesis we have called “theism.” Perhaps it would be a consequence of your solution that only some proposition more specific than HI, some proposition that entailed but was not entailed by HI, could properly be in competition with theism. And this proposition might face difficulties of its own, difficulties not faced by HI. But we may answer your question more directly and simply. A difficulty with a theory does not necessarily constitute evidence against it. To show that an acknowledged difficulty with a theory is not evidence against it, it suffices to construct a defense that accounts for the facts that raise the difficulty. (This thesis by no means provides an automatic “out” for a theory that is confronted with some recalcitrant observation, for a defense is not automatically available to the proponents of every theory that is confronted with a recalcitrant observation. A defense may not be improbable, either on the theory in whose cause it is employed, or on anything we know to be true. In a particular case, it may be that no one can think of any hypothesis that satisfies these two conditions, and what was a mere difficulty for a theory will thereby attain to the status of evidence against the theory. It is perhaps worth pointing out that two or more difficulties may jointly constitute evidence against a theory, even if none of them taken individually counts as evidence against it. This could be the case if the defenses that individually “handle” the difficulties are inconsistent, or if—despite the fact that none of the defenses taken individually is improbable—their conjunction is improbable.) The central thesis of this paper may be usefully summarized in the terminology that has been introduced in the present section: While the patterns of suffering we find in the actual world constitute a difficulty for theism and do not constitute a difficulty for the competing hypothesis HI, they do

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 603

not—owing to the availability of the defense22 I have outlined—attain to the status of evidence that favors HI over theism. It follows that the evidential argument from evil fails, for it is essential to the evidential argument that those patterns of suffering be evidence that favors HI over theism.

NOTES

This paper was read at Brandeis University. The author wishes to thank the members of the Brandeis Philosophy Department, and especially Eli Hirsch, for their helpful comments and criticisms. 1. My formulation of this argument owes a great deal to a recent article by Paul Draper (“Pain and Pleasure: An Evidential Problem for Theists,” Noûs 23 [1989]: 331– 50). I do not, however, claim that the argument I shall present is Draper’s intricate and subtle argument, or even a simplified version of it. (One important difference between the argument discussed in the present paper and Draper’s argument is that the latter makes reference to the distribution of both pain and pleasure, while the former makes reference only to the distribution of pain.) Nevertheless, I hope that the version of the evidential argument from evil that I shall discuss is similar enough to Draper’s that what I say about my version will at least suggest strategies that the theist can employ in dealing with Draper’s argument. Draper (332) credits Hume with being the first to ask the question whether there is “any serious hypothesis that is logically inconsistent with theism [and] explains some significant set of facts about evil . . . much better than theism does.” (See Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion, Part XI.) 2. In Draper’s argument, the role that corresponds to the role played by S in our argument is played by a proposition O that reports “both the observations one has made of humans and animals experiencing pain or pleasure and the testimony one has encountered concerning the observations others have made of sentient beings experiencing pain or pleasure” (Draper, “Pain and Pleasure,” 332). I find that the argument goes more easily if it is stated in terms of the probability (on various hypotheses) of the pattern of suffering that it is reasonable to believe the actual world exhibits, rather than in terms of the probability (on those hypotheses) of the observations and testimony on which our reasonable belief in that pattern rests. I do not think that this modification of Draper’s strategy leaves me with an argument that is easier to refute than the argument that would have resulted if I had retained this feature of his strategy. 3. Cf. ibid., 331. Perhaps we should add that this being has not ceased to exist, and has never ceased to be omniscient, omnipotent, or morally perfect. 4. Cf. ibid., 333 and 349n2. Some difficulties with the notion of epistemic probability are discussed in note 7 below.

604  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure 5. Cf. ibid., 332. 6. It is a currently popular view that one can have reasons for believing in God that are of a quite different kind from “arguments for the existence of God.” For a sampling of versions of this view, see the essays by the editors and the essay by William P. Alston in Faith and Rationality: Reason and Belief in God, ed. Alvin Plantinga and Nicholas Wolterstorff (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1983). My own position on this matter is that some version of this view is right, and that there are reasons for believing in God that are of the general kind described by Plantinga, Wolterstorff, and Alston. I believe, moreover, that these reasons not only can provide one with adequate justification for being a theist in the absence of a prima facie case against theism, but are strong enough to override any conceivable prima facie case against theism. (For a contrary view—which I believe rests on a misunderstanding— see Draper, “Pain and Pleasure,” 347–48.) But I shall not defend this thesis here, since the point of the present paper is that the patterns of suffering that exist in the actual world do not constitute even a prima facie case against theism. 7. I prefer to formulate the evidential argument from evil in terms of epistemic surprise, rather than in terms of high and low epistemic probability. (Draper’s essay suggested this use of the concept of “surprise” to me. Although his “official” formulation of his argument is in terms of epistemic probability, he frequently employs the notion of “surprise” in his informal commentary on the argument. Indeed, at one place—see “Pain and Pleasure,” 333—he comes very close to explaining epistemic probability as I did in the text: by equating “has a lower epistemic probability” with “is more surprising.”) Let me attempt to explain why I am uneasy about formulating the argument in terms of probabilities. If the argument is so formulated, it would appear to depend on the validity of the following inference-form: p; the probability of p on q is much higher than the probability of p on r; q and r are inconsistent; therefore, there exists a prima facie reason (viz., that p) for preferring q to r. The trouble with this inference-form is that the probability of p may be very low on q despite the fact that p is not at all surprising on q. For example, the probability of the hypothesis that the unobservable card that Alice is holding is the four of clubs is quite low on the hypothesis that she drew the card at random from a standard deck, but the former hypothesis is not at all surprising on the latter. Now let S be some true proposition that has a low probability on theism, but is not at all surprising on theism. I should think that the proposition that states the exact number of dogs would do: in “most” possible worlds in which God exists, the number of dogs is not the actual number. It is clear that the following facts do not comprise a prima facie case for preferring “S and God does not exist” to “God exists”: S; the probability of S on “S and God does not exist” is much higher than the probability of S on “God exists”; “S and God does not exist” and “God exists” are inconsistent. These considerations show that the use of the language of high and low probabilities in formulating the evidential argument from evil is a source of possible confusion.

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 605 Since, however, my criticisms of the argument have nothing to do with this point, I shall continue to employ this language. But I shall employ it only as a stylistic device: anything I say in this language could easily be restated in terms of epistemic surprise. 8. I can have some epistemically warranted expectations about how what I see displayed on the sheet of paper will look: it must in some sense “look like writing”— it can’t be a detailed drawing of a cat or a series of a thousand identical marks. Similarly, I can have some epistemically warranted expectations about how suffering will be distributed if there is a God. I would suppose, for example, that it is highly improbable on theism that there be sentient creatures and that all of them be in excruciating pain at every moment of their existence. 9. Well, one might somehow know the probability of S on theism as a function of the probability of S on HI; one might know that the former probability was one-tenth the latter, and yet have no idea what either probability was. But that is not the present case. The evidentialist’s argument essentially involves two independent probability-judgments: that the probability of S on HI is at least not too low, and that the probability of S on theism is very low. 10. Indeed, in one sense of probability, the probability of a defense may be very low on theism. We have said that a defense may not be surprising on theism, but, as we saw in note 7, there is a perfectly good sense of probability in which a proposition that is not at all surprising on theism may nevertheless be very improbable on theism. If the defender of theism had at his disposal a very large number of defenses, all of them inconsistent with the others, and none of them epistemically preferable to any of the others, it is hard to see why he should not conclude that (relative to his epistemic situation) the probability of any given one of them was very low on theism. 11. See my “The Magnitude, Duration, and Distribution of Evil: A Theodicy,” Philosophical Topics 16, no. 2 (1988): 161–87, especially 167–68. Failure to appreciate this consideration is a weak point in many versions of the evidential argument from evil. Consider, for example, William L. Rowe’s much discussed article, “The Problem of Evil and Some Varieties of Atheism” (American Philosophical Quarterly 16 [1979]: 335–41). In this article, Rowe employs the following premise: An omniscient, wholly good being would prevent the occurrence of any intense suffering it could, unless it could not do so without losing some greater good or permitting some evil equally bad or worse. If there are alternative, morally equivalent amounts of (intense) suffering, then this premise is false. To make this point more concrete, let us consider Rowe’s famous case of a fawn that dies in prolonged agony of burns that it suffers in a forest fire caused by lightning. God, I concede, could have miraculously prevented the fire, or miraculously saved the fawn, or miraculously caused its agony to be cut short by death. And, I will concede for the sake of argument, if He had done so, this would have thwarted

606  Theism, Naturalism, and the Explanation of Pain and Pleasure no significant good and permitted no significant evil. But what of the hundreds of millions (at least) of similar incidents that have, no doubt, occurred during the long history of life? Well, I concede, He could have prevented any one of them, or any two of them, or any three of them . . . without thwarting any significant good or permitting any significant evil. But could he have prevented all of them? No—not without causing the world to be massively irregular. And, of course, there is no sharp cut-off point between a world that is massively irregular and a world that is not—just as there is no sharp cut-off point between a penalty that is an effective deterrent for armed assault and a penalty that is not. There is, therefore, no minimum number of cases of intense suffering that God could allow without forfeiting the good of a world that is not massively irregular—just as there is no shortest sentence that a legislature can establish as the penalty for armed assault without forfeiting the good of effective deterrence. 12. See my “The Place of Chance in a World Sustained by God,” in Divine and Human Action: Essays in the Metaphysics of Theism, ed. Thomas V. Morris (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1988), 211–35. 13. See my “Ontological Arguments,” Noûs 11 (1977): 375–95, and review of The Coherence of Theism by Richard Swinburne, The Philosophical Review 87 (1979): 668–72. See also George Seddon, “Logical Possibility,” Mind 81 (1972): 481–94. 14. These laws, being quantum-mechanical, are indeterministic. God could not, therefore, have “fine-tuned” the initial state of a universe like ours so as to render an eventual universal hedonic utopia causally inevitable. It would seem to be almost certain that, owing to quantum-mechanical indeterminacy, a universe that was a duplicate of ours when ours was, say, 10-45 seconds old could have evolved into a very different universe from our present universe. (There is also the point to be considered that there probably was no initial state of the universe.) Would it be possible for an omniscient and omnipotent being to create a universe that evolved deterministically out of a carefully selected initial state into an hedonic utopia? This question raises many further questions, questions that mostly cannot be answered. Nevertheless, the following facts would seem to be relevant to an attempt to answer it: life depends on chemistry, and chemistry depends on atoms, and atoms depend on quantum mechanics (classically speaking, an atom cannot exist: the electrons of a “classical” atom would spiral inward, shedding their potential energy in the form of electromagnetic radiation, till they collided with the nucleus), and quantum mechanics is essentially indeterministic. 15. This fact has been widely remarked on. See, e.g., John Leslie, “Modem Cosmology and the Creation of Life,” in Evolution and Creation, ed. Ernan McMullin (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1985), 91–120. 16. This is not, properly speaking, a quotation; it is, rather, a selection of verses from chapter 38 of the Book of Job. It comprises verses 3, 4, 21, 31, and 33. 17. See the article and review cited in note 13 above.

The Problem of Evil, the Problem of Air, and the Problem of Silence 607 18. Cf. Aristotle’s De Caelo IV, especially 309a18–310a13. 19. This latter fact is very important in the debate about extraterrestrial intelligence. If someone in our galaxy aimed a powerful signal at, say, the Andromeda galaxy, then, two million years later, anyone in the Andromeda galaxy who aimed a sensitive receiver precisely at our galaxy would detect that signal. When we aim a sensitive receiver precisely at the Andromeda galaxy, however, we detect no signal. Therefore, no one on any planet circling any of the hundred billion or more stars in the Andromeda galaxy was aiming a signal at the Milky Way galaxy two million years ago. (This argument actually depends on the false assumption that all of the stars in the Andromeda galaxy are equally distant from us, but the essential point of the argument is sound.) 20. For an excellent popular article on the search for extraterrestrial intelligence, see Gregg Easterbrook, “Are We Alone?”, The Atlantic, August 1988, 25–38. 21. See for example, Ernst Mayr, “The Probability of Extraterrestrial Intelligent Life,” in Philosophy of Biology, ed. Michael Ruse (New York: Macmillan, 1989), 279–85. 22. Are there other defenses—other defenses that cover the same ground as the defense I have presented in section II? I should like to think so, although I have not had any very interesting ideas about how additional defenses might be constructed. I should welcome suggestions.