God, Freedom, and Evil

Introduction

This book discusses and exemplifies the philosophy of religion, or philosophical reflection on central themes of religion. Philosophical reflection (which is not much different from just thinking hard) on these themes has a long history: it dates back at least as far as the fifth century b.c. when some of the Greeks thought long and hard about the religion they had received from their ancestors. In the Christian era such philosophical reflection begins in the first or second century with the early church fathers, or Patristics as they are often called; it has continued ever since.

The heart of many of the major religions—Christianity, Judaism, Islam, for example—is belief in God. Of course these religions—theistic religions—differ among themselves as to how they conceive of God. The Christian tradition, for example, emphasizes God’s love and benevolence; in the Moslem view, on the other hand, God has a somewhat more arbitrary character. There are also supersophisticates among allegedly Christian theologians who proclaim the liberation of Christianity from belief in God, seeking to replace it by trust in Being itself or the Ground of Being or some such thing. But for the most part it remains true that belief in God is the foundation of these great religions.

Now belief in God is not the same thing as belief that God exists, or that there is such a thing as God. To believe that God exists is simply to accept a proposition of a certain sort—a proposition affirming that there is a personal being who, let’s say, has existed from eternity, is almighty, perfectly wise, perfectly just, has created the world, and loves his creatures. To believe in God, however, is quite another matter. The Apostle’s Creed begins thus: I believe in God the Father Almighty, Maker of Heaven and earth.… One who repeats these words and means what he says is not simply announcing the fact that he accepts a certain proposition as true; much more is involved than that. Belief in God means trusting God, accepting Him, committing one’s life to Him. To the believer the entire world looks different. Blue sky, verdant forests, great mountains, surging ocean, friends and family, love in its many forms and various manifestations—the believer sees these things as gifts from God. The entire universe takes on a personal cast for him; the fundamental truth about reality is truth about a Person. So believing in God is more than accepting the proposition that God exists. Still, it is at least that much. One can’t sensibly believe in God and thank Him for the mountains without believing that there is such a person to be thanked, and that He is in some way responsible for the mountains. Nor can one trust in God and commit oneself to Him without believing that He exists: He who would come to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of those who seek him (Heb. 11:6).

One important aspect of philosophy of religion concerns this latter belief—the belief that God exists, that there really is a being of the sort theists claim to worship and trust. This belief, however, has not been universally accepted. Many have rejected it; some have claimed that it is plainly false and that it is irrational to accept it. By way of response some theologians and theistic philosophers have tried to give successful arguments or proofs for the existence of God. This enterprise is called natural theology. The natural theologian does not, typically, offer his arguments in order to convince people of God’s existence; and in fact few who accept theistic belief do so because they find such an argument compelling. Instead the typical function of natural theology has been to show that religious belief is rationally acceptable. Other philosophers, of course, have presented arguments for the falsehood of theistic beliefs; these philosophers conclude that belief in God is demonstrably irrational or unreasonable. We might call this enterprise natural atheology.

One area of philosophy of religion, then, inquires into the rational acceptability of theistic belief. Here we examine the arguments of natural theology and natural atheology. We ask whether any of these arguments are successful and whether any provides either proof of or evidence for its conclusion. Of course this topic is not the only one in philosophy of religion, but it is an important one and one upon which this book will concentrate.

Of course this topic—the rationality of theistic belief—is not restricted to philosophy or philosophers. It plays a prominent role in literature—in Milton’s Paradise Lost, for example, as well as in Dostoevski’s The Brothers Karamazov, and in some of Thomas Hardy’s novels. This same theme may be found in the works of many more recent authors—for example, Gerard Manley Hopkins, T. S. Eliot, Peter De Vries, and, perhaps, John Updike. And it may be difficult, if not impossible, to give a clear and useful definition of the philosophical, as opposed, say, to the literary way of approaching this theme. It is also unnecessary. A much better way to get a feel for the philosophical approach is to examine some representative samples. This book is such a sample. In discussing subjects of natural theology and natural atheology I shall not adopt a pose of fine impartiality; instead I shall comment in detail on some of the main points and spell out what appears to me to be the truth of the matter. But I shall not try to say something about every important argument or about every topic that arises in connection with those I do discuss; to do that would be to say much too little about any. Instead I shall concentrate my comments upon just two of the traditional arguments: the ontological argument as an example of natural theology and the problem of evil as the most important representative of natural atheology. (What I have to say on some of the remaining topics and arguments can be found in God and Other Minds [Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1967].) I believe that some recently won insights in the philosophy of logic—particularly those centering about the idea of possible worlds—genuinely illumine these classical topics; a moderately innovative feature of this book, therefore, is my attempt to show how these insights throw light upon these topics. Much of the material developed in this book can be found in more rigorous and complete form in my book The Nature of Necessity (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1974).

I have tried to put what I have to say in a way that is philosophically accurate and responsible; but I have tried especially hard to put it as clearly and simply as the subject allows. These great topics are of interest and concern to many—not just professional philosophers and theologians. So I hope this book will be useful to the philosophical novice and to the fabled general reader. All it will require, I hope, is a determination to follow the argument and a willingness to think hard about its various steps.

PART I

NATURAL ATHEOLOGY

a The Problem of Evil

Suppose we begin with what I have called natural atheology—the attempt to prove that God does not exist or that at any rate it is unreasonable or irrational to believe that He does. Perhaps the most widely accepted and impressive piece of natural atheology has to do with the so-called problem of evil. Many philosophers believe that the existence of evil constitutes a difficulty for the theist, and many believe that the existence of evil (or at least the amount and kinds of evil we actually find) makes belief in God unreasonable or rationally unacceptable.

The world does indeed contain a great deal of evil, some of which is catalogued by David Hume:

But though these external insults, said Demea, from animals, from men, from all the elements, which assault us form a frightful catalogue 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.¹

In addition to natural evils such as earthquakes, tidal waves, and virulent diseases there are evils that result from human stupidity, arrogance, and cruelty. Some of these are described in painfully graphic detail in Dostoevski’s The Brothers Karamazov:

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, outrage women and children, they nail their prisoners by the ears to the fences, 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 beasts; 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 his 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.²

There is also the suffering and savagery that go with war. Perhaps one of the worst features of war is the way in which it brutalizes those who take part in it. Commenting on the trial of Lt. William Calley, who was accused of taking part in